#water womb world my beloved

[laughableillusions]

I love Yames horror games bc it reads like an old timey horror novel and it feels like im 10 yrs old again listening to my dad read me Call of Cthulhu and The Willows out loud on the couch

#yes this was my childhood #I love these games they are pike brothers to me #water womb world my beloved #Yames

[bleedingmusk]

Ya Allaah I gear up my tawakkul and hopes on You I expect impossible from You my Lord who is indeed the Lord of impossible, Who made possible for Your virgin untouched chaste slave to nurture a small human in her womb and gave birth in best of form, You who kept Your beloved slave alive in a belly of whale for certain days and nights, You who made the blazing hot fire cool for Your intimate friend, You who saved Your sincere slave and his people when the whole world was drowning, You who spilt the sea into two for Your close slave when he was stricken with impossibility, You who fulfilled the barren old womb of wife of Your fearing slave with a living soul, You who uplifted Your patient slave into heavens under and keeping under Your care, You who have flowed streams of holy water in the middle of desert for Your tired hungry slave, You who made spider weave a web in matters of second and Who willed for a peigon to lay eggs in moments to protect one of Your chosen slave and also aided him with ranks of angels, Who did every impossible possible just by saying كن and it was done just like that by Your Might and Power, miracle does happen by Your Strength O Ever Living O Self Sustainable my needs and my problems are not as big as those who once lived before me with dignity and honour by Your grace, yet these problems are drowning me day by day and each passing night it submerges my strength but not even for a moment I doubt in You or Your help or Your Aid. Just uplift these trials from me and unite me with my love of this and after life, grant me best in this world and next one. This Ramadan in this holy month in these special nights by Your Strength, Your Power, Your Might, Your Rahma, Your Love, Your Invincibility change my situation and grant me what my hearts longs for, it eagerly yearns for relief O Creator of my heart and feelings fulfill my needs I depend upon You, You are free of need while I need You every second of my life I entrust my affairs on You for verily You are the best of Judge and Guarantor my Beloved accept my supplication as You are the Responder of supplication Ameen.

[barbieaemond]

Red Bird • I

Pairing(s): Aemond Targaryen x Alysanne Hightower oc, Daeron Targaryen x Alysanne Hightower (minor)

Word count: 4.8k

MASTERLIST

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee @chompchompluke @bunbunbl0gs

(English is not my first language)

Red Bird.

That's how her father called her. For that crimson shade in her hair. For the old tale.

He did it when she made him laugh. He did it to comfort her. He did it on his dying bed. He called for her. But she was far, far away, locked up in a gilded cage of redstone bricks. Dreadful winged beasts to guard it.

Lord Hobert Hightower was a good man. Loyal and dutiful. He lived to serve his House and he did, ruling the most ancient city of the Realm with a firm hand but a kind heart. He had a gentler soul than his younger brother.

“Otto began to pull the strings from our mother’s womb. That’s why he was born before time.”

Joke or not, Otto was a born politician. And his older brother was proud of the stature with which Otto had incensed their noble House. No matter the cost. But King’s Landing had wrapped its coils around Otto and Hobert had watched its poison spread behind his brother's eyes, making him wary, cold, calculating. Losing his lady wife had only made things worse.

At least on that, Hobert could understand.

He had lost his Lynesse two days after Alysanne’s third nameday. She had given him three healthy sons and one daughter, but she had never recovered from her last birth. And the Lord had mourned her for many moons.

Alysanne Hightower was raised by a Septa. With each passing year, despite the strictness dictated by the clergy woman, Lord Hobert caught glimpses of his lady wife through Alysanne’s stubbornness, through the wrinkle between her eyebrows when she disagreed on something, through her loud laugh.

She was tough to yield.

He should have scolded her for that, but he hadn’t.

Ormund, his first son who was almost fifteen years older than Alysanne, periodically accused his father of spoiling her. But the Lord didn’t care, for he knew. He knew that sooner or later, Alysanne had to put aside her beloved books, forsake her fantasies, her little trips outside the castle. He knew he ought to sell her to the highest bidder.

Thus, he let her do as she liked. And she did.

She knew that in the Age of Heroes, the Ravenry of the Citadel was supposedly the stronghold of a pirate lord who robbed ships as they came down the Honeywine.

She knew that during summer nights, the cobbled streets and stone bridges below the castle would smell of moonbloom and nightshade.

She knew you would find melons and peaches in Ragpicker's Wynd. But the Thieves Market was the only one to sell pomegranates.

And if she closed her eyes, she could trace the way the beacon on the mighty Hightower would reflect on the water of the Whispering Sound, guiding the ships to port.

Oldtown.

A place she made her own, to the point it had become mental, intimate, conjurable by her fingertips wherever in the world she would be. And she knew her future would eventually led her somewhere else.

She stored everything in her mind as another library she could reach anytime she wished. She drank the words and painted thousands of images in her mind, her memories like colorful brushes.

Her father kept saying she got used to lock herself into it, amongst the dark and dusty shelves; that it was a childish habit, not properly suited for a lady, a Hightower lady at that.

But she didn't listen, she never did, to the point that once, her lord father had to forbid her any access to the libraries and no further trips downtown.

"I don't understand." she said pleading that night. Large tears were trapped into her big blue-green eyes, making them red and blurry "What wrong am I doing? What's the harm in reading?"

Her Lord Father had shaken his head, keeping his gaze fixed on the dinner plate.

"Nothing wrong with reading, red bird. But you're neglecting your other duties. Septa Brenna tells me you missed your needle work twice last week."

Alysanne took the advantage of her father not looking to roll her eyes. A tear escaped running down her cheek. "I was just late. I thought she already left my chambers."

"And why were you late?"

"Because I didn't want to go."

Lord Hobert leveled her with a reprimanding stare but she simply shrugged. "I'm awful at needle work. I’ve accepted it. The Gods accepted it. Why can't you and Septa Brenna do the same?"

"All that reading is a waste of time." her oldest brother peeped in.

It was no secret that the first and last child of Lord Hobert had little love for each other. Ormund was to inherit Oldtown, everything was due to him. No one would ever question his word, even the dullest one. She ought to fight to even state her own.

Alysanne looked at him, sitting proudly beside their father, content for having done absolutely nothing except spending the morning sparring with a sword, blabbing about hunting or jousting, or some other physical activity for which her ears were still too young to hear.

Out of pure spite, she raised her chin and faked genuine curiosity. "Can you even read, brother?"

Ormund only glared at her. "That mouth of yours will get you hurt one day, little sister. No Lord of the Realm would want a woman beside him who doesn’t know when to shut her mouth."

"Ormund, that is enough." their Lord father said, and that was the end of it.

But they used to go on the matter on regular basis until Alysanne had to cave in. She began to attend her needle work again, gaining the scowls of Septa Brenna at her awful embroidery and her father's permission to reaccess the libraries.

Thus, she went back to burying her nose in books and pages so old they seemed like dead leaves between her fingers.

Two moons after her twelveth name day, she was reading about the legendary Symeon Star-Eyes in a book she had secretly stolen or, how she liked to phrase it, accidentally borrowed.

Maesters didn't allow their precious books to be borrowed from the ancient libraries of Oldtown, not even by the only daughter of Lord Hobert Hightower.

"You have to return that."

Alysanne didn’t bother to answer, keeping her eyes focused on the book but she did raise her head to scowl at her Septa when the woman pulled her dark auburn hair a little too much.

"That was intentional."

"So was your ignoring my statement."

Alysanne and Septa Brenna didn’t exactly see eye to eye on many levels but in time they had managed to find some ground. The Septa was a rigid woman, assigned to educate Alysanne as a proper Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, a perfect Lady Hightower. Loyal and dutiful.

Too bad Alysanne had little care for duty.

She was Lord Hightower's only daughter, the last of her siblings, three brothers who had abundantly fulfilled their highest duty, carrying on the Hightower name. She was the spare and a woman, her destiny was to leave Old Town and her name behind and marry into another. She had even come to accept it in a way, as long as they leave her alone and let her do what she liked. She felt it as a blurry thing, way far in the horizon and in the future.

Until it wasn’t.

"What are you doing still up?"

Her father’s voice finally managed to make her look up from the book. Through the vanity mirror, she saw the man on the threshold, a slight dip between his eyebrows.

"Father, you know I stay up till late."

Lord Hightower sighed and closed the door. Approaching his daughter at the vanity table, he tied his hands behind his back and said "We should do something about these…rebellious attitudes of yours."

Alysanne frowned, watching his father in the mirror, his tense shoulders. He smiled briefly and put one hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

"Tomorrow is going to be a long day, daughter. You should take some rest."

"Tomorrow? Why? What is happening tomorrow?"

"The Queen will be visiting her ancestors’ home. Along with her brother, Ser Gwayne and her youngest son, Prince Daeron. I have accepted the Queen’s request to make him my cupbearer and my squire. Naturally, I said yes. How could I refuse? A Targaryen prince, here? It’s an honor."

Alysanne turned on her chair to look at this father. Eager anticipation blowing her eyes wide.

"Do you know if he will bring his dragon? I’ve read that dragons and dragon riders share a fierce and mysterious bond! Some texts claim it’s magic, from Old Valyria! Can you believe it, Father? A dragon flying over Old Town!

Lord Hightower chuckled and helped his daughter rise from her chair, escorting her to bed.

"We’ll see, red bird. Now, do as your father says and go to bed."

Alysanne sighed and went under the covers. Before leaving, Lord Hobert turned on the doorstep and looked at Septa Brenna, the wrinkles on his forehead seemed suddenly sharper.

"Make sure she’s wearing her finest dress tomorrow."

"As you wish, my lord."

When she was escorted to the hall, she felt like she was going to pass out.

Never, not once, Septa Brenna pulled the laces of her corset so tight like that morning. She had looked into the mirror and thought the dress was beautiful, yes, but she felt a bit uneasy. It was different from what she usually wore. More womanly. Even more so when Septa Brenna lowered the green straps, fully exposing her young shoulders.

She entered the room and felt many pairs of eyes on her, all the pleasant talking instantly ceased. Her father, her brothers and their ladies, they were all there. So was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Alysanne looked at the woman, a young woman, clad in green, her dark hair braided and tied atop her head with threads of gold, shining brightly as the Queen inclined her head to take a long and better look at Alysanne.

The young lady almost startled when she heard Septa Brenna hissing on her neck. "Seven Hells, child, what are you doing? Go pay your respects to the Queen."

And she did. She approached the Queen and bent her knees.

"My Queen. It is the highest of honors to meet you."

Silence followed for almost a minute, then the Queen smiled warmly and took Alysanne by the hands. "My dearest cousin, how much you have grown. It warms my heart to see what a lovely lady you’ve become."

Alysanne managed a smile, looking down at the Queen’s hands holding her own. She couldn’t but notice her nails, all red and chapped.

"You honor me, your Grace. It is a delight, for all of us, to have you here, back in your ancient and noble house."

Queen Alicent smiled again, with distant nostalgia, even sadness. Whatever it was, it didn’t reach her eyes. Then she turned, beckoning someone to come forward.

"This is my youngest son. Prince Daeron Targaryen. Son, meet Lady Alysanne Hightower."

A young boy, maybe a year younger that her, stepped forward, one arm behind his back and the other outstretched to her, palm upwards.

"My lady." he said politely, waiting for her hand.

"My prince."

Once he kissed her hand, he straightened his back and smiled. Although she was taller than him, Alysanne was slightly taken aback by his appearance.

She had never seen a Targaryen before, save for book illustrations, and the princeling before her looked the spitting image of Old Valyria: shining curls of silver falling around a delicate face and two violet eyes. He wore black, but the cloak resting on his left shoulder was green, tied to his doublet by a three-headed silver dragon.

