#I lift my lamp beside the golden door

[theotherwesley]

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles.

Vampyre lore:

Vampires can enter any building in New York city specifically because the statue of liberty welcomes them in

[shamballalin]

The New Colossus from IN THEIR IMAGE AND LIKENESS subtitled THE RED BAG OF COURAGE SURVIVAL WISDOM ~book 3 in this series not yet published

“Social justice became another life contract I made. I was to have a very busy life standing up for the life, liberty, and justice for all that the United States of America was supposed to stand. “Much of humanity at the turn of the century claimed to stand for the flag, life, liberty, and freedom while ignorantly supporting those with racist, xenophobic, and authoritarian ideologies. I thought…

[irrel]

"Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

I am now donating 100% of the profit I make with this pin to RAICES.

link

[nhlclover]

𝐉𝐎𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 | 𝐀𝐑𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐇𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐉

summary: arber comes home from a long road trip, finding you awake and waiting for him

warnings: pure fluff, gross coupley stuff where they are just obsessed with each other

word count: 0.9k

notes: based on 'joy of my life' by chris stapleton. i love him no one will be able to change that (this is directed at sens and leafs fans)

Arber’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel, the leather cool and worn beneath his touch, as the rain began to fall in earnest. Heavy sheets of water splashed against the windshield, distorting the world beyond in a blur of shadows and streaking light. It was almost one in the morning, and the long stretch of games out west had wrung him dry—his muscles ached with the memory of each hit, every battle for the puck. But all of that melted away with the thought of coming home to you. It was a warmth that seeped into his bones, soothing the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin.

Pulling into the driveway, he killed the engine and sat there for a moment, the patter of rain against the car roof the only sound in the world. The house stood still and silent before him. He expected darkness, to tiptoe through the house while you slept peacefully, but there was a soft, golden glow spilling from the bedroom window. A smile tugged at his lips. You’d fallen asleep with the light on again, he was sure of it. He forced himself to move out of the car, his body protesting with every step as he made his way to the door.

Carefully, he slipped inside, the door creaking in protest at the late hour. Every step he took was deliberate, gentle, as though he were trying to preserve the peace of the space you shared. The memories of the many times he’d returned home late at night flashed through his mind, all those moments when he’d tried and failed to sneak in without waking you. Your groggy complaints, the way you’d swat at him half-heartedly before snuggling closer.

Tiptoeing up the stairs and down the hallway, he softly twisted the knob and pushed the door open. His breath caught when he saw your silhouette, bathed in the soft light of the bedside lamp you’d indeed left on. However, you were awake, your eyes warm and sleepy, an expression on your face that made his heart twist.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice a melody Arber had been waiting to hear. “You’re home.”

He exhaled, the breath shuddering out of him. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you assured him, a small smile on your lips. “I couldn’t sleep … not when I knew you were coming home tonight.”

His chest tightened, the weight of your words sinking into him. He dropped his duffel onto the dresser, but before he could even think of unpacking, you spoke again.

“No, no, baby,” you murmured, your voice like velvet, drawing his gaze back to you. “Do that later, please.” You peeled back the covers, inviting him into the warmth he’d been craving all those lonely nights on the road. “Come lay beside me… I’ve been waiting since you left.”

He paused, his heart swelling. He wanted to get the unpacking over with, but you were beckoning to him like a siren. He stepped away from the dresser, beginning to strip off his clothes, exhaustion making his movements slow. He slipped into bed, immediately wrapping you in his arms. You fit against him perfectly, your warmth seeping into his skin, chasing away every ounce of fatigue. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla.

“I missed you,” he confessed, his voice thick with the weight of it all—the longing, the endless nights spent wanting nothing but this.

“I missed you too.” you whispered back, your fingers tracing delicate patterns across his chest. Every touch was a balm, soothing the aches and bruises that had settled deep in his bones. “Long trip?”

“Yeah,” he said, a tired chuckle escaping him. “I thought it would never end.”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. “Well, you’re here now. And that’s all that matters.”

The two of you lay there, wrapped up in the silence, letting it wash over you like a lullaby. Arber’s hand drifted to your hair, his fingers threading through the soft strands, his eyes tracing every line and curve of your face as if memorizing it all over again. “You know,” he began, his voice raw with emotion, “every time I’m away, it feels like I’m leaving a piece of myself behind. You’re… you’re the joy of my life, you know that?”

You felt your heart swell, and you couldn’t help but smile. “I remember the first time I saw you,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “You looked like an angel that day. I thought to myself, ‘There’s no way she could be real.’ But you are. You remember?”

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Of course I remember the day we met. I thought you were the most intimidating man I’d ever seen. And then you smiled… and everything changed.”

“Changed everything, didn’t it?” he murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. His chuckle was soft, but the love in his eyes was unmistakable. “I knew then that I’d never want to let you go. I still feel that way. Every time I come home, it’s like I fall in love with you all over again.”

You lowered your head back down, hearing the gentle beat of his heart through his chest. “I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you too,” Arber replied, placing a soft kiss on the top of your head. You briefly leaned away from Arber, turning off the lamp and leaving you in the darkness, before rolling back into his grasp.

In the stillness of the night, you felt him draw you even closer as if trying to make up for all the time spent apart. And in that moment, nothing else mattered—just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, with all the love in the world.

[srldesigns6277]

If the kids family entered the country illegally then yeah, they should get deported?? Lmao??

There's only so many people a country can sustain. Every country worries about its citizens first and foremost. The obligation of a country and the politicians is to take care of their own FIRST. Everyone else is second. If you want to move someplace else then fucking do it legally and see if they let you in. You don't get to just jump the fucking border and rub your hands like a shitty little fly.