Stepping back, the Queen and Lord Hobert shared a long look.

"I think it’s best to retire for a while before the banquet."

"Of course, your Grace. I have had your old chambers prepared for you."

Alicent smiled and took her leave with a nod. When she was out, Alysanne saw the lady wives of her brothers do the same, so she went for the door as well.

"Not you, sister." Ormund said, and she stopped.

She was standing in front of Septa Brenna, who gave her a small sympathetic smile, a genuine one, before leaving the room.

Alysanne turned on her heels to face her family and clasped her hands on her green gown. A dreadful feeling began twisting her stomach.

For a moment no one talked, but then her father stepped forward and grabbed her softly by the shoulders. "My daughter. My sweet only daughter. You’re young but I dim you wise enough to understand the consequences of the Queen coming here."

Alysanne swallowed and lowered her gaze, feeling that blurry thing suddenly becoming limpid, and then blinding.

"I—"

"It’s true that the Queen wanted to escort her son here. She cares deeply about her children. But that is not the only reason."

"She wanted to see me."

"Indeed. And you know why?"

The young lady looked up in her father’s eyes and saw her future, arranged and sealed like one of the ships leaving port. Duty was calling.

"I am to marry the prince."

Lord Hightower only nodded. Then he smiled, kindly, taking her daughter’s face between his hands.

“You need not worry, red bird. We will stand by you, always. We will light your way."

Her lip started to quiver but she refused to cry, not in front of her brothers. "Father, I beg you. I will do as you command, just…don’t make me leave Oldtown so soon."

At this, Lord Hobert stopped looking at her and withdrew his hands.

"You must understand, Alysanne. There will be preparations to be done."

"What kind of preparations? Can’t they be done here?"

"Preparations regarding your education." her oldest brother intruded again.

Alysanne turned her head to look at him, a grimace twisting her mouth. "My education is perfectly fine, brother. I’m afraid the same cannot be said about yours."

"Meaning?"

"Enough." said Lord Hightower, but Ormund laughed and pointed a lazy finger at his sister.

"That is what I’m talking about. Your education is quite alright sister, it is your tongue that needs to be educated."

"I said enough!"

This time Lord Hobert almost yelled, shushing his bickering children. Then, with a loud sigh, he looked at his daughter and his tone became commanding, like it never was before.

"Prince Daeron will stay here until he becomes a knight. You will have the chance to stay close to your future husband and get to know him. A chance most ladies are not granted in the matter of arranged weddings. But when the time comes, as in when Queen Alicent decides so, you will leave Oldtown and take a place amongst Princess Helaena’s ladies in waiting, in order to learn and live the court.

"Father—"

"It’s an order, Alysanne!" the Lord snapped "You are not suited to marry a prince now. But you will be. Your brother is right. You are too willful. You can’t allow yourself to speak out of turn at the Red Keep. Not with my brother, the Hand, there. Not when the King’s health worsens day by day and the winds carry whispers of war. Not when the House of the Dragon stands more divided than ever. House Hightower must stay united. This is a duty we all must endure. You too, red bird."

Alysanne fixed her eyes on the floor and swallowed, tasting salt in the back of her throat. "As you command, Father."

The banquet was a grand thing. Cooks outdid themselves with their best skills to honor and impress the Queen. She was given the best seat at the head of the table, with her son sitting next to her and Alysanne right beside him.

The young lady spent the afternoon in a bubble of doubt. She knew this day would eventually come, she had feared it, but now that it was actually happening, she didn’t know how she was supposed to feel. She wasn’t scared, but neither was she happy. What she knew for certain was that she didn’t want to leave Oldtown so soon.

And about the dragon prince, well…he had been polite, kind even, and it was indeed a great honor to marry a prince of the realm. But a kind smile was not enough to judge his character yet, and royal didn’t necessarily mean decent.

She was nervous when she sat at the table, but the more time she spent sitting beside him, the more she found that the prince was very pleasant company. He was young, yes, but it was clear he had a gentle soul and gentle manners. And this warmed her heart. Love in a marriage was rarer than a white raven, but so was a gentle husband. She found out he was fond of sweets, especially of cream, since she saw him set it on the left side of his plate, saving it for last. She smiled fondly at that and then she turned to him.

"My prince, if you don’t mind me asking, I was wondering if your Grace had brought your dragon here."

The young Prince set down the spoon and smiled eagerly. "I did, my lady. She’s flying somewhere but I can feel her close."

"You…you can feel her?"

"Yes. I can’t explain it...it is the strangest of feelings." he paused as to find the right words and said "Like…having a second heart, beating outside of you."

Alysanne smiled dreamily as if she was witnessing a mystery unraveling in front of her and the Prince smiled back.

"If you wish, I can take you to see her tomorrow."

Her heart jumped in her chest with trepidation.

"You are too kind, your Grace. I would love to be granted such a privilege."

Prince Daeron kept smiling and nodded. "Tomorrow, then."

When she went back to her chambers, the heavy grip on her insides had loosened. Septa Brenna began to untie the laces of her dress while Alysanne started to remove the hurting pins stuck into her auburn hair which, after so many hours, were positively piercing her skull.

She cast a glance at her Septa through the mirror, then set the hair pins down on the vanity table. "You knew, didn’t you?"

"I did." was all she said, keeping her gaze down and her hands busy on the laces.

Alysanne was quiet for some moments, then she turned forcing the older woman to stop her job.

"Will you come with me? To King’s Landing?"

Septa Brenna simply raised an eyebrow. "You silly child."

"Need I remind you you’re addressing a future Princess of the Realm?"

"I’m yet to see that day, princess." Then she sighed heavily, looking at the young lady with a patient motherly stare. “Do you really think I would let you go into that viper’s den all alone? Your head would be on a spike in less than a moon."

Alysanne couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. "That sounds a bit too dramatic. I am the Queen’s cousin."

"And you think that matters? History has taught us well that blood is more than often shed among kin, not strangers."

"You sure know how to lighten the mood."

Septa Brenna helped the young lady putting on her night gown and saw her grabbing a book left on the nightstand and going for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I need another book." she said, matter-of-factly.

"A future princess of the realm does not wander around at night in dark libraries."

Alysanne paused on the door and turned her head, smiling like a fox.

"Well, I’m yet to see that day."

She could reach the libraries blindfolded and walking backwards.

They were a bit ominous at night, the majestic walls swallowed by the shadows and yet Alysanne find them comfortable, found shelter in them. Thus, it was a bit surprising for her to see the light of a single candle moving between the massive shelves, a solitary ghost basking in the darkness. She was even more surprised to see that the ghost had taken the shape of Queen Alicent.

The woman was still wearing the green dress she wore at dinner, but her hair was loose, falling down her back in a cascade of dark curls. She stopped in front of a shelf and looked at the titles. Alysanne made her presence known by softly clearing her voice.

When Queen Alicent turned her head, Lady Alysanne bowed.

"My Queen. My apologies for intruding. I didn’t know you were here."

The woman smiled reassuringly. "No need for apology then."

She took a long look at her and noticed a book clutched to her cousin’s chest.

"Last time I was here, Maesters didn’t allow to borrow books from the libraries."

Alysanne widened her eyes like a deer caught in the middle of the wood but the Queen smiled again and said "Fret not, cousin. Your little felony is safe with me."

The young lady visibly relaxed and stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do or what to say to the most important woman of the realm and more than that, her future good mother.

"If you have any trouble finding sleep, I could fetch the maesters to bring you some lemon balm, your Grace."

"There’s no need, cousin. Thank you. I believe no kind of balm would soothe me enough to stop worrying about my children."

Alysanne slightly furrowed her brow. The Queen’s children were Princes of the Realm, living in the Red Keep, alongside the King. Why was she so worried to the point of not finding sleep?

"Sometimes books can soothe our nerves, take our mind somewhere else." she offered, glancing at the book shelf beside her "were you looking for something in particular?"

The Queen sighed clasping her hands on her womb. "I’m not sure. I’m looking for a gift. I wish to take a book to my son. My second son, Aemond." she gave Alysanne a knowing look before whispering "I know it’s not allowed to borrow books but surely the Maesters will close an eye for the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Your little felony is safe with me, your grace." she promised, returning the same look. "Does he like to read? Prince Aemond?"

"Too much, I’d wager. Mostly history and philosophy. I would like to give him something more…entertaining. But I can’t make up my mind."

Alysanne glanced back at the book shelf but then she remembered what she was holding.

"Take this." she said, offering the book to the Queen.

Alicent took it and read the title. "The legendary chronicles of Symeon Star Eyes. I’ve heard about it."

"It tells the legend of the blind warrior."

"And you believe it to be just that? A legend?"

"I believe legends always hide an ounce of truth, your Grace."

The Queen nodded and cast another glance at the cover.

"Thank you." she said finally, clutching the book to her chest.

"I saw you talking with my son earlier at dinner."

"Uhm, y-yes. Yes, your grace. The Prince was very kind and patient enough to suffer through all my questions about his dragon."

"I trust your father has talked to you, did he not?"

"He did, your Grace."

Queen Alicent nodded again and remained silent, looking at the young lady before her with a distant look. She seemed almost absent, as if her body was there but her mind was lost somewhere, in a thought, or some memory.

Then she sighed and stepped closer to Alysanne. There was an urgent honesty in her brown eyes.

"Unfortunately, we live in a manly word. Made for men and ruled by men. Our choices are not ours to make. But you can trust me with this, cousin. My son will treat you kindly. He is just a boy but he has a sweet disposition. And who knows…in time you might even learn to love him."

"Did you?"

The question left the Queen utterly stunned.

Alysanne immediately realised she had gone too far.

Did you learn to love him, the King?

For a moment she thought Ormund was right. She seriously had to learn when to shut her mouth.

It was the silly curiosity of a young girl. For everyone, in Old Town and even outside of its borders, knew that it was Otto Hightower who had put the royal sigil on House Hightower.

But at what cost?

The very same clad in green with chapped nails and tired eyes. The same woman who once was just a girl, just like Alysanne, with dreams and hopes—what was she now? A Queen, yes. But the more Alysanne looked into her eyes, the more she realised how old she looked. How miserable she seemed.

"I’m deeply sorry, your Grace. It was completely unacceptable for to me to ask you—"

"It’s quite alright, cousin." said Alicent, smiling reassuringly. Then she took a step closer and simply said "Thank you for the book. I bid you goodnight."

Before the Queen could leave the library, Alysanne reached her at the door.

"Your Grace, uhm…before you leave, I was wondering…how long will I stay here before joining you in King’s Landing?"

"There are quite few years ahead of us before the wedding. Have you had your first blood?"

"Not yet, your grace." she embarrassingly admitted.

"Do not worry about it. There’s plenty of time."

Young Prince Daeron kept his word.

The next morning, he summoned Lady Alysanne outside the castle and showed her Tessarion, or how she was called, the Blue Queen.

Much like her rider, Tessarion was still young, so her size was small. But small or not, Septa Brenna made her feelings about the creature quite clear while escorting Lady Alysanne.

"You hear me child? I’m not going anywhere near that thing." she warned, trying to keep up with the pace of her young lady. Alysanne laughed, eager to join the prince on the small hill where Tessarion had chosen to rest.

She widened her eyes when she saw her and stopped altogether. She couldn’t believe her own eyes. There was a dragon in front of her. A dragon in flesh. And she was beautiful, her wings and scales were dark blue, like cobalt, while her claws, crest, and belly took the shades of copper.

Her mouth fell open and she dared take one step closer, but the young Prince stopped her, raising his hand.

"I think it’s best to stay there, my lady. Tessarion is young and she doesn’t know you yet."

Alysanne nodded dutifully and looked back at the dragon. A growing smile bloomed on her pink lips. "She’s...so beautiful."

Daeron smiled proudly and looked at Tessarion, who was curiously observing the young lady through her golden eyes. The Prince touched her on the snout and even though she was several steps away from them, Alysanne could have sworn she heard the dragon make a low rumble, much like the purring of a cat.

She watched the prince say something to the dragon and not a moment later, the beast lurched onward and took to the skies, her blue wings blending with the sky.

"I guess she didn’t like me." the lady joked when the Prince approached her. He chuckled, his wavy silver hair ruffled by the wind. "I’ve told her to do as she likes. She needs to know the sky."

Alysanne watched the winged shape disappearing above the clouds and asked "How many dragons are there now in King’s Landing?

"Three, my lady."

She turned to him furrowing her brow and he heard her silent question.

“My brother, Aemond, he doesn’t have a dragon. His egg didn’t hatch.”

“Oh.” was all she said.

She remembered reading about the Targaryens and their mighty dragons. She read everything about the custom of putting a dragon egg into the crib.

She also knew that if the egg didn’t hatch, it was considered a gloomy message from the Gods. A bad omen.

“One day…” Prince Daeron’s voice shook her from her memories "when Tessarion has known you better and she’s big enough to saddle two…one day I will take you to the skies with me, my lady."

Alysanne smiled fondly at him, feeling the adrenaline flowing through her veins at the mere thought of flying on dragonback.

A silly dream. A childish dream. Yet destined to come true.

Though it will not be the Blue Queen who will take Lady Alysanne to the skies, but Vhagar, Queen of All Dragons and Ruler of the Skies.

Thank you so much for reading!! 💚💚

#red bird #liv (in la vida loca) #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x fem!oc #aemond targaryen x ofc #ewan mitchell #hotd fic #aemond x oc #aemond x fem!oc #aemond targaryen #dark aemond targaryen #dark aemond #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen smut #aemond imagine #house of the dragon fanfic

[alien-magnolia]

Nísoaia - Together, As A Family

Fic description: ADULT Neteyam x ADULT fem!omaticaya reader living in Metkayina reef. Both of them are around 21. Some sex mentioned, (tw: vomiting, brief mention of heat cycles, breeding/preg kink) but mostly all fluff/hurt/comfort: Reader discovers she is pregnant, fluff and affection ensues!

Na’vi terms:

Yawne- My Beloved

Yuey - My Beautiful

Muntxate- my mate (wife)

Oel Ngati Kameie- I see you

Tsaheylu- the bond

You first felt it on that one, fateful night. It was right after you had one of your strongest heat cycles yet, your sweet Teyam caring for you through that long, and exhausting week. You’ve gotten stuffed with his cock (and cum) for what felt like eternity, and this week — you thought, you would feel better. You didn’t.

The wave of nausea hit you like a slap to the face. You were in an incredibly unfortunate situation — the moment you were enjoying a late night swim in the luminescent reef, it had hit you. You rush out of the reef quickly, your blue palms hitting the glowing sand of the shore, as you fall onto the ground.

Your ilu finds you, nuzzling against your arm, consoling you, as you begin to vomit onto the sand. You were  feeling dizzy, faint, the shining night sky began to spin. All you could think of was alerting your mate. What you loved about being Na’vi was tsaheylu. It let you communicate with your mate telepathically. You cry out for him in your mind, hoping that he’d listen. The last thing you remember was the sound of those crashing waves upon the shore, and then complete and utter darkness. 

You awaken to the straw floor of Tsahik Ronal’s hut brushing against your face. You feel Teyam’s presence, you look up at him. “Yawne. May Eywa be with you. You are awake. You had me so worried, my love,” he expresses his concern. You reach out your hand, he immediately takes it in his. “Teyam. I am scared,” you whined out. He takes his braid to conjoin with yours, the bond easing you a bit as Ronal continues to inspect you.

She pricked a bit of blood from your lower abdomen — right over your uterus. She put the needle in her mouth, tasting it, before blowing upwards with a cupped hand motion. She looks at you endearingly.

“You are with child. May the great mother guide you…your pregnancy will not be an easy one,” she advises you. You sigh — you had a feeling this fainting spell would not be your last one.

“Do not worry. I will help you through this. Think of the miracle growing inside you, ma yawne,” Neteyam consoles you, feeling your unease through tsaheylu. “Come. Let us go home,” he says, as he helps you up, his strong biceps flexing to pull you off the floor. “Thank you, ma Teyam,” you smile and give him a few kisses, to which he greatly appreciated, nuzzling his head into your hand as you kissed him.

“You have a strong heart. You will be a good father. Protect your family,” Ronal advises your Teyam, and then ushers the both of you out of the hut. You want to go take a walk on the shores again, but Teyam assures you that he will not be letting his pregnant wife go alone. “Not safe for you, love. I will go with you. Come,” he leads you over the bioluminescent sand, your hands and tails linking together. You feel the warm water on your feet, and you watch the stars with him. You knew a lot about stars, so you would tell him about each of the Pandoran constellations, his wife, yellow eyes, listening to you attentively, he gazed at you like you were his creator.

The stars were now even more visible, as the evening cycled forth into deeper night. Your head was on his chest, your breathing matched his. His arms were protectively wrapped around your side, and you feel one slip up to rub your stomach. “Ma yawne. My world. By the grace of Eywa, I’ve managed to help create a family with you,” he whispers attentively to you. “A family,” you whisper back.

A family. You couldn’t believe it. You were with his child, carrying his child, in your womb. Ultimately and truthfully, you were really his. His to take care of, his to love and dote on.

“Oel ngati kameie, ma muntxate, (my mate)” your Nete says as he looks into your eyes, his hand still resting on your belly. “Oel ngati kameie, ma ‘eveng (my child) he says, looking down at your belly tenderly. You started to cry — how were you fortunate enough to have a mate this sweet, and caring for you?

He looks at you with concern. “Ma paskalin — (my honey) do not cry. I vow, by the warrior’s band I wear on my waist, to protect our family. I promise that,” he consoles you. “No, ma Teyam — I am just so happy to have you as my mate, to have your child, to be yours! I cannot wait to start our family,” you choked out, through sobs. He smiles tenderly at you, you nuzzle your face into his neck, your cries calming a bit.

“I cannot wait too, my mate. We have mated for life. Our family will be strong. I am sure of it. Come — let us go back to our straw hut. It is late. Do not exert yourself, ma yawne,” he chided at you. You giggle. “I won’t, Nete.” With that, the two of you get up off the shore, he helps you back up onto the straw pathway that leads to the connected bungalows, sitting over the bay. You think on how you will tell the clan tommorow. You were finally a family.

A/n: enjoy this aged up Neteyam fic! this will probably be a series, I'm going tp try and write more fluff / angst fics like this!

Pt 2 can be found here

Avatar taglist: @23victoria @jake-sullys-whore @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @aerangi

#avatar x reader #neteyam #neteyam x na'vi!reader #neteyam x omaticaya!reader #neteyam fluff #neteyam angst #neteyam x pregnant!reader #neteyam imagine #neteyam x reader #neteyam x you #neteyam x y/n #neteyam smut #aged up neteyam #liz writes 🖤 #liz’s masterlist

[blossom-works]

Ow Ow

A cute lil story of Hades’ princess and how he began to love you more than he ever thought he could.

Part of my Hades series

The only thing that can hurt a God is a divine weapon. Normal, human weapons are mere toys. While this is true, Gods are not that invincible as they or others think they are. Gods can die if a fatal blow from a divine weapon lands on them. When a God does die, their bodies are turned into particles. Meant to dance in the realm of Niflhel for eternity. A realm where reincarnation or a re-birth is impossible. 

When you became the queen of Helheim, you gained an ability to regenerate yourself. Before, you could heal minor injuries but let us say, if you got your arm ripped off - Tough luck. Now though, you can heal a lost arm given some time. Not in the “growing a new limb like a lizard” heal, but the “regenerate the lost tissue like closing a wound” heal.

Neither you or Hades knew this would happen, but it did. So, why in the name of the Heavens does childbirth hurt so damn much! Even with the painkiller the nurses have injected you with have eased the pain!

“Three more centimeters to go, your majesty.”

You throw your head back in annoyance and frustration. Your left hand is being cradled by your doting husband who is sort of getting on your nerves too. A nurse to your right is patting your forehead with a cold, damp cloth. 

When you and Hades broke the news of a baby, it became bigger news than when Hades, the King of the Netherworld, was getting married. Sure, pregnancies and childbirth are common in the world of the Gods, but not when a major God is expecting. The last time something like that happened were with your nephews, and it has been centuries since then. For a week straight, all the Gods and Goddesses threw a party to celebrate the heir of the Netherworld. 

Some, like you, thought that your husband would became protective of you since his child is in your womb, but to your surprise, Hades was pretty okay. He did check up on you more often that he normally did, but he did not breath on you the entire time. Hades did though, get more affectionate. At least twice a day he would kiss your growing abdomen and when he could, cradle your bump. 

Your baby was not planned. Sure, you and Hades would talk about it, but never had the intentions of trying. Your lives were just too busy to have a child or two. Hades oversees all that happens in Helheim, while most importantly, keeping an eye on Tartarus. You share the same responsibility while upholding your duty as the Goddess of Life and Death. A baby was just not part of your agendas. Of course, fate has a funny way of working even for a divine being. 

“And you can’t up my dosage?” You beg. 

“I’m afraid not m’lady. Even though this baby is a divine being, we cannot risk their health by giving you more medicine.”

The nurse bow to you and your husband before exiting the room. When you told Hades about your frequent cramps (which were actually contractions), he sent for the best doctor and nurses in Helheim. The doctor suggested on breaking your water, but if you have learned anything about modern, human medicine, having your water be popped manually is a no go. Apparently, it makes actual labor harder and the contractions stronger since the body is not ready to deliver the baby. When you pondered over that, it was an automatic “no” that you are starting to regret. 

Your husband whispers encouraging words in your ear. He also does what the maids did and wipes the sweat before it can trickle down your face. As always, Hades is keeping his usual, calm composure. He is not named the “God Whom Other Gods Rely on the Most” for no reason. Hades did take off his eye patch though, so you are pretty sure some part of him is a little weary.

While Hades is a busybody, he halted all his kingly duties. He said, “I will not miss the birth of my own child. I vowed to stay by your side, beloved. My duties as king as trivial compared to our child you are about to bear.”

As another wave of contractions hits you, your body tenses up. The hand hold Hades’ squeezes his hand, almost like you are squeezing its life force away. Hades swiftly switches his hands so he can hold you behind your shoulders.

To you, it feels like days before the doctor instructs you to start pushing. While it hurts like hell, having a watermelon come out of your most sacred area, you are thankful you did not allow the practitioners to pop your water. In four pushes, the baby - the proof of yours and Hades’s shared love, has arrived.

Its cries fill the room while Hades is astonished at the blood and fluid covered child. He never left your side even when the nurses and doctors were coaxing him to wait out the room. To you, it feels like your husband helped you deliver your child more than the medical professionals. Relief washes over you when you push out the placenta and whatever it is that needs to leave your body. The nurses are carefully inspecting your child before wrapping it up and handing it to you

“Congratulations, your majesties. You have a girl - a princess.”

Still drenched in sweat and tears, you hold your child, your daughter, close to your chest. Your legs are still propped up as the doctor inspects your nether region. The nurses had cleaned the princess off so she is no longer covered in bodily fluids. For some reason, she somehow does not smell all that terrible.