I am going to break this down point by point.

Your first statement: One that's fucking appalling since I know people who have seen the inside of those fucking facilities. I have seen the cages they have put children in before. No one. NO FUCKING PERSON should be put in a fucking cage. Many of the students I know and see have entered the country on visas and do work, but many American students I know won't. Many of them also have experiences that would make your head spin, from either their home countries or Border Agents. My community is better off with our immigrant population. We have construction workers, plumbers, thriving restaurants, and community groups. Many of the immigrant students and their parents have entered the healthcare industry here, too. They are integral to our community.

Your second statement: Did you know our country pays farmers to burn their crops or to not plant them at all? We often have overproduction in certain cash crops like corn and wheat. Most homes in the United States are owned by corporations rather than individual citizens, which has led to more homelessness, especially as those corporations tend to increase rent exponentially each year, often pricing people out of being able to afford rent. If the country truly cared about its citizens first, wouldn't it do something about the corporations?

Third statement: Similarly to what I just stated, If the obligation of Congress, the President, and the Judiciary, wouldn't they want to lower the infant mortality rate? Wouldn't they want to lower the pregnancy mortality rate? Wouldn't they want your prescriptions to be lower? Wouldn't they work with veterans to ensure they had easy access to healthcare and homes? Wouldn't college be cheaper or at least more accessible? Wouldn't they care about climate change since, as we just saw this past week(Jan 2025), the deep south has been under snowfall, the last time being the 1890s? Wouldn't they want to protect the rights of citizens since CITIZENS are you claim they want to help over immigrants? Wouldn't a government that cared want to have affordable homes for people?

Fourth statement: What ever happened to the poem on the Statue of Liberty?

"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Or does that just matter if you are European? My family went through Ellis Island, where all they had to do was present their names and what they brought with them. But they were from Italy, so they were deemed okay, right? Or my family from Germany immigrated in the 1840s and were just allowed to move and create their own farms in Western Pennsylvania or Ohio. Or even still, the individuals who come on work or college visas, the H1B visas, are deemed perfectly fine. What's the difference there?

Your fifth statement: Our families probably did that, from the boats of Ellis Island in the East and Angel Island in the West. Plenty of people have been allowed to stay after doing similar things in the past, so why is it different now?

Next time just say your racist and move the fuck on.

[girlactionfigure]

Emma Lazarus

Born on 1849 in New York City to a family of Portuguese Sephardic Jewish descent whose roots extended to the very early days of NYC as a British colonial city.

Lazarus was the poet who wrote in 1883 "The New Colossus" - the famous poem that greets new immigrants to America till this day.

“...Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she with silent lips.

"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

With those words, the Statue of Liberty was given life and purpose beyond that of a monument to liberal ideals, becoming a beacon of hope for the refugees seeking freedom from the terror of persecution.

The poem was placed on the Statue of Liberty in 1903 (after her death).

Aside from writing, Lazarus was also involved in charitable work for refugees.

At Ward's Island, she worked as an aide for Jewish immigrants who had been detained by Castle Garden immigration officials.

She was deeply moved by the plight of the Russian Jews she met there and these experiences influenced her writing.

The Jewish themes she had never dealt with before erupted in her work.

Emma Lazarus died November 19, 1887 (aged 38) in New York City, most likely from Hodgkin's lymphoma.

Lazarus was buried in Beth Olam Cemetery in Brooklyn.

Her papers are kept by the American Jewish Historical Society, Center for Jewish History, and her letters are collected at Columbia University.

Jewish History, Jewish Culture & Spirit

[togglesbloggle]

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" --Emma Lazarus

[syn0vial]

Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

AKA, some art to express my recent feelings towards my home country

[riordanness]

better than revenge — [k.jones]

wordcount: 2.1K

warnings: none???

requested: no

“C’mon lass, you get what you want, and I get what I want.”

I raise my eyebrows at this. “Oh?” I question, sipping from my goblet, keeping my eyes on him.

“What do I get out of this?” I ask, my voice hard and my gaze resolute. If I knew one thing, it was to never let down my guard, never show weakness.

The man laughs, tips his head back and gulps the rest of his alcohol down. He looks me in the eye. “I’ll let you live, lass… and I’ll even throw in a few pieces of gold for your trouble.”

I stare at him for the count of four.

“Deal.”

Hours later, under cover of nightfall, I tiptoe down the docks. My leather boots are soft and worn from use, and I have perfected the art of silent footsteps.

My fingers curl around the hilt of my sword, ready to pull it from its sheath the moment I perceive a threat of any kind.

I silently go through my mission once again, knowing full well a single mistake will result in my death. If the pirates aboard this ship don’t get me, the man who sent me on this mission surely will.

I have a simple goal: sneak aboard the Jolly Roger, find a magical compass, and get out alive.

My eyes rest on the ship itself, its name painted in cursive letters right on the waterline, so as the ship moves slightly on the waves, the words appear to dance.

I slip forward, seeing no one on deck. With one swift, fluid movement, I place my right hand on the starboard railing, then I use the momentum from a scissor kick to propel myself from the dock to the deck, dropping without a sound onto my feet.

I quickly shift my body to the shadows, crouching down and moving fast, getting to the doors leading to the lower deck.

Opening it, I slip inside, shutting it quietly behind me. I hadn’t spent the greatest amount of time on boats in my short life, and I haven’t the faintest idea of where to search for a compass of all things.

Luckily for me, I have a locator. I pull it from my pocket now, a shiny white stone, glowing faintly. Apparently, the closer to the compass I get, the brighter the light will shine.