The doctor informs you that your body should start healing itself shortly. Then, he and the nurses gathered their things and left the palace.

Your daughter still cries but her cries are not as loud as when she came out. With your index finger you gently caress her cheek. You start to memorize her soft facial features, wandering how they will change as she grows up. Feeling your touch, the babies calms down. Her cries have turned into whimpers. You caress her white head of hair. You wander how it is so soft already. Her lashes are thick and long, it practically makes you jealous. But how can you be? This child - your child - your daughter - is perfect after all.

Seeing a bigger hand hold the baby’s head from behind bring you back from your moments bliss. Remembering that you are not alone, you look at your husband. He, just like you, has fallen in love at first sight. His little princess is here. Helheim’a crown princes has arrived. Snuggling up to him for a brief moment, you hand your child to her father. You make sure Hades knows how to hold her and which way is most comfort table to him.

Your body has begun to heal itself, but you cannot bring yourself to care right now. I’m your husband’s arms is your shared child. Her whimpers have stopped and she now coos here and there. Subconsciously, Hades starts to rock her. His purple eyes scan her entire being. It seems that with every glance, Hades falls more and more in love with her. Not caring about how she just came out of you, Hades brings his baby up to his face, and plants a feather like kiss on her head.

Who knew having a child with the one you love most can be this serene and euphoric?

Carefully, Hades releases on arm from under his daughter and brings you close. Your first family hug. Family. You and Hades and your baby, are a family. Kissing you on the lips, he thanks you for your blessing. Fate is on your side today because as soon as you and Hades pull away, your daughter opens her eyes - Purple. Just like her father. You are sure Hades could not love his child more than he does right now.

You both question what her personality will look like the more she develops. Would she be social like you or reserved like her father? Would she prefer reading over physical activities? These are the questions you two talk about. You child falls asleep in Hades’ arms. By now, you are fully healed. Hades gives his daughter one more kiss before putting her in her bassinet.

Hades scoops you in his arms and lays on the bed, placing you on top of him. Unlike with your baby, his hold on you is firm. He presses multiple kisses on your lips and face. When you look at him, his eyes are a tad bit brighter and wider.

“Sleep. I know you are healed but I’m sure it took a lot of you - to birth our daughter and to heal yourself.”

Just like how he did the baby, Hades rocks you to sleep. He watches as you follow your daughter’s footsteps. Just before you get lost in dream land though, he tells you, “I did not think I could love you more than I already do. But when you gave birth to our child, my love for you has bloomed a million times over.”

When you woke up the next morning, you find your husband holding the awake princess. Playing with her with a white owl in hand. In two years, it will become known as “Ow Ow”.

#fanfiction #hades x reader #record of ragnarok #shuumatsu no valkyrie #x reader #record of ragnarok hades #ror hades x reader #snv hades x reader #fluff

[searchingforserendipity25]

Sorry I have another one if you want :) Míriel and 'old and forgetton'

thank you for the asks @theworldisquietheretooquiet! got míriel-brain disease and ended up finishing this one first <3

the usual míriel & descendants warnings apply. 1458 words.

-

Labours of the Living

Finwë found her hidden away, in the alcove she retreated to when her own working rooms were grown tiresome to her eyes. 

It did not surprise Míriel. Finwë had always had a talent for finding her, a skill honed through many years; even, and most particularly, when Míriel sought an escape. He loved her too well to want her lonesome, and knew her to well to think she should always be given her way in living engrossed in her work.

“My lady, my bright lady, here I find you at last,” he said, and came upon the secret curve of the staircase like a vision of himself. Míriel saw him as he was, tall and well-braided, the darkness of his eyes gleaming for her in the light of the high window; for a moment a stranger, a new and beloved thing.

Underneath the heartbeat of her own breast another one jumped, calling to her, thrilled at the sight. 

Your father, she told her child, agreeing. Let one of them delight in the world and in Finwë particularly, when she was too weary for it. That was what children were for, joy-making and living stores of joy - so she was told. Your high-hearted father, who shall love you better than all things. 

Finwë loved her so well. Nearly as much as the promise of their child; a curious loss of preeminence for Míriel, who understood him perfectly. 

“Such hurry, my lady,” Finwë-king teased, jumping up the steps around one pyramid of bolts of brocade like he had when jumping the lake-stone path over the waters of Cuiviénen to visit the dwellings of Míriel, where she had kept her wild goats and first mastered the spindle. “That is princely garment that you have wrought lately, for a prince in many ages.”

“Or many princes, of many ages,” said Míriel. 

She looked down at her hand upon the needle, the brilliant floss strung through, the hoop in her lap and the organized disorder of fabrics around her and that same strangeness rose like sea-sickness, the hungry thing inside her restless and small, wanting always to know, know, know what it saw through her eyes. 

It wearied her spirit. And the flesh was weary enough as was. It had been a great deal of baskets and bolts of fabric to carry, even if it was but a fraction of what she was working upon; and she was weary still after the climb, though Telperion’s light upon the window beside her had fractured in many changing angles since first she arrived. She had lost precious time with it; the child delighted in the spectrum of it, and her eyes, too, were passionate about colour, heavy enough to grow distracted.

 Míriel of the needle with her strong will distracted from her craft! It had not happened before, even when she had been wounded, cold and famished; it happened far too often now. Much had grown tiresome to Míriel, as her child rounded her belly, her most ambitious project kicking at her bowels and sending her constant reveries of strong, flashing impressions. 

She made a wardrobe entire: court robes and sturdy traveling layers knitted in complicated patterns, thin shifts for sleep of beautifully embroidered satin. Hats in fashion not yet invented, caps and veils and nets, stitched with golden coins and intricate lacework in gold-thread. Aprons of leather-work, embossed so a distracted craftsman might pass his fingertips over the designs as they thought. 

The flaming of a poppy, and the blossoming of a new flame; the sweet purple-reds of the bougainvillea. Linen, velvet, brocade and samite, all of it red, and red, and more red. Her child saw nothing else, in the haven of her womb; that was all it knew to love. Míriel found many variety of it among the fabrics of her stores, dyed others, to her own perfect demands. 

Not easy, to stand before the vats with the shifting paddles, moving cotton in water with heavy, forceful arms; and less so, when her ankles so ached and her back complained. Her shoulders ached still after the long labour of her early pregnancy. But Míriel would have no aid, nor even from her best apprentices. She had a reverie in mind, a dream that was no dream, the crafter’s perfect vision of the work to finish; and she meant for it to be impeccable, for it to last. 

Her king knelt before her on the cold harshness of the stone, and kissed her hands affectionately, peering down to look at the work on the hoop. 

“That shall certainly be marvelous,” Finwë agreed,  “Many marvels for our children shall come from your hand; yet, Míriel, do not forego sleep for it! Thou art crafting many masterpieces at once.”

His smile was knowing, tender around the eyes. It suited him: the care he took with his lady, the last light before the Mingling curling around the stay hairs that escaped his crown. Prickly, goading and laughing and bold and full of wonder like a self-sustaining and warming fire: that was as she liked him best, the chieftain and the craftsmen she loved, her old friend from the old world. 

Never had she resented him any softness, nothing of the gentleness that was in him. It had been pleasure, at first, how swiftly he nurtured it, beside his eagerness for the widening of their close and secretive family, the dear circle of their arms around one another; but she could not return it. 

So much of Tírion-upon-Tuna was made exactly to his liking, from the materials he thought best, arranged in the angles of his thinking. Míriel loved the city so well. It was not Tírion’s fault Míriel was too weary to stomach the sight of it well, nor her husband’s tenderness. 

She took his hands, that he might feel the child kicking inside her; and then took them, so he might help her down the steep path of her own devising. 

-

Fëanáro’s rooms had gathered dust for many Ages, when at last Míriel returned to life, committed again to life. He had taken much with himself on his exile to the far northern fortress of Formenos, and among his many works and treasures had been the full collection of Míriel’s works: all his wardrobe, what of it had not been passed on to his sons as they grew. 

Míriel knew this: she had woven him garbed with the long tunics of her own make, raising a torch and declaring a fell promise, his sons arrayed around him likewise: in capes, and hats, and embroidered robes of rich, blood-dark crimson. She did not look for her son in the apartments where he had been young and unhappy, nor the rooms set aside for the children he begot in love - did not open drawers, or press her mouth against worn fabrics made into paler shades by layers of dust through the Ages. 

Nothing remained. He was not loved now, her son; the rooms were barred and barren, so they might not be destroyed in wrathful grief by the righteous.  

The palace of Tírion was much changed. There were rooms enclosed and airless, like the chambers and cairns of stone where the dead had been buried on the journey out of Cuiviénen. There was Indis’ hand in the leveling of high stone walls and the raising of galleries crowned and surrounded in glass; Indis’ hand who had drawn the mezzanines, and decided on the colour of upholstery, the design of the candlesticks. 

And Finwë, in all things Finwë’s fondness for soft fabrics and bold colours, his liking for meadows with many moss-covered boulders set together for conversation matured into a tendency for low tables, and vast rooms with many seats.

 Míriel’s own marks remained, for they had been made to endure unseen: curling staircases; cunning doorways, alcoves with stained glass windows and a seat carved into the parapet, the sort of places a distracted broideress might retreat to work. 

Some of the places had been plainly found. Childish, painstaking scratches lined the windowsills, tengwar in a faltering fashion, still inventing itself, scratching the first attempts. A quiet place, made in ancient times. 

How young she had felt, sketching the project of it upon Finwë’s blueprints! Old, and forgotten; for no children ran now, joyful or wretched, through the secret hallways of Tírion’s great palace. 

There and only then did Míriel raise her hand to lay over her belly, which had so shuddering with life when last she stood in her quiet hideout; only then did she weep, Þerindë of the needle, as her child had wept in secret against the sleeves she had dyed and sewn and embroidered with the last of her last life. 

#míriel #finwe #feanor #the silmarillion #my fics #asks and answers #silm fic #theworldisquietheretooquiet #noldor #years of the trees #míriel þerindë

[vilandel]

Griffins

Summary It was just them sharing this peaceful moment. Him, his witch wife and their griffin twins in her womb...

A/N A little Nozessa fluff that I wrote last year for my birthday (no, it's not today) and I think I can share it here too. I will write a new for this year's birthday, of course^^

Ao3 link

♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣

Even in winter, it was rarely snowing over the royal capital. In most cases, it was just the same as spring, summer and autumn, pouring rain instead of snow.

But on this January night, one of the exceptions happened, it was snowing in the royal capital. It wasn’t a snow storm, it was nothing compared to the snowy weather in the Spade Kingdom.

Still, the snowflakes were rather big, leaving a small blanket of snow over his balcony and Nozel hoped that the Silva gardeners managed to the Silva Flower Garden from this. Even though snow was rare in the capital, it still happened and his mother had taken important measures to protect their flower garden from snow situations, as she called them.

Nozel chuckled. His mother always a love-hate relationship with snow. On one hand she hated it because of the Silva Flower Garden, one of her favourite places in the world. Acier had often be afraid that snow could somehow be not good for the flowers, especially her beloved water lilies. That’s why she decided to take measures to protect the garden.

But on the other hand, she loved snowy days and evenings, when she was at home in a cosy feeling. Just sitting in a warm salon, cuddled in a fluffy blanket, with a book and a cup of hot chocolate, while watching the snowflakes falling slowly from the sky.

He missed his mother, of course he did. Nozel doubted that this feeling would ever disappear. But it didn’t hurt anymore, at least. He had learned to heal, to make amends, to move on, to make peace with himself.

And a lot of this success was thanks to his beloved wife.

“You seem rather fascinated by those snowflakes, honey.”