I turn in a slow circle, and when I face the corridor to my left, the brightness of the stone becomes more obvious, in a way I can’t describe. It didn’t become literally brighter, exactly, but it was suddenly very clear which direction I should take.

I follow the stone’s magical light, until it leads me to a small desk inside what I think is the captain’s chambers. Luckily for me, no one is at home. I’m daft. the entire ship is empty. The crew must be out for a night at the pub, and good for me too.

I yank at the top drawer of the desk, its hinges crusty and rough. When the drawer finally slides open, my eyes come to rest on the only object inside.

A golden compass.

I smile, and reach towards the compass. The metal is cool to my touch, and my fingertips glide over it as smoothly as if it was polished merely moments earlier.

I lift it up out of the drawer, dangling it in the air in front of me. I stare in awe, watching as the compass catches the light, glittering and flashing. Rainbows dance across the chamber’s walls, filling the room with colour.

I am just about to drop the compass into my dress pocket, when a voice behind me scares the daylight out of me.

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

I whirl around, shoving the compass into the deep pocket of my skirts. It was safest there; the pocket easily missed due to the many folds of my skirts. I draw my sword, and stare at the dark figure lurking in the doorway.

Shadows dance across his face, distorting his features. He’s tall, and I can tell his sword is also drawn, the blade catching the light of the only lamp in the room. My eyes drop to the lamp on the desk beside me. Without thinking, I blow out the flame.

It’s completely dark. I use this to my advantage, running fast at the doorway, crashing into the figure. We both land hard on the floor, and I scramble to my feet, ready to run.

But then, hands grab at my waist, hold me fast, and my hopes of escape crumble.

“You aren’t getting away that easily, love,” an accented voice whispers in my ear, before something hits my head, and I remember nothing else.

•••

My head pounds, and I dread opening my eyes. When I do, I immediately cringe in pain as light seemingly floods my vision, increasing my headache by tenfold.

I push myself up to a sitting position, taking in my surroundings. I’m in a bed, a simple woven blanket over me. I’m still in my normal clothes, which means no one changed me, thank goodness.

With a slight gasp, I hastily check my pocket. Of course, no compass. I shouldn’t have even dared to hope it remained in my possession. Of course that pirate would have taken it back.

Speaking of that pirate, I frown. Turning over all the events of last night (or what I assume was the last night; I’m not sure how much time has passed since I was knocked out; or even what time of day it is. Whoever’s cabin this is, they clearly hate windows), I shiver slightly. The memory of that voice in my ear, whispering seductively…

I shake myself, and climb out of the bed. I must find that compass, even if I am now a prisoner on this bloody pirate ship.

I leave the cabin, finding my way down the corridor, trying to find the familiar door that leads to the upper deck. When I finally find it, I can hear voices from outside. Pirates laughing and shouting and jeering at each other. At least half of the voices are obviously drunk.

My choice is a simple one, but I still hesitate. Remain a prisoner on this ship? Or risk dying in the battle across the deck?

My father always used to call me his little daredevil, before he died, so I decide to live up to his nickname for me, and push open the door.

The moment I step onto the deck, into the harsh sunlight, the chatter all around me stops. A dozen pairs of pirate eyes gape at me in curiosity. I wonder how often a woman has been on this ship.

Suddenly, someone drops down in front of me, swinging off a top with one hand, and landing on his feet. Startled, I take a step backwards, almost losing my balance.

The man straightens, and locks eyes with me. He smiles, but it’s not a nice smile. I mean, it’s nice. He’s fairly attractive, but his smile leaks devilishness.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, love,” the man says, and I would recognise that voice anywhere. He’s the man from last night, the man who knocked me out.

“I’m Killian Jones,” he continues. “Or as I’m not commonly known as, Captain Hook. To whom do I owe the honour?”

My eyes narrow suspiciously. I am a girl who has tried to steal from him, and yet he seems unaffected by this fact. My guard is instantly up, and I prepare for a fight.

“You are going to let me go,” I say stubbornly, wishing badly that I had my sword. I hadn’t noticed it right away when I’d awoken, but they’d taken it from me. “And I require your golden compass as well as my freedom.”

Killian Jones stares at me for a moment, then throws his head back and laughs.

His crew joins in the laughter, some pointing their fingers at me, some jeering and making stupid noises and gestures.

I roll my eyes at them. I have no time for men who aren’t my father. They’re a troublesome species that require a great deal too much effort for my own personal liking.

The captain gains his composure, and stares at me, rather dumbfounded.

“Love, there’s no way in hell I am giving you this compass, just like that.”

I narrow my eyes. “Then fight me for it. A duel. Winner gets the compass.”

Killian Jones raises an eyebrow at me apprehensively. “I don’t fight women. At least not with a sword.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Then this’ll be an easy win.” I step quickly towards one of the crew members, elbow him in the chest and pull at his sword at the same time, yanking it from its sheath as he stumbles backwards.

I launch an attack on Killian, my sword coming down on his head. In a flash, he brings his arm up to stop my blade.

My sword clangs against metal, and I stare in shock at what should be Killian’s hand… but isn’t. Replacing his hand is a shiny hook, which has caught my blade mid-air.

I blink in surprise. “You…”

“Yes, I know,” Killian sighs. “Captain Hook isn’t just a catchy nickname.” With his other hand, he gently pries my fingers off the hilt of the borrowed sword.

“Now, love, you’re going to stop attacking me, and do what I say. Or else you’re not going to get a very happy ending.”

I stand, deflated, and watch as he tells a crew mate to tie my hands together, and lash me to the main mast. I slump to the ground, a heavy feeling of defeat clouding over me. I watch in silence as Killian and his crew go back to their loud, joyful drinking. I seem to be forgotten, just like that.

I grit my teeth in frustration, but am suddenly aware of how loosely my bonds have been tied. Clearly, the crew member Killian Jones elected to tie me up was more than a little bit drunk. I smirk to myself as I wriggle my fingers, working at the poorly made knots.

Once my hands are free, I still, watching carefully, planning my escape. Most of the crew have wandered below decks now, and only Killian Jones and another man with a red beanie over his messy hair (who I guess is first mate), stand against the ship’s railing across the other end of the Jolly Roger.

Killian seems to bore of the first mate, and dismisses him, waving his hand at the man. The man disappears into one of the doorways at the back of the ship.

I wait, silent, hoping Hook will follow his mate. He doesn’t seem to have any plans of doing this. For a while, I just sit and watch him as he leans his back against the railing, picking at his metal hook, running his forefinger up and down it, tracing the sharp edges.

“You alright there, love?”

The break in silence startles me so much I barely hear the question. “I–what?”

Kilian looks up, meets my eyes, and smirks slowly, his chin tilting up a little as he does so. His tongue traces his upper teeth, his eyes studying me hard.

“I can’t let you go, you know,” he says.

“Why?” I refuse to believe him. There has to be a way for me to get out of this. Silently, I curse that random, awful man in the tavern for getting me into this mess. Even for a bit of gold and my life, I doubt this is worth it. A whole lot of hassle for not much gain, it was starting to seem.

“Because,” Hook replies, apparently not wanting to elaborate.

I roll my eyes. I am done with this rubbish. I stand quickly, my ropes dropping to the deck.

Killian’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t seem especially surprised at my escape. “What exactly are you going to do now?” he asks me, a glint in his eyes. Whether it’s from amusement or pure evil, I don’t exactly know.

“Get out of here and kill you,” I say, eyes narrowed.

He laughs. “Okay, love. You do that.” For a moment, he does nothing but play with the hilt of his sword. Then he looks up at me. “You know, you could always join my crew.”

I frown immediately. “What do you mean? Why on earth would I do that?”

He smirks. “Because… I want you to.”

I stare at him, unsure if he’s serious or joking. Then, I make a dumb decision and decide, “Why not.”

[porterdavis]

"They’re coming from the Congo, they’re coming from Africa, they’re coming from the Middle East, they’re coming from all over the world, Asia… and ya gotta get rid of these people!"

Donald Trump ex-leader of the free world seeking that title again

Apparently has never visited the Statue of Liberty

"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door! "

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hi! Could I request Master/Slave & Dubious Consent for Prince Nuada?

Here you go anon!

“The price for another’s mistake”

Pairing: Prince Nuada/AFAB Reader

Rating: E

Themes: NSFT | Smut

Warnings: Master/Slave aspects | Imbalance of power | Dubious consent | Kissing | Oral sex

Wordcount: 2k words

Summary: After a mortal chieftain insults King Balor, his daughter is sent to Bethmoora to serve its Crown Prince as his slave.

Minors DNI | 18+

“Is this her?” Nuada asked, standing in the entryway to his chambers. “Is this the mortal father sent for my own particular use?”

The elven handmaidens all turned to face him. “She is indeed, my lord,” Nóinín, the chief handmaiden, said. “We have had her bathed and dressed, just as you commanded. She is now prepared for you.”

“Will she obey without question?” Nuada said, his curiosity piqued.

“Indeed, my prince,” the handmaiden said. “You will be well pleased with her, I think.”

“Good,” Nuada replied, stepping into the receiving hall. “You may all leave us now.”

Nóinín leaned in to whisper to you. “Do all that the prince says,” she urged, though not unkindly, “and prove yourself obedient, just like you were obedient with us. Life with him will go all the easier for you if you do.”

The advice was welcomed, and it would be well heeded. “Of course, my lady,” you told her. “I will do all that the prince asks of me.”

The chief handmaiden nodded in approval. She curtsied to the prince. Her ladies curtsied to him also. They rose in unison and departed the chamber in a rustling stream of silk and fur and glittering jewels. Nuada looked at you when the great oak doors leading into his rooms closed behind him, his golden-yellow eyes ablaze.

“I trust I do not need to tell you your position here?” He said, coming even closer.

“You do not, my prince,” you said, daring to lift your gaze for a moment. Nuada was garbed in black velvet robes bound by a heavy crimson velvet sash. A golden pin held it together. His onyx chestplate was adorned with golden inlay that took the shape of the Tree of Life, the sigil of King Balor, and all those he claimed as kin. And he was uncommonly fair to look upon, like one of the divine made flesh. “I have been sent to Bethmoora to serve your family until death or mercy free me.” The prince narrowed his eyes; it reminded you of your proper place and compelled you to lower yours once again. “It is part of my father’s punishment, for he dared to insult your father, the king.”

“Your father forgot himself when in the presence of his betters,” Nuada said, circling you like a wolf circling his prey. He approved of what he saw. Your hair had been bound into delicate plaits adorned with gold, and your robes were of the softest silk to be found. Nóinín and her attendants had done their work well. “And now it is you, his shining heir, who must pay the price for his mistake. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Y/n, my lord,” you said, trembling. The prince was right beside you; you could feel his breath fanning against your cheek, his fingers toying with your hair. The sweet smell of wild clary clung to his garments and armor like perfume. It made your head swim. “Pray what must I do now?”