“Well, I have rarely seen the falling of snow over the capital in my life.”

“Hm, good point.”

Nozel turned towards the bed and he could literally feel his eyes brightening up when he saw his beloved wife lying on the mattress, smiling at him, her hands on her big belly.

“Wouldn’t you come back to me, please, handsome husband of mine?” Vanessa asked with a teasing pout. “It’s not good for my pregnancy moods to have you so far away from me and I can’t really join you with this big thing right here.”

She was teasing him, that’s what Vanessa did so often. Although she wasn’t completely wrong about the pregnancy moods. Vanessa was very emotional due to her pregnancy and as a result, Nozel also got emotional about how emotional she was.

So, Nozel joined her back on the bed and hugged her as best he could, given her womb.

When Vanessa told him that she they would be parents, he had been a bit afraid he would end up like his father. He was grateful that Vanessa, his siblings, his aunt and Fuegoleon had do their best to convince him otherwise. Nozel knew that it probably hadn’t been an easy task.

He also had been afraid if the pregnancy would go well. Nozel still remembered vividly how difficult the pregnancy had been for his mother when she was expecting Noelle, as well as Solids difficult birth. But so far, Vanessa was doing fine except for the usual pregnancy side-effects and Owen reassured him each time that everything was going normally.

Now, Nozel felt mostly happy about becoming a father and despite his worries concerning the whole birth, he was looking forward to it. Looking forward to hold their children for the first time.

Yes, children. Vanessa was expecting twins.

This had been another shock for Nozel. He had already been concerned to become a good father for one children and now he would have two.

“Are you three alright?”

“Now that you’re back with us, we are. Everything is better when daddy’s here, right you little griffins?”

His chuckle was heavy. “Griffins.”

“What? It’s true. You’re very eagle, I’m more cat and a griffin is the mix of an eagle and a feline. So, our children are somehow griffins.”

Nozel wondered sometimes how Vanessa could get those kind of ideas sometimes. But Dorothy had pretty similar ones, so maybe it was a witch thing.

“It won’t be long now,” he whispered, looking fondly and Vanessas belly.

“If Owen’s right, it should be sometime in February. I thought the time would pass very slowly, but now it feels it was only yesterday that I came into your captain office to tell you the news. And now I’m about to give birth in barely a month.”

Time went rather fast during nine months, indeed. Nozel still remembered crystal clear how one day, Vanessa barged into his office to tell him she was pregnant, while he was trying to get through to paperwork.

Needless to say that he had been unable to focus back on paperwork afterwards. And also needless to say that the wild baby rumours started within his squad. The Silver Eagles were more eager of gossip than he would have thought.

“Oof.”

“Is something wrong, Vanessa.”

“Nothing. It just seems that the newest members of house Silvas are in a very moving mood.”

Moving… His children were moving.

“Don’t be shy, eagle papa, you can put your hands on my balloon if you want to feel them,” Vanessa chuckled with a cheeky smirk. How did she always know what was going on within his mind and his heart?

Nozel still didn’t hesitate for long, as he started first to caress Vanessas belly softly, before moving a bit and put his ear on her womb.

He could indeed hear them…

And feel the next kick perfectly.

“Don’t hurt your mother, you two.”

“And don’t hurt your dad either, you only have one, you griffin ladies.”

Nozel chuckled. Another theme that was always coming back. “How can you be so sure that it would be girls?”

“No idea. Maybe it’s a witch thing, but I have no knowledge of that. Or maybe it’s because you’ll be such a perfect girl dad.”

Nozel just shook his head in amusement. Her explanations often didn’t make any sense to him, but he loved them nonetheless.

“But what if one of them is a boy? Or if both are, how do you call, griffin lords? We still need to choose names. It’s the only thing we haven’t decided yet… Everything else is ready.”

“Given from your lists, I think I like Aquila and Nathanael most for boys, so that’s decided. As for girls… Well, we have already chosen Nymphea first, since it was one of your mothers favourite names and it’s also another name of her favourite flowers. But if it’s two girls… Gosh, I can’t choose! They’re all so cool! Valentina, Lavinia, Cassandra, Épée, Morgane, Gwendolyn, Dentelle… Or those flower related ones, Iris, Myosotis, Belladonna-“

“I think we still have time to choose a second girl name,” Nozel interrupted her, before blowing a kiss on her lips. He heard Vanessa enough saying every girl name on their list out loud to know that she would get overly emotional again if he didn’t stop her.

“You’re right. So, can this exhausted young mummy have a hug now?”

Of course Nozel obliged. It was a bit difficult to embrace each other now that there was a huge belly in the way. But Vanessa always loved to be hugged from behind and Nozel would never lose an opportunity to hold her the ways she preferred.

So, he sat down behind his wife, letting her half lie down against him and put his hands on her womb, feeling the twins moving and kicking again.

Nozel sighed happily. He felt so at peace, like he never did for years after the death of his mother. But right now, with his witch wife and his griffin twins as she called them, this very moment felt like pure bliss.

#Black Clover #Black Clover Fanfiction #My Writing ☘️♣️ #Nozel Silva #Vanessa Enoteca #Nozel x Vanessa #Nozessa

[49-ibr]

14 DAYS REMAINING!

49: VOLUME 01 is out on May 7th 2024!

A caged princess. A too-trusting hero. A blood-drinking pirate.

A secret to uncover.

And, just in case that isn't enough, here is a oneshot set in the world I've only just begun to explore! How does it relate to the book coming out? You'll see...

(NO CONTEXT NEEDED)

“What do you know of the gods, Adonis?” 

A gentle wind whistled through the berry-scented air, pulling delicate leaves from the gnarled twigs they grew from. Each fluttered through the sky like feathers in the breeze, and then slipped from their branch-woven balcony, disappearing into the mist below. 

A table and two chairs were planted on this balcony, planted being a literal term. Flowers wound around wooden legs, and the bumpy bark-covered table had perfect indents to hold glasses of wine. 

Adonis ran his fingers over the crystal-encrusted hilt of his sword, humming to himself. “I know much,” he said. “But who doesn’t?” 

There was not a being in this world that did not believe in the gods, and how could there be? Mankind would not exist with no creator, and their magic-wielding followers were further proof of the divine. 

Silent, the storyteller took a moment to ponder, and Adonis took the moment to sip at his brimming cup of wine, finding it oddly tongue-tingling and sweet. It was far from what he was used to. 

The storyteller’s lips parted once more. “What do you think of the gods, Adonis?” he finally asked. 

As he lowered his wine, Adonis quirked an eyebrow, though still ran his other thumb over the most starlike of the sword’s jewels, tracing a beloved constellation. “What I think of them, sir?” 

“Yes, Adonis. What do you think of them?” 

Adonis found himself pausing, as pensive as his mentor. “I think... they’re more forces of nature than anything. They aren’t something to praise or to battle or to scorn, more... something to live amongst. I respect my god, of course, but I don’t consider him to be anything more than an equal. My equal.” 

A chuckle slipped from the storyteller’s lips, especially as he lifted his own mug of dark wine, taking a long, slow sip. “And who taught you that particular mindset, Adonis?” 

“I taught myself. Is there something wrong with it?” 

“Not at all.” The storyteller took another sip of his dark wine, staining his lips like a bruise. “But I have a tale of sorts that just might change your mind, Adonis, if it doesn’t confirm your every belief.” 

“What kind of tale?” 

The storyteller hummed a low, deep tune. “A belief, something rooted in both mythology and fact. But I won’t criticise you if you choose to believe in every part of it, nor if you refute it all.” 

Adonis laughed lightly, and sat back in his wooden chair, adjusting the sheath at his hip. “And do you know if it’s true, sir?” 

“No,” said the storyteller in a tone that spoke of finality. “I don’t.” 

“Then I’ll gladly uncover this great mystery with you.” Adonis crossed one leg over the other, taking on a posture that was a little more relaxed. His hands were far from his sheath. “Go on.” 

A moment passed. Two. Three. 

The storyteller placed both hands onto the table, interlocking his scarred fingers in a manner that brought great attention to them. For a moment, Adonis could focus on nothing else at all. 

It looked as if several rings had once donned those dark fingers, but that all of them had been violently stolen away. 

Had the storyteller once been wed? More than once, even? 

“Many men say that the first creation of the gods was not the land, nor the air, nor the fire in their hearths,” said the storyteller, speaking as if to the sky, “but the water that stretches into infinity and cradles every island of Ungode, like a mother embracing her dear womb.” 

Adonis nodded slowly, and said not a thing. 

“Those who say this,” the storyteller continued, in that same slow, pensive tone, “are incorrect, though the foolish believe them to know all. Those folk think far too literally.” 

“And you don’t?” 

The storyteller’s wine-stained lips quirked, though only a little. He leant in, just slightly, holding Adonis’s gaze. “I’ve always been better at seeing the bigger picture than most, seeing magic over matter. My god doesn’t bless those who don’t deserve these gifts, after all.” 

Adonis’s tongue darted to wet dry lips, before he realised he still had his cup of wine. Raising it to his tongue, he took a hearty sip. 

“You cannot begin with only the physical, Adonis. You cannot begin with the land and the sea and the sky.” 

As Adonis lowered his half-empty cup onto the table, he half-smiled at the man sat opposite him. “How could they begin with anything but the physical, sir? We need earth below our boots, after all.” The irony of this statement emerging from his lips in a kingdom of Air did not escape Adonis’s notice. 

“What would be the point to a flourishing forest without a single beast? Would be the point to a city without any human to fill its homes? What would be the point to a physical world with nothing alive lurking inside? The living aren’t the physical, after all.” 

Adonis’s brow furrowed, but he had nothing left to say, nothing but questions he was sure were about to be answered, or ignored no matter how much he pestered.  

He simply listened without another thought in his mind. 

“The gods did not make land first, and then the soul, Adonis. The gods made land for the soul, for mankind in its entirety.” 

Another moment passed. Two. Three. 

Even the wind was silent, though in this kingdom of Air, it was usually as plentiful as a heartbeat. Not a thing kept Adonis from listening to his mentor. His mentor he still hardly knew. 

The storyteller finally leant in. “Do you think man worships the gods, or do you think the gods worship man?” 

#my post #49ibr #writing #writeblr #fantasy #adonis nightlin #a feather in the breeze #writer #writers #my writing #gods #magic

[rheaitis]

thoughts on a what if arjuna had been a girl scenario? i feel like she’d somehow still manage to outshine everyone else and end up gaining the attention of karna, however better or worse it may manifest in this world…

ahahahaha so MANY content warnings, you guys! (implied incest, assault, canonical levels of violence)

“Let me get the wheel out of this mire, and I’ll fight you,” Vasusen pleads, his eyes on the ground, his hands scrabbling to hold up the wheel. “I will duel with you, only wait.”

Almost, almost Anagha heeds… not his words but his voice, his desperate sunken eyes. He looks grimed, without the golden armour that had been so warm against her skin, when… He looks defeated already, mud and blood smeared on his arms, his scarred chest. That year before Krishn came for her, she had grown as adept in the use of a dagger as ever with a sword, but Vasusen had just laughed and wrapped her in his stifling embrace, had crooned comfort at her while she raged and wept and flew at him with knives, pins, nails.

Some other year, perhaps. Some other lifetime. But it is the seventeenth day of the Kurukshetra War, and all pity has long since bled out of Anagha. She scarcely needs Krishna’s hand tight on her hip, his voice urgent in her ear.

“You killed my nephew,” she tells him, quiet under the din of the battlefield. “That child, I held him in my hands when he came out of his mother, I wiped his nostrils clean for his first breath. I wrapped his corpse to put him on the pyre. Do you think you deserve mercy, a good death? Answer me!”

He looks up and his eyes catch on her face, recognition flooding in. “Princess,” he whispers, in the voice that followed her into and woke her from nightmares, so different in the crowded daylight. The sun is in his eyes, a benediction on his silvering hair when he closes them. “No. For the boy, and for what I did to you, I deserve whatever you mete out.”

It is so easy to kill him, in the end, kneeling in the mud with his throat bared. So easy Anagha is bewildered at first by Krishn taking Gandiv from her, easing her to a seat on the floor of their chariot, chafing warmth into her hands.

“If there is guilt in this, it is mine to bear,” he is saying when she can hear again, in the urgent tone that means he has said it before. “Mine for leaving you there, mine for leaving you in the forest with your brothers, mine for letting you shoulder many griefs. Not yours, never yours. My beloved friend, my brave one, your deeds will resound down the ages. Up, now. Up and to camp before the Kauravas scramble into order.”

Anagha retrieves Gandiv, stands alert as Krishn drives them back into the welcoming arms of the Pandav host. It is no great thing, to have slain Vasusen even with guile, when she has felled Bhishma already. There is no reason to feel bile rise in her throat, no place for the tears with which she had watered Prince Devavrat’s feet.

*

“You have,” says Shakuni, “other siblings, O King. The wise Sahadev, the wondrous Nakul, the valiant Anagha. Shall you not hazard them and win back your wealth, your legions, your brother Vrikodar?”

Yudhisthir, trapped, bets their younger brothers, loses them both, pales till the veins stand out on his shaking hands, his sweating brow. 

“I hazard,” he says, and stoppers his mouth, darting a glance at Bhim in his shackles, at the twins. “I hazard…”

“Anagha, daughter of Pandu, the unvanquished,” she says into the waiting silence, going to her knees at his back. “He hazards me. What do you put against it?”

Better her, for whatever cruelty their cousins can concoct, than Panchali. Better Anagha’s calloused hands and broad shoulders and habit of suffering, than Draupadi’s ferocious fragility, her beauty like a flame nestled in an eggshell.

Vasusen grins and whispers to Duryodhan, who laughs. “For a woman forty and unwed, lingering in her brother’s household with a barren womb? Only the chance to retrieve what he has already lost.”

Yudhisthir loses again; hazards Panchali; loses again. A servant returns rebuffed from the women’s quarters. Dushasan goes himself, returns with precious cargo, hauling her along with a cruel hand twisted into her hair.

Panchali wins. Bloody and battered, she shames their elders into three boons, frees herself and her husband and…

“Give me my sister-in-law,” she says. “Give me Pritha’s daughter and we will go quietly away.”

Vasusen scoffs. “Oh, where? To Panchal where your brothers will arm their men? To Dwaraka where the Yadavas will bristle at the insult? No, Yajnaseni, you cannot sail your husband’s kin safe across the rivers of misfortune. But you may rest assured, glorious one, that she will not be neglected.”

*

In the end it is Vasusen who catches them. Too late for it to affect the swayamvara, too early to not cause new chaos.

“A woman to wed a woman,” he laughs, “a new thing indeed is the King of Panchal showing us.”

The assembled princes and priests, already wounded, break into bemusement like a beehive swarming. On the dais Panchali’s eyes go wide and wounded, her brother’s hand tight on her arm.

“No, no,” Jarasandh scoffs, “you younglings have such short memories. He tricked Hiranyavarman ten years ago, brought in a wife for his eldest daughter. Ha! Is this a woman, truly? What an eye you have, boy.”

Anagha darkens under the sudden appraising gaze of so many men. Even the princes of Panchal, who should know better, even her mother’s nephew, who should know her, even… especially Vasusen, whom she had once foolishly thought of as her friend.

To the side Bhim stills into a predatory stance, willing to break their way out of this hall. Foolish of them, to have come at all, against their mother’s admonition, their brother’s advice.

Anagha laughs, head back and feet planted, her voice rising into the clear registers she forsook for her slight disguise. 

“So,” she says, still smiling, “I have won a bride for my brother. What of it? Is such a thing unknown in Aryavarta? Didn’t everyone hear at their mother’s knee the tale of Prince Bhishm’s great valour? Only us? Well then, O Kings, hear now that Pandu’s children have followed their forebear in this too, and tell it to your children.”

Everything moves after that almost too quickly for comprehension: the Yadavas at their back, and the delighted smile that almost hides the shadow in Panchali’s gaze, and the chariot driven by Prince Dhrishtadyumn himself that brings them to their little hut in its clearing.

“Come away now,” Krishn whispers after her mother has spent her first bout of rage and turned all-smiles to Princess Draupadi and her twin. “Let your brothers fend for themselves a little while; we have much to talk about, you and I.”

*

“A man such as this, to match valour with the heiress of Pandu? A man of no known antecedents, no proven deeds?”

The scorn in Acharya Kripam’s voice is deadly, thunderous amplified by the acoustics of the stadium. Anagha recognises in her own body the flinch that overtakes his, though these are not the words they use for her. 

Duryodhan shouts defiance, blusters and makes promises, sends servants running.

“I will battle him,” she says, overlapping Duryodhan, silencing him. “I will contend with him. What, shall I ask every stranger in a hunt or a fight their ancestry before I string my bow? I spent my childhood playing with the children of sages and scavengers alike, will you bar me now from testing my mettle against this man?”

“Princess Anagha is wilful,” Acharya Kripam says, and this time it is she who flinches. She could recite it with him, the litany of her deviations from docility that has only grown with her.

“Daylight’s wasting,” Bhim drawls, coming up to put his bulk behind her. “Let them fight or send them off the field, Acharya; the commoners are getting restive.”

“Let them fight,” Duryodhan urges, “he will be a prince by nightfall, whoever his parents might be. Come, Acharya Dron arranged such a spectacular show for his favourite, will you truly disappoint the spectators?”

*

Anagha is in the hayloft, nursing her wrist, hiding only a very little from the crowd out looking for her. If she is found before she can feign being free of pain nobody will let her pick up a sword for months and months, and a bow never. Acharya Kripam is already against it, and his comments make Mother purse her lips into a thin line and frown. She’ll fall behind everyone if she’s held back so long, and it’s just a little pain, after all, her wrist isn't even interesting colours like Duryodhan’s was last month when he fell out of the tree Bhim was shaking, just swollen and… probably a little purple? It’s difficult to see, in the dimness and against her dark skin.

“Princess,” someone calls up from the stable floor. “Come down, they’re gone to check the gardens near the Durga temple.”

Anagha crawls out from behind the hay bale and looks over the edge: a youth in the livery of the royal stables smiles at her, his hands full of cloth and little pots. As old as Yudhishtir at least, probably a few years older still. Almost a man grown; adults were variable in their priorities, and so many of them wanted to curry favour.

“No,” Anagha tells him, and sits where she can keep an eye on him. If he leaves to fetch someone she’ll have to scramble down the ladder and sprint up past the kitchens to the fishponds: Bhim has a blind there that nobody else knows about, not even Yudhishtir. It will be painful but she can manage.

“I have liniment,” the boy wheedles. “I heard you’ve hurt your hand in training.”

“Horse liniment?”

The boy laughs, as though that isn’t perfectly logical. “No, Princess. Liniment for humans; we get hurt sometimes working with the horses.”

He has a nice laugh, and—Anagha peers down at him again—his eyes are deep-set and kind, like Mother’s. And her wrist does rather hurt.

“What’s your name?”

“Vasu,” the boy says, “but I’m nobody, Princess.”

This is obviously a lie, even if he means, as they all mean, that he’s nobody she needs to bother about. But she’ll let him keep his secret if he’ll keep hers.

“I won’t come down,” she temporises, “but you can come up here.”

#mahabharata #arjuna #karna #au: always a different gender #rule 63 #ciswoman arjuna #cw: assault #cw: death

[ready-steady-freddie]

Nothing breaks like a heart

Robert Bob Floyd x AFAB wife reader

Warnings: A piece on family life, miscarriages, infant death (nothing graphic), grief and mentions of being suicidal.

Word count: 900

Notes: This was inspired by something that happened in real life to me and my husband. I find many similarities between my husband and how I imagine Bob to be and what he would be like as a dad (which makes total sense) and how he would react in the situation that is touched upon in this drabble. It was also inspired by @a-reader-and-a-writer s drabble about Rhett Abbott called 'Sleep'.

I listened to Annie Lennox singing Into The West while writing this. The lyrics make perfect sense in this context.

This is my first time writing something from the reader's POV. This small piece ties in with Swim until you can't see land, which is more Bob-centric.

It wasn't easy trying to slip unnoticed into the house with the dark hallway filled with tricycles and Lego. After kicking off your shoes you managed to step onto a hard plastic block and hold back a loud curse word, only to bang your ankle into the pedal of the child-sized bike to your left. You didn't know which foot to clutch, so you whimpered faintly and hobbled to the kitchen. Even at 11pm the lights were still on and the kitchen was a mess. It usually was when Bob had the kids alone in the evening. It wasn't always possible to cook dinner, do the dishes, prepare their packed lunches, change diapers, help with toothbrushing, read an insurmountable amount of books, keep the kids inside the bed, wrap them in their duvets like little burritos, feeding them bananas and fetching glasses of water more times than possible to remember - all before falling asleep yourself while trying to put the children to bed. It just wasn't, and that was okay. You would clean it up together tomorrow morning.

You tiptoed upstairs, carefully avoiding the two creaking steps at the top. The door to the kids' bedroom was slightly ajar, lights off. You frowned. You opened it enough to stick your head inside and listen. You couldn't hear their breathing. You panicked and turned on the ceiling lights. Their beds were empty. You sighed, relief washing over you.

You walked further down the hall, opening the door to you and Bob's bedroom as quietly as possible. You heard heavy, sleepy breathing and smiled. There was a single electric candle alight on your nightstand, and in the dim lighting it cast across the otherwise pitch black room, you saw your husband asleep in your bed with your two children. His upper body was bare apart from his dog tags, ever present around his neck, his lower half covered by a duvet. Your youngest child lay on Bob's chest, sleeping on her stomach, her little head resting on his collarbone. One of his hands was on her back while the other held very lightly onto a book by his side. Your eldest child lay with his entire body spread across your pillows, his right foot resting on his father's forehead, arms stretched out from his body. You laughed a little to yourself. This was the best sight to come home to after a long evening shift.

You swallowed thickly, tears pressing on. You were happy. You had the life you had dreamed of for so many years. But it hadn't come to you easily. There had been many pregnancies, many would-be children, before and in-between the two living ones who were now glued to their beloved dad. Many miscarriages in your panties, in the toilet, in the supermarket, some while Bob had been away for weeks and months. Every single one of those with dreams and wishes of a loving future - but those you didn't get to meet. There was the child you did get to meet but only with his eyes closed, ten fingers and ten toes, rosy cheeks, no crying as he entered the world outside your womb and no taking him home with you afterwards. You had never seen Bob cry before and it filled your already broken heart with so much guilt that you weren't able to fulfill his greatest wish of becoming a father. Seeing him silently weeping while he held your lifeless son in his arms. Your only job had been to grow, nurture and protect this little being. And you failed at it. You were supposed to give him life. Instead your body became a cemetery.

That was the time when your usually calm and efficient husband found himself out on a limb. He was trained to handle whatever was thrown at him at random and at high velocity - but this time he simply didn't know what to act on. The grief of losing your firstborn child was all-fulfilling, so all-consuming that you and Bob forgot to eat, sleep and communicate. Sometimes it felt like you even forgot to breathe and live. You relied on Bob for the simplest of things, like opening a window and letting in some fresh air. If it were up to you, you would have shrouded yourself in darkness and despair, content to stay there forever. You were at that point not able to help Bob in his grief. He picked you up when it seemed he had no strength to pick himself up any longer. He saved you.