Nuada regarded you silently before turning sharply on his heel. He strode toward his sleeping chamber, the steel of his boots clicking against the polished basalt floor. “Come with me,” he ordered at length. “It is time I put your willingness to serve to the test.”

You followed him down a wide passageway, silently taking in the splendor all around you. Gilded basalt columns hewn to mimic the twisting boughs of ancient trees rose toward a vaulted ceiling dotted with lamps glittering as brilliantly as the stars in the night sky. They were studded with rubies and emeralds and sapphires that burned like red and blue and green flames against the light. Tapestries depicting the history of the elves adorned the walls. Some held the images of great battles. Others were of peace and feasting, and friendships struck with the old gods. They were all very beautiful, and none of them were beheld by the eyes of a mortal until now. 

The prince’s sleeping chamber was at the far end of the passageway. He threw open the door and went in first. “There is white rose cordial in that pitcher over there,” he said, gesturing to an ornate chest in front of a large, canopied bed. A glass pitcher full of a milky-white liquid rested on top of it. Golden goblets and little bowls full of wild strawberries, elderberries, and blackcurrants sat all around it. “Pour some for me.”

“No wine, my prince?”

“Wine dulls the senses. I would much rather keep my wits about me this night.”

You swallowed, but did as you were bid. Nuada did not speak to you. He crossed over to his velvet-canopied bed and sat on the edge. Nevertheless, you perceived his eyes fixed on you intently, following your every move. Here was a warrior who saw much and missed very little, you told yourself.

“Your libation, my prince,” you said, going to Nuada’s side. He accepted the goblet you pressed into his hand. “What would you desire me to do now?”

“Put this away,” the prince said. He drained the goblet in three deep swallows and gave it to you to take. “And bolt that door. I will tell you what I desire from you after you return to me.”

Again, you did as you were told. When you returned to the prince, he held up his hand, a gesture for you to stand where you are. You halted before his outspread legs without hesitation, lowered your head, and clasped your hands before you.

“Nóinín was right,” Nuada murmured, pleased. “You are very obedient. Now y/n, prove yourself to be of further use. Unburden me of my boots and my armor.”

What he expected of you was becoming plainer by the moment. Still, you had little choice but to comply. To do anything else meant punishment befitting one who would dare to disobey an elf of Bethmoora. And Nuada could mete out any punishment he could think of. Thanks to your father and his insult against Balor’s person, the crown prince could treat you however he wished.

The first item to be removed was his chest plate. “Stay still, my prince,” you said softly, your hands shaking as if they were nothing but disjointed thumbs. They fumbled while dealing with satin and steel. Even so, you managed to loosen and undo them all, and the prince sighed in relief when you lifted it over his raised arms and set it down on the ground beside you with a soft thud. “May I remove your boots now?” you inquired, trying not to linger on the dull throb you felt in your wrists. The chest plate was heavy. You were beginning to understand why Nuada was grateful to be free of it.

“You may.”

You sank to your knees as gracefully as you could. Nuada leaned forward, his arms resting on his thighs. He watched you while you set yourself to the task of lifting his feet one by one and divesting them of the boots that shielded them from dirt and mud and worse. They slipped off his legs with ease. You regarded them discretely. The leather possessed a softness you had never felt before; it felt like butter against your palm. It was another aspect, simple as it was, that set elves apart from mortals. No mortal hand had the skill to produce such fineness in anything. 

“It is done, my prince,” you said, placing the boots beside the armor. You looked up at him, your tasks completed, your hands folded neatly on your lap, and you added, “What duty must I perform now?”

Nuada’s lips curled up at the corners. “Take off my sash,” he husked and sat up straight. His hands moved to the sides of his knees. They gripped at the edge of the featherbed, a visible sign of his anticipation over what was about to take place. “And come even closer. It is time we found another use for that pretty mouth of yours.”

A flash of heat crept up your throat. “Of course, my prince,” you said, reaching out to remove the golden pin resting against his sash. It was large and unwieldy, but you managed to unfasten it all the same, and the sash besides. They joined the pile of raiment beside you. Then you paused, hesitated. There would be no going back after this, no undoing of what took place between you and the prince. The notion frightened you and made you forget your vow to obey.

The prince, sensing your uncertainty, bent down and gripped your chin. “You think this is too much,” he began sweetly, brushing his thumb over your lips. It forced its way between them, making you gasp. The prince smiled. It was as if he enjoyed it. “Perhaps you hope to sway me into letting you be. That will never be, y/n. You are my slave now. You belong to me. I can take you right there on the floor, and there is nothing you can do to hinder me. Spare yourself this fate. Pleasure me as I ask and when I ask, and you will not be subjected to my wrath. Is that understood?”

He did not have to resort to further threats; what he said was more than enough already. “I will make myself more amenable to your pleasure,” you promised meekly. Anything was preferable to being taken wholly against your will. “And I will pleasure you just as you have asked me, my prince.”

Nuada, satisfied, signaled for you to continue. You drew back the folds of his robes, exposing well honed flesh marred by much violence, and undid the clasps going down his breeches. The prince muttered a soft curse when his erection was freed from the confines of his clothes. He looked at you almost in affection when you girded yourself and took his length to hand.

Knowledge of the act was not unknown to you. You had heard much and even seen more than you should, when a feast full of revelers deep in their cups went too far. And you put what you knew to good use, tightening and releasing, tightening and releasing. The prince moaned softly. He threw his head back, baring his throat. His hair fell down past his waist and onto the furs beneath him. It gleamed like a waterfall of molten silver against the light.