Bob had clearly distanced himself from you by accepting - even actively looking for - missions that came with high risks, missions that required him to be away from you. Missions that you had agreed on before your wedding that he would not go on if he could avoid it. You sometimes wondered if he had a deathwish. If he was actually suicidal. It wouldn't have surprised you. You had been there yourself. That nearly cost you your relationship.

You were since blessed with two living children and they were perfect. You smiled. Forever sad about the child you had in your heart but no longer in your arms. No amount of love that you had for him, or indeed any of your would-be children, would ever mend your broken heart. But this place - inside your broken heart - is where you would keep him deep within you for the rest of your life. You now accepted that this was your life. And right now you were exactly where you needed to be. You would see him again one day.

#robert bob floyd #everyone's favourite bob #lieutenant bob floyd #robert floyd #bob floyd fanfiction #bob floyd #bob floyd top gun

[nightcoremoon]

modern christianity’s ideals of heaven are insanely depressing.

okay so only 0.1% of the world’s population is going to make it into a big white room empty of free will and fun for literally all of eternity

…and you WANT this? bro that’s fucking boring as shit.

if god is a pedantic asshole who will only allow people into his special club if they follow an absurdly strict set of arbitrary rules, I will gladly poledance into hell and ride satan’s dick like I’m lil nas x. but less talented. and white.

I mean… you only want the white people or the brown people who act white, you only want the straight people or the gay people who act straight, you only want the neurotypical people or the ones who can mask it, you only want the able bodied people or the ones who are rich and privileged enough to prevent that from being a problem, you only want the dfabs to be subservient and sexless but also be baby factories always on hand to physically please the dmabs, and you want all of the jews (and muslims and everyone else) to die in a fire… buddy. I think that your version of god is a literal actual fascist. and you worship that motherfucker? go fuck yourself.

my god loves everyone equally. my god would try his damnedest to make sure every single one of his precious beloved children comes home to him. my god wouldn’t just stand idly by and watch 90% of his babies that he handstitched in the womb perish in eternal hellfire just because of circumstances in the world putting them in unfortunate positions of being denied salvation for whatever reason. oh, young child, you were beaten and abused by your religious parents for a 18 years and thus were psychologically traumatized and terrified of ever becoming anything like those monsters and rejected jesus, then got hit by a car? FUCK YOU, BURN IN HELL YOU DUMB PIECE OF SHIT, SUFFER FOR YOUR BAD LUCK. oh, veteran soldier, you were lied to by the US government propaganda machine and your body was used to oil the gears of war and you were sent home a broken traumatized mess, given no recompense, left to be homeless and disabled and alone on the streets, and ultimately shove a gun in your mouth and pulled the trigger? FUCK YOU, BURN IN HELL YOU DUMB PIECE OF SHIT, SUFFER FOR YOUR BAD LUCK. and so on. that isn’t god. if you think that’s god, you perform the sin of idolatry, and purgatory is your destination if not hell. the true hell. an eternity free of pleasure or pain, a life forever of being a lobotomized worker bee, existence for time immemorial of dead-eyed slavery with shackles upon your mind until your consciousness shrivels into nothingness, unable to make a single choice for yourself. no art, no love, no life. either that or an exact copy of this world, with you in a dead end 9-5 job serving a trillion copies of the exact same personality, an army of barbie dolls, eating away at your sanity until it eventually just fucking devolves into don hertzveldt meets salvador dali nothingness defying reality itself. FOR FUCKING EVER. you wanna sit in a movie theater watching veggie tales reruns over and over and over again until the last few vestiges of what makes you human shrivel, disappearing like a grain of sand in an endless dune, a drop of water in an endless ocean, fading away like the memories you have today right now from your infancy. oh, you don’t even remember 10% of your childhood? if you lived an extra hundred years you wouldn’t remember 10% of age 1-60. and extra thousand you wouldn’t remember 1% of your entire lifetime. everything that makes you YOU is destined to be erased by the passage of time under this absurd ruleset. your idea of heaven is a worse torture than any hell that man can devise or even conceive.

if your god relishes in delight at mass omnicide, then your god is a piece of shit and you should be doing everything in your power to reject him. getting down on your knees and licking his boots and begging him not to include you in the murder makes you more of a sniveling and pathetic worm than even the slimiest and scuzziest of hell’s more spineless and disgusting demons. satan’s rebellion was therefore morally and ethically correct.

and besides. claiming that any human is going to hell for any reason spits directly in the face of jesus’ sacrifice on the cross. forgive them father, they know now what they do. I believe that is what he said. did god seriously look at the entire state of the world in 30 AD and say, you know what, every single human who has ever lived is fucked, every single human who is alive now and literally cannot know christ in enough time because it takes time for word to travel, every single human on continents that the roman empire isn’t even AWARE OF (or vice versa) is just straight fucked? fucked fucked fucked, all humanity is predestined for hell in a handbasket. that’s bullshit.

god is a being of love and you have perverted him into a twisted and warped inhuman ungodly disgusting THING unworthy of praise or even attention. your god is dead and you killed him with your own 2 bloodstained hands.

christians dni

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

The Bookends of Life: A Reflection on Human Dignity

by Connor Semelsberger

“My water just broke!” It’s the phrase every new dad waits to hear from his wife in anticipation of a new child, yet, somehow is never truly prepared for. I heard this phrase for the first time just a few weeks ago on June 1st when my wife and I unexpectedly welcomed our first child into this world a whole month early. Having lost our first daughter to a miscarriage two years ago, it was a day I had dreamed of for a long time, and we were on cloud nine.

Then, just over a week later, the rose-colored glasses fell off, as I received word that my grandmother, who had been battling multiple myeloma (cancer of the blood), also had late-stage kidney failure and was being moved to hospice care. My grandmother, now 88 years old, could not wait for her first great granddaughter to be born and, in some ways, used her coming birth as motivation to keep going.

I watch my wife change our daughter’s diapers, feed her, clothe her, and comfort her, and at the same time see my mother change my grandmother’s diapers, feed her, clothe her, and comfort her. The juxtaposition of these two acts of love put into perspective the bookends of life.

As a new father, it struck me how vitally important God’s design for the human family, containing that crucial duty to sacrifice and love those entrusted to our care, is. Family life means leaving behind our own desires to put those we love before us — first God and then our family members. It is amazing to experience how natural the instinct to care for our loved ones is. Whether that was me waking up against my body’s internal sleep clock to feed my daughter, or my mother and her siblings setting aside their own jobs and families to care for my grandmother, that natural instinct to love one another until the end cannot be beaten. Yet our society has worked to erase that natural and supernatural desire to love our own families in a sacrificial way let alone our neighbors.

When society tells young men and women that their careers, personal ambitions, and Starbucks coffee budget are more valuable then starting a family or taking care of your own elderly family members, the inherent value of human dignity suffers. And this devaluing of human life starts at the earliest point possible — in the womb.

Today, the powers that be decide which lives have value and which do not. When our most vulnerable nascent humans in the womb and their mothers are not treated as something to be nurtured, protected, and cared for, but rather, something to be discarded, it’s not hard to see why born humans — whether young or old — also begin to lose their value in our society. It’s not hard to imagine that self-sacrificial love has become a burden, rather than a joy.

My grandmother did not live an easy life. She was born in 1934 at the height of the Great Depression, and she and her five siblings lost their father a day before her 11th birthday. My grandmother endured the tragic deaths of two of her sons and one grandson, and she has faced numerous physical ailments — beating late-stage colon cancer, a broken arm, hip, and pelvis. And at the same time, she created a beautiful family with five children, five grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. She graduated college in her late 40s and became an occupational therapist, and then a librarian. Her Catholic faith grew so strong that she would never miss a Sunday Mass even if it meant missing out on watching her beloved Pittsburgh Pirates.

In a world that treats taking an abortion pill like eating candy, potential pain and suffering in life is used as an excuse to determine that life is not worth living. But comments like, “Why would I bring a child into this world just to suffer?” ring hollow when you see the joyful life my grandmother lived, and I hope my daughter will live. Yes, life is challenging. Yes, there are difficulties that can be so hard to bear we think we cannot make it through. And yet, when we reflect on God’s love for us, the sacrifice on the cross He bore for us to one day share eternity with Him, the ups and downs of life make sense. It is out of sacrifice, out of being burdened by another, that love abounds and pushes us into becoming the men and women God intended us to be.

Every single human life, from the embryonic stage to 88 (and hopefully beyond) with late-stage cancer is valuable. And there is nothing that makes that more evident than a father’s love for his daughter, and a child’s love for her mother. As the Supreme Court overturns an egregious precedent that at its core did one thing, devalued the sanctity of human life in our nation, may this simple story of the self-sacrificial love of family life be an example for our society.

𝑃𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑎𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑡𝑜𝑛 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑

#The Bookends of Life: A Reflection on Human Dignity #Connor Semelsberger #The Washington Stand

[absinthehoney]

Acuario

I am my mother’s bearer of rage. I feel the vase of it in my chest, filling, filling, filling and overflowing up into my throat like bile. It’s the yolk that trauma daughters must wear through their days. You could be the most beloved creature in the world, exalted by the father, mirror image of the mother, and you’ll still wear that anger like an heirloom coat you haven’t the heart to shake. If not you, then who?

We wear the same clothes you and I. Same worn in jeans hiked up to our waists to hide the little pudge of stomach, buttoned up men’s shirts and keen and sharp eyes. We wear the same perfume, sit the same, smile the same, cry the same, scream the same. I know he doesn’t see me in you, you in me. Somehow convinced I was ripped from another womb.  

I think sometimes that I’ll tear his fucking throat out with my teeth when he speaks. He talks about a halcyon, rose colored past. He rescued you, saved the damned dirty red-headed stepchild from a one room house without running water like you weren’t half his. He grins with crooked teeth, all cloudy eyed and hunched over. I look at him and I see you, skinny and frightened and dirty. You’ve got a shoebox of clothes and bracelets of black and blue up and down your arms.  And I’ll cry myself to sleep in empty stairwells, in nooks and crannies where I’m sure he won’t see me. When he says “She was so beautiful. Had the most beautiful hair,” I feel my stomach seize up enough to vomit.

I wonder if pain can be handed down the same way rage can. Like the memory of it is stored deep down in the marrow of my borrowed bones. I wonder if your fear has made a home in my muscles and that’s why they coil up like a frightened rattlesnake in his home.

But he’s not my father, not my family. I won’t cower, won’t bow. I’ll do my duty for your sake and pretend I’m glad when he asks for his afternoon pills. I’ll answer his questions again and again. I’ll help his wife to and from the bathroom, sing her to sleep while she drools and mutters to herself. Sometimes I’ll even stare at her, chewing on if this is the same woman that chased you through the house shrieking like a banshee with a kitchen knife. 

I’ll sit down tonight to break bread with these people, sit next to the other daughters with their hands folded sweet and kind. And I think they’ll never know what he’s done to us. That I bear my mother’s rage.

[dfroza]

to be befriended like this may take a whole lifetime

(and more)

to see the gentleness of a written seed reach deep into (the inner garden and the inner room) of another to first cross paths in the silence of the instrumental womb

but i’ll never regret all the standing this takes, and all the patient time in growing in pages and in annual rings

because it all points to something that will never end… life in the eternal

where it will always be [here, & now]

“timelessness”

A new transformed body to match the reborn human heart & spirit, remade in the divine image of the Son

(A new Adam & Eve)

it is (A True : Love story) of [metamorphosis : 8]

of being made (inside, Anew)

through the Body (the bread of the Word) & the Blood (as wine freely offered to a friend)

just as this glass is seen (transparently) in written words on an illuminated screen, originating from the growth of the Vine

tending to this (and watering it) has indeed taken some time.

in all my labor, my “work” here on garden earth

my True “calling” in life.