“You are familiar with the arts of love,” Nuada whispered, his voice already thick and coarse with need. “But your touch alone is not enough. Do more, y/n. Do what I asked you to do. Use your mouth, and your tongue. Go on.”

The sound of his pleasure spilled rich and golden into the air when you clutched onto what courage you had left and sank your mouth down his cock. And all that you felt took some getting used to: the heaviness pressing against your tongue, the little ridges that brushed against your lips, the hollowing of your cheeks, your hands moving in rhythm with your mouth. Milky white beads formed at his tip. They tasted bitter when you kissed them away.

“Does this please you, my prince?” You stopped long enough to speak. “Am I doing well?”

“Very well,” Nuada said. He said no more after that. Then again, no more words were needed. He brushed his hand over your hair, letting your braids slip around his fingers. Then he pushed your head back down, forcing you to swallow him to the hilt. A strangled sound rose at the back of your throat. It so unraveled the prince that he shuddered and climaxed without warning, and spurt after spurt of his seed filled your mouth.

“Swallow it all,” Nuada growled. He struggled to regain his bearings and open his eyes. “Swallow my seed. Then you may stand.”

It was an unpleasant thing, swallowing his spend. It was bitterer than what you tasted before, and it felt unpleasant as it flowed down your throat. Still, you did as he asked of you, and rose to your feet. “What would you have me do now, my prince?”

Nuada rose also. He gathered you into his arms and kissed you deeply. It was far from tender, more for his pleasure than yours, but the heat from his mouth and the sweetness clinging to his tongue left you more than a little breathless all the same.

“Undress me fully,” he said. “Then you will undress yourself and join me in bed. As my slave, you must be by my side at all times.”

[saltandtea]

11.6.24

It is strange to feel so sad and alone and dejected while knowing that thousands across this expanse of earth are feeling the same way for the same reasons. We must remember that none of us is alone. We will find our strength together. We must raise our grief and fear and anger in a cacophony of voices that will not lie down. We must not let those who would smother us do so without resistance. We must not give them surrender as an invitation into our homes and say “You won, here you go. Here I am for you to use and discard. Remove me from existence at your leisure.”

We cannot surrender. This is not the end.

This is the beginning. It could be the beginning of the end. It could also be the beginning of something new. Something erupting, covered in blood and shit and mucus, screaming into this mortal plane. If this is true, we must nurture this beginning. We must care for and love and rear it from infancy until it is strong enough to stand and run on its own. We must teach it to be strong and compassionate. We must teach it to fight. We must teach it that you cannot be brave without first being scared. We will show it how to turn fear into strength and resilience. We must instill in it the strength of thousands, the spirit of resistance, the memory of how we feel upon waking today, the sixth of November, two thousand twenty-four. We will wash it with our tears and dry it with our hair.

Aunties and Uncs, Mamas and Daddies, Siblings and Cousins. We must be there for each other. In burning tears and burning anger, we must remind each other that none of us are alone. That there are those of us who will not let facism win, who rule our hearts with kindness and empathy. We will resurrect like Lazarus, we will remember the words of Lazarus, we will love each other as deeply as Jesus loved Lazarus. We will contrast hate with compassion, empathy, and mercy. We will meet hate with ferocious, unyielding love.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

[crossdreamers]

The Statue of Liberty is "a Dude" Now? Really?

The stupidity of American transphobes knows no bounds. Talk show host Joe Rogan and his guest Sam Tripoli now argue that the Statue of Liberty is an image of the ancient god Mithras, basically turning the statue into a drag queen with fake breasts.

Back in the real world the statue was made by the French sculptor Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi. He was inspired by the Roman goddess of liberty, Libertas.

According to some, the face was modeled after that of Augusta Charlotte Beysser Bartholdi, the sculptor's mother, although others deny this.

What we do know is that he gave Liberty an austere face and a strong, uncomplicated silhouette, so that it would be easy to see for immigrants coming in from the sea side.

So why would it make sense for right wing extremists to associate the Statue of Liberty with Mithras?

Xenophobia, transphobia and misogyny combined

There are probably several reasons here.

One is that presenting the statue as a heathen god, will trigger fear in religious fanatics. After all, there have been those who have found the reference to Libertas disturbing, even though Christian artists have used ancient gods and goddesses as allegories of Christian virtues since ancient times.

Another is that presenting the statue as someone they see as a transgender woman, will link the statue to the rampant transphobia we find in these circles.

If a strong independent woman can be presented as a man, you weaken the idea that women can be free and powerful.

Moreover, given that this crowd normally make active use of historical symbols to affirm white supremacy, it does make sense to ridicule this statue, as it was built to welcome immigrants.

There is a 1903 bronze plaque located in the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty, which says:

 "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

The poem, "The New Colossus", is a sonnet by American poet Emma Lazarus (1849–1887). She wrote the poem in 1883 to raise money for the construction of a pedestal for the Statue of Liberty. Hers are not sentiments shared by the fascist MAGA movement.

See also: Joe Rogan is now 'transvestigating' the Statue of Liberty, because of course he is

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Star-crossed in the Crosshairs (John Price x Reader)

Epilogue: Choosing My Confessions

Fic Summary: This mission is the pinnacle of your efforts for the past three years. Your whole team and yourself have worked countless hours, slaughtered hundreds, risked life and limb for scraps of intel, and now it all boiled down to pairing up with another taskforce to get this job done and dusted. An unexpected spanner in the works comes in the shape of your former best friend, now also a Captain and somehow resurrected from his KIA status, John Price.