A story read during Passover

(from Today’s email sent by Israel365)

Song of Songs, read on the holiday of Passover, is written as a love story between a woman and her beloved. It describes a romantic relationship, often using very sensual language. At first glance, it seems like such a book has no place among the other books of the Bible. The Bible is holy, the love between man and woman is earthly and mundane. The book’s language portrays a passionate and intense love, which seems out of place in a religious text.

Indeed, some translations prefer not to translate Song of Songs with a literal translation, opting to forgo the simple meaning of the text and providing an allegorical interpretation instead. Since the literal language of the text is too physical, they provide their readers with only the “deeper” meaning of King Solomon’s words.

This, of course, begs the question of why Song of Songs was written as a love story at all.

The question becomes even stronger when you consider the words of the great Talmudic sage, Rabbi Akiva, who said:

“The entire universe is unworthy of the day that the Song of Songs was given to Israel, for all the Writings are holy, but Song of Songs is the Holy of Holies. ” (Mishna Yadayim 3:5)

Does this love story really sound like the “Holy of Holies? Was the whole world created for this?

We will answer these questions with another question, a question asked by Rabbi Chanoch Henoch of Alexander, a student of the Hassidic Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk (1787-1859). The seder is a special meal that is eaten on Passover night. During this meal, the Exodus from Egpyt is discussed in question-and-answer format, beginning with four specific questions. Yet we don’t start the seder immediately with these four questions. If the point of the seder is to discuss the Exodus and ask these questions, why do we do a few other things first?

In order to answer this question, let’s imagine the following scenario. A couple has been dating for some time and things have been going well. They are sitting in a romantic spot when the man takes a deep breath and says to the woman: “I love you – will you marry me?” Assuming this young lady feels the same way that he does, how should she respond at this moment? Should she dive into: “But how will we support ourselves?” or “What will our families think?” These aren’t bad questions, they’re important questions! But the fact is that these questions don’t really belong at that moment. Because it is a formative moment, a sacred moment, and a moment that transcends all questions.

Passover, when God took our forefathers out of Egypt, was a formative moment; it was the engagement of our entire people to God. The story of Passover is something that goes beyond the intellect. It is a reliving of that moment of engagement, that moment that every couple will remember for the rest of their lives. First and foremost, Passover is about those extraordinary raw and powerful moments that we, every last one of our people, shared with God at that time.

We don’t begin the seder with the four questions because not everything is open to question. It is only after we speak about the uniquely close and loving relationship that we as a people have with God that we can begin to ask questions. If we would start with questions right away, we would be missing something very deep, something so essential. Because a relationship, a relationship of real love that runs deeper than the mind, doesn’t begin with logical questions.

This is what King Solomon was describing in Song of Songs, and this is what makes the book so unusual and so spectacular. Song of Songs is about the love between God and His people. It is about those moments that come before questions! Song of Songs is not about religion; it is about God Himself!

I believe that this is why Song of Songs is considered “Holy of Holies.” Religion is holy, observing the Sabbath is holy, and the Temple is holy. But there is something that goes beyond holy, and that is our relationship with God Himself. This is also why Song of Songs is read on Passover, because it was on Passover that the love story between God and his people began.

do you see that “i love you” (already inside) A pure “seed” (to be…)?

[danbisroom]

Ep. 15 - To Make Bright And Clear Your Path

Hello my beloved fellow souls,

welcome back to Danbi’s Room, your weekly dose of safe space. Go grab a cup of something warm and get yourself cosy.

I hope you had a nice week and that you’re fully enjoying yourself and the days you spend. I wish this can be a time to refresh our souls and be ready to welcome new things in our daily life, feeling them deeply.

There are places where time doesn’t exist. Or, better, places where you can feel the eternity of things. Where you can feel eternal yourself. Where it’s just you, the universe and the flow of life. The sun and the moon, accompanied by the clouds and the stars, give you the light and the reminder that you’re part of it all. The animals and the wind caressing leaves are your soundtrack. Is time lost? Is time hanging suspended? Is time astray? The truth is that we’re so obsessed with time we don’t even know what it actually is. We can witness its doing but we’ll never comprehend its essence. After all, being obsessed with what we can’t control nor understand is a very human thing. What actually matters is not giving up and giving in to numbness - numbness is deadlier than death: death is the gate to rebirth, numbness is a muddy limbo, a cage. The worst cage. We need to understand that every step must be singular and conscious, that slowness is mindful and fast. It gives you the opportunity to notice every single sparkle in the fire that is your soul, the hearth of your spirit. The fire speaks, it tells stories about the immensity of space, outside and within us. The middle ground to understand it all is our earth, where the mother mountains welcome the streams flowing into the great sea merge and then the sea merges with the sky. When we lay our feet on the bare ground and we immerse our body in the waters of this planet we are the closest to all of the cosmos. We are held. Immersing our ears we hear a sound that can’t be described. I can only say that, to me, that’s the visceral sound of the womb generating an archaic melody. It’s us, the universe and our deep breaths. And that’s actually a lot. Everything, even the most simple gesture, has, in itself, an immense complexity. Also, all things have hidden drawings and concealed singularities waiting to be discovered, precious gems adorning the wings of our soul. Like in the moment between sleep and wake, the dawn of life. Like subtle contact before touching someone else’s skin: the deepest form of understanding and contact. Touch goes beyond anything else: there’s a reason why we say “I feel touched”. Can souls touch? I think they can. In fact, I think souls can touch even before skin does. Why? Because souls are able to touch even from far away. They feel each other, merge, intertwine, in a dance that changes its pace continuously, exploding and pausing like the greatest symphony ever written. This is why we love music. And this is why we despise music that has no soul. And this is why we wholeheartedly love music that’s able to illuminate our way towards a bright path, leading us into the arms of who, as the poets say, is half of our soul.

What is crazy is that this can be scary, or at least it can seem so. Because we wanna be heroes too, and they never let you be both heroic and happy. But if we find enough strength to eat the world raw then maybe we can be heroes and be happy. If we follow our soul attentively enough we won’t be misguided. We will recognise our companion by their breath, blind, without even touching, by the sound of their steps on the ground. We would know them everywhere, even at the end of the world.

Because that’s our most beloved.

Today I exceptionally have three recommendations. A book, The Song Of Achilles by Madeline Miller, from which I got heavily inspired for the last paragraph; a movie, About Time by Richard Curtis, which inspired me to go back, once again, to my frequent reflections on the matter; finally, as always, a song (also part of the soundtrack of the aforementioned film), Into My Arms, by Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds: it’s about souls meeting and walking together.

I hope you enjoyed this episode and that you have a beautiful week ahead of you!

I’ll see you in the next one, big hug!

With love, yours,

Danbi

#cozy #community #danbisroom #safe space #cozycore #blog #aesthetic #chans room #bang chan #stray kids #about time #into my arms #nick cave and the bad seeds #nick cave #song recommendation #movie recommendation #book recommendation #song of the day #soulmate #universe #cosmos #the song of achilles #love #dark academia #big hug

[mushroommudhouse]

Luke

Laying in my arms, a prince with soft golden hair rests 

Still shrouded by sleep his eyelids feel the weight of my gaze and flutter open for a moment 

As they close my heart cries out

I blow a kiss to the clock and wish time would stay on my side  

Hearing my plea  and seeing that my love was true and pure Kronos holds his hands out, gathering each second that passes and pours them on to the bed around us. 

Bathed in a pool of eternal now our limbs slide skin against skin 

As he slumbers and I drink in his scent, honey and blood and magic 

Hypnos, with wand of poppy, slips through the smokey veil of sleep, his path from Erebus illuminated with the love all mortals carry into the afterlife 

His walks are numerous, nightly, 

eternal. 

The road carries him into the places of those who have not yet crossed, but only rest in the peacefulness of death. 

His wings flex as he shoulders the gate, pushing through 

Readying his dream spell he steps forward 

But when he sees my prince with soft lips and shrouded eyes curiously searching beneath white rose petal lids 

he cannot cast 

Love whispers to him and begs for him to stop 

To stay in this place where time holds with soft hands 

Hypnos does not know that the yearning from my heart was the magic holding this moment 

his presence disturbs it

Seconds rejoin minutes and melt into hours 

Helios announces his intentions to start the day with soft red light  

Knowing what this means for him, the God of Sleep reaches out and plucks my love from  my arms 

My heart cries out again

But time has moved on 

Hypnos knows magic I do not, he slips in and out of shadow, pulling prayers from the air and laying them down at his feet 

Creating a patchwork path of desire and faith 

 A road that he tenderly steps up, twirling his beloved treasure around and around in the moon’s fading beams 

Over the great green trees they dance 

And into the thick wood I run 

I come to a river, the water flowing swiftly over a bed of snow white silt. 

It splashes and sings against the shore 

A song of sorrow and oblivion 

of soft skin and godly intentions 

Of a dream who fell in love 

And I know they have been here and I must follow this river to its source. 

Tracking the undeniably sweet scent of divinity, which is true love, I make my way up the bank. 

Stillness settles in the air as I get to the place where the water pulls herself from the sea 

A quiet feathered message from the altar of my womb whispers of their departure from this realm 

I know that I cannot find the curtain Hypnos slipped through, the dream materials he tore open to find safe passage to his home untouchable to mortal fingers, 

but I can feel, spilling through the cracks between our worlds, the magic of stars and flowers and honey, 

Of rainbowed mist and golden dew 

Of my prince 

I built a fire     Strong and hot

Hungry, greedily consuming everything I feed it 

Reaching up with a blade of chipped stone I cut lock after lock of my hair to satisfy demand for fuel, and demand for sacrifice  

Oily smoke rising from damp wood begs admittance 

Hades from his cold earthen throne permits the ground under my offering to open and swallow me whole 

Foot to sharp stone 

Over hill, through cavern

To the bank of another river, 

This one a bed of obsidian sand, and smooth rocked banks

Lethe whispers as I stand on her shore 

The dusky horizon is pierced by the silhouette of a smokey castle  across her clear water

There on the dark pebble beach 

           A prince  

Archlys wraps her cloak of hopelessness around my shoulders 

Assuring me Hypnos’ intentions to hold tight the deliberate hands of my sweet love  

As I gaze into his perfect face 

He looks at me the way he always does - with eyes that see what I really am - infinite 

Every piece of magic that was woven into my fabric begins to shake 

The threads that bind me 

Remember that they are boundless 

And Unravel 

My heart no longer cries 

The shadow cast by my endless love whispers to my old bones 

And they remembered what they were before bones

Songs and dirt and clouds 

and stars and stories 

They reach back to a time when they were only magic 

Only love

And they unwind 

The inky white lyrics Prometheus carved into my skin buzz and sing as Stone after stone is pulled from my silken veins  

 Nestling into the soft bed of the River Lethe, she laps around my hard smooth surfaces 

Let go, she whispers 

And soon it’s as if 

I’ve always been a path of rocks, here, with her 

And suddenly 

I know that an electric shock is coursing over me

A man, his feet firmly planted, I don’t know why but the parts of me that touch the parts of him

          rejoice 

I feel it’s what I’ve been waiting for 

He’s looking for someone, on the other side 

He cries, 

But I feel complete in a way 

                             I think I must have  

                                                       always 

                                                                  felt