You can’t afford to let feelings - old and new - get in the way of your purpose. No matter how much you’ve missed, wished for, loved him, and no matter how much he might feel the same

AN: Mild spoilers but this is the hurt/comfort aspect. If you'd rather hurt/no comfort, then leave it at the previous chapter.

Chapter 10 // AO3 Version // Masterlist

Weighed down by a worn-out fleece, John Price dragged himself into the lift of his apartment building, hitting his floor button with one knackered pointer finger, his other hand refusing to drop his bag until he was inside his bedroom. Tomorrow, he’d spend half the day soaking in a hot bath with a flannel on his head, air heavy with condensation and the smell of cedarwood. What a welcome for the new year. He counted each of his breaths each level he was taken above. His toes were stiff with chills in his boots, wriggling to get some warmth in his bones before the stroke of midnight.

Sliding in between the doors, he grunted whilst fidgeting in his pockets. At last, his key came free and it slid into the door - awkwardly, so he made a mental note to oil it later into his shore leave. The door slid open. John instantly withdrew his pistol, using the muzzle to push the door open further. A quick evaluation showed the additional cylinder lock still functional.

Abandoning his bag outside his door, John silently prowled into the front room, expecting anything: unturned furniture, ransacked drawers, an identical gun pointed straight at him, anything.

Except for the large lump he spied tucked up on the couch.

The maroon throw blanket that usually rested over the back of the sofa was curled around a sleeping body. John pivoted around, his gun still raised until he saw the face poking out the blanket’s edge. Then his arms slacked, the gun still safe but loose in his grip by his thigh as he laughed under his breath.

He reached across to the side table and flicked on the lamp. Its golden glow highlighted the scar on your cheek, a new one gained in the nine months since he’d seen you last. Your chest was rising and falling with little snores accompanying each motion.

Once he’d retrieved his bag, John slung it to the floor beside the almost identical one at your feet. He debated over what to do next. Eventually, he landed on clearing his throat.Your head lifted instantly, your soporific gaze meeting his equally tired one.

“Hello, stranger,” He said, his voice hoarse yet kind.

“Hi,” You replied, rubbing your eyes before waving a hand at the front door, “Sorry, I waited an hour before I picked the locks.”

So you had gone through the motions of getting his address but not his phone number. Not for the first time in his life, John questioned your train of thought. Then he remembered what he put you through for a decade and decided that hypocrisy was not the goal of the evening.

“Waited longer than I would’ve,” He huffed then used his foot to carefully nudge your overnight bag, the onehe knew you could live out of for a fortnight if push came to shove.

You didn’t notice, or chose not to, instead asking, “What time is it?”

“Uh,” John checked his watch before taking it off, “Half eleven.”

You nodded in acceptance but made no further effort to talk, looking down at your hand fidgeting with the throw rug in your lap.

Sensing you didn’t wanna get into the reason you were sleeping in his sitting room yet, John offered you a helping hand, “You can take my bed. We can save the shop talk for tomorrow.”

Your hand in his, hauling yourself up, grip tougher than it looked, you moved past him, leading the way to the bedroom, “Thanks.”

John didn’t ask how you knew which door it was behind. Rather, he sought refuge in his en suite, shedding his clothes and finding the energy to bother separating them into his divided laundry baskets. It was all he could handle not to fawn over you being in his home and your reason. You always were a curveball in his life, keeping him on his toes. Opting against the effort of shaving, he washed his face and pulled on his pyjamas.

Somehow, the image of you slotting in your earplugs and seeming stiff in the middle of the ice cold bed tilted John’s world off its axis all the more. You whispered a good night to him, which he returned, then he moved away, out and onto the couch just as you had done. His feet poked out onto the armchair, but he didn’t bother covering them in the throw. Instead, he focused on the ceiling, flat and smooth with boring white paint.

Sudden cheers caught his attention, echoing from outside. Faintly, he could make out the numbers descending.

The bellowing of “zero” brought flashes of red and yellow lights slipping through the gap in the curtains. They irritated the white paint with splashes of unpredictability. John’s mind switched up, despite his deep breathing, and he swiftly closed the blinds behind the curtains, shutting out any sign of the new year from his sitting room. Slipping back under the blankets, his body tensed against the few echoes of explosions that made it past the double glazing. He despised every second his body betrayed his intentions, putting him in work-mode in the comfort of his home when he could normally flip the switch without a second thought.

After about ten minutes, John pushed to sit up and groped around the sofa cushions for the remote. Grounding himself amidst the sounds with the images of the sparks showering around the Thames had to be easier than this.

Outside, some drunkards singing Auld Lang Syne clashed with the sporadic and delayed fireworks and the arid display on his TV set. It did little to convince his amygdala that he didn’t need five exit strategies on top of the ones he already had in place. The only reassurance was that, if something were to happen, this would be a nice place to go – with you nearby.

A dim shadow in the screen turned John’s head to see you and how you’d found his dressing gown, donned it accordingly.

You spoke before he could. “Can’t sleep. Where’s your tea?”

When you held up your hand to his attempt to get on his feet, John began pointing out the cupboards needed for your quest. His twisted spine didn’t complain; you brewing for two nondescript mugs was far more fascinating than whatever revelries were going on in some London stadium or recording studio. A soft thanks crossed his lips as you passed one mug to him over the back of the couch.

“Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year. What you watching?”

“BBC concert. Wanna watch with me?”

“You’re so fucking-” You let out a huff, then you hit him lightly with the dressing gown’s cord: “Polite.”

With a short yet deep belly laugh, John patted the sofa cushion beside him, “Never been called that in my life.”

“Don’t make me do it again then.”

Still, you moved around the couch and sat in the space offered to you. A healthy distance cushioned between John’s legs and yours.

Temptation to ask about what you’d been doing the past nine months blended well with the milk and tea – it was “tomorrow” after all. The words were on the tip of his tongue, ready to fall out in such a casual way to mask the impact of your reply, whatever it would be. You couldn’t just be here and not have something to say.

Your earplugs, nudged neatly in place, protected you from the stray fireworks outside and from noticing John’s runaway train of thought. It was almost peaceful to watch Rick Astley and Rylan (of all people) bop about on stage with warmth in your hand and at your side. Just enough to settle your stomach, you sipped your tea and absorbed the warmth through your palms.

In a move categorised under “high risk, high reward”, John unfolded the blanket he had been sheltered under and held up the corner in your peripherals wordlessly. You tried not to let this action derail your intentions as you tucked in closer to him to lay that portion of the blanket over your lap.

Three inches of suffocation between the two of you yet goosebumps extended from your arm hairs to feel the hum of his blood beating through his veins, like your body needed proof you were really next to him and not just a daydream you’d conjured up each time you debated if you regretted your choice or when you’d revisited the situation in therapy numerous times. This feeling was no doubt mutual. John Price had the patience of a sniper, but you were dangling him off a precipice whilst he waited for you to explain yourself.

Knocking back another sip of tea like it was whiskey, you asked, “I’m not keeping you up, am I?”

“No. No, you’re all good.” John told both truth and lies. Yes, you were fine being here. But you’d kept him up many nights, not just this one.

He zeroed in on your wrist as you leaned forwards to place your mug on the only other coaster on the coffee table. A new tattoo of a lit match sat beside his callsign’s artwork, the flame’s linework a nice contrast to the helmet’s bold yet fading black. So much of John’s attention was on the inked pairing that he almost missed what you said to him as you sat back into the couch.

“I think I’m ready to try and work things out with you.”

John wasn’t the kind of man to double take at something shocking. His body was built for earthquakes, absorbing all shockwaves, no swaying, sturdy and reliable. But the phrase he’d hoped to hear all those months ago sent tremors off the Richter scale. Twice glancing at your complicated expression, your words sank into his head with a sluggish pace he was unfamiliar with.

“What?” He asked, his heart beginning to pound and pine for confirmation.

You gave him the privilege of looking right in your eye as you repeated yourself, as steady as before:

“I’d like for us to try working things out. I’m ready to move on from that and I’d like to do that with you, like you asked me to back in March.”

A lot of Nerve was needed to pull this stunt off. Good thing you were known for it. The old times, so far away, waved to the new ones you’d just told him could exist.  

Eyelids pressing shut to stave the mist that filled them, John’s chin met his chest as his head gave into gravity. His voice had gone AWOL. Maybe you were gonna be in the habit of making his speechless, but he wouldn’t care if you did if it meant what you said was God’s honest truth.

Meanwhile, you were starting to tremble with the effort you’d made to come here in the first place. All the decisions you’d opted for, rehearsals with your therapist and in your head, led you to sit in front of him and say with the integrity of your soul bared that, after months of absence, you were willing to try properly. And you were met with a stoic stern man sniffling.

“Am I too late?” You said quietly.

John sighed, drawing himself back up to show you the smile breaking out on his face, “Never.”

First time in years, your tears were not brewed in agony and his presence hummed in your veins. Reaching for your hands, John’s snapped together with yours like magnets. It wasn’t enough. Almost instantly, you had climbed into his lap and wrapped yourself around him until you could strangle each other with your iron grips. You felt nauseous with relief. John’s nose stuffed into your neck, his entire body bloating as he breathed you in with his burly arms firm against your back.

The smallest gap between you so that he could look you in the eye. His thanks fell from his lips over and over, like water tumbling down a fissure, for giving him another chance. Through his gratitude, he could see in the glass of your eyes how much you’d worked to get to here – to him, for him. Because of damage that he’d caused. The best thing anyone had ever done for him, and he didn’t deserve it. But he would take it in this rough reunion, too overcome to do more than just sink into one another.

Far from the same, from before, from a normal steady relationship that would survive under normal circumstances, especially considering you’d be shipped back out to Urzikstan in three days. But God, you knew you’d made the right choice coming back at this point in time. You’d take every second with him now that you could.

---------------------------------

AN: And that's it! I finally finished writing a fanfiction series. Thank you for reading and engaging with it on here and AO3. I really appreciate everything. Thank you again also to @mockerycrow for the original concept and allowing me to write this inspired piece of writing. Onwards, to the next fanfic!

Tag-list: @mockerycrow and @algor-babe

[eldritch-bf]

The poem at the base of the Statue of Liberty: The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

[dinosaurwithablog]

Give me you're tired, you're poor, your huddled mass yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless. tempest tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

These are the values and the tenets on which America was built. How are we now denying access to our country for immigrants searching for a better life. People who are being treated poorly, who are tired, huddled, yearning to breathe free. I take this personally. My grandmother was one of those people. I remember her telling me how she passed the great statue and how she cried because she finally came to a land where freedom and possibilities were endless. She was going to have a great life here, and she did. And I thank God she came here. Now, I'm embarrassed of my countrymen. They are filled with hate and intolerance. That's beyond wrong. This evil man who is running for president would build a wall to keep my grandma out of this country. He would rip me from her side and separate us in cages. He is a scared little man trying to grasp power one more time before he dies in prison. Let's make things great again. Let's make America what it used to be... A great place to live for everyone searching for a better life, freedom, and justice. The only choice we have is Harris 2024