#WEEP MY FRIENDS AND FOES

[epicness1000]

Sheep, cows, chickens, and other animals were bred into producing as much of the desired substance as possible. We keep them not for the sake of their interests, but purely to appease our own wants. That is not symbiosis– it is exploitation, and nothing more.

Symbiosis absolutely can and does exist between humans and animals. As a vegan I feel like some will neglect this in situations that are symbiotic, for example, the fact that some sanctuaries (which rescue sheep from farms and will not breed them or view them as mere property) will shear sheep that need to be sheared anyway, and sell the wool to support the sanctuary. Since no harm is committed, the animal's interests are preserved, and they are respected as individuals rather than property, I think this better reflects the example of a symbiotic relationship, as it's literally a win-win for everyone. This isn't the case on a farm where animals are kept solely for human benefit and designated as property for us to use as we see fit.

I want a better world for the animals around us, and I truly believe it is best achieved when we consider their interests over what are fleeting wants the overwhelming majority of the time.

I think it's a common misconception that domesticating animals is somewhat like enslaving them. It really is more of a symbiotic relationship. No wild animal would have willingly put up with early humans if they didn't get something out of it. Wolves wouldn't have stayed with us and become dogs if they weren't getting food and safety out of it. Many large herbivores that are now domesticated could and would have easily trampled their early human captors or broken their enclosures open if they didn't have a reason to stay. Sometimes individual animals still do if we don't give them what they need.

The animals that have stayed with us for thousands of years have evolved to cooperate with us better. Dogs have additional facial muscles around their eyes that wolves lack in order to mimic human facial expressions. Sheep grow their wool perpetually while their wild counterparts don't because a bigger fleece means they're more likely to be allowed to breed and be kept around. Domestic dairy cows produce much more milk than wild bovine species and domestic hens lay more eggs. Do you know how energy costly producing eggs or milk is for an animal? It's pretty intense! They wouldn't be able to do that if we hadn't given them the food and safety from predators and the elements to.

And we really need to show these animals respect and gratitude for what they give us by taking excellent care of them. They gave up a lot to be with us, often including the means to take care of themselves in the wild. That's a huge reason why I'm not against using animal products, but I hate factory farming. They are still living, breathing creatures with needs and feelings. They deserve a comfortable life and, when the time comes, a humane death.

[erosiism]

A CASE OF REGRETS | YANDERE DUKE X M!READER.

prompt: you die during a rebellion, and he turns back time for you in desperation | reader is childhood friends with claude (OC), both are planning a rebellion to usurp the throne.

character(s): duke, you

warnings(s): nil

note(s): male reader, second person, past tense, not beta read, excerpt from my fic on wattpad, to make amends

FIND MORE MOMENTS OF CLAUDE AND THE READER HERE.

"Y/n!"

Blood spurted out.

"Y/n!"

Your vision blurred.

"Oh gods, are you okay? Are you—"

Your ribs hurt: were they broken? Bloodied? You could certainly taste the horrible taste of iron present in your tongue. It was clear to you that somehow you were dying. That something had turned against you. That you were...

"Please, please, please—"

Through your muddled vision you could make out a figure. A familiar silhouette running towards you, legs stumbling in desperation, breaths ragged.

It was nice to know that when you died, someone would grieve for you. That someone would cry for you.

There was only one person in the world who cared so much for you.

"Claude," you murmured. There was a smile on your face. "There's no need to cry..."

"Y/n, please—no—"

"Save it." You sighed, "there's no way I'm going to be surviving this."

It was true. Blood jetted out of your wound in spurts, staining your tailored uniform with a bright, crimson hue. You had loved that color mainly because Claude had ruby eyes, but now it just seemed gruesome, horrid. Pain had simmered down into a steady brew, and you wondered if your pain tolerance had simply grown stronger, or it was a telling sign of your fading consciousness.

"You were such a brat last time." You murmured. "You used to throw tantrums and everything...for a while, I thought you despised me. Even when we became adults, you were still heartless, cold...so why do you weep for me? Why do you grieve my death?"

I was a fool last time, Claude thought silently. I was a fool. I was a fool not to have shown my affections last time.

Because the truth was plain and simple, written in ink, written in the stars: Claude adored you. Was it not you who had held his hand in the gardens for strolls? Was it not you who accompanied him throughout, was it not you who could make him crack a smile, make him laugh? It had been all you. Every single joyous moment he had was caused by you. When he had finally received the title of the Duke. When he had finally defeated his family and his foes.

But Claude had been so wrapped up in his own troubles he had failed to notice your problems. Your dastardly family. Your...

He had neglected your wellbeing—he hadn't seen your deteriorating state, your weakening smile—he hadn't see any of that. He had been self obsessed, too engrossed in his own matters that he hadn't even—

Claude had taken too long to warm up to you. He could have been sweeter earlier. Made your life easier, no matter what it was. Claude had taken a while to truly open his heart to you: he had been rude, ungracious, curt. And you had been patient. Endlessly patient with him.

"We can save you," Claude said desperately, "we can."

You laughed. A tinkling, magical sound—but at that moment, it was so damned. So fucking painful to hear the cracks inside, the strain hiding inside the tone.

He knew it would be the last time he would ever heard it.

"You are the Emperor. You finally reclaimed your right to the throne. You finally..."

"Y/n," he whispered.

You shook your head.

"You achieved everything you sought for."

Perhaps he did. But the thing he truly wanted had been in front of him this whole time and he had been blind. Utterly blind.

And he would never forgive himself for that.

The tears slipped. His voice felt suffocated; choking.

"Don't cry," you touched his cheek gently and that pulled Claude temporarily out of his panic—"don't cry, alright? It was inevitable, Your Grace. Don't cry. The future Emperor doesn't cry."

Your Grace. Even then, you hadn't referred to him by his name. If he had another chance—just one singular chance—

He would allow you to call him by his name.

You were his everything.

You're my heart, Y/n.

If you die, then that would make me heartless.

There was so much blood, Claude realized. Coating his palms, running down your back. So much of its thick texture, its color, all drenched. Every single bit drenched—

Why was there so much blood? It wasn't his. He  wasn't unhurt, really. He wasn't that well off, but not to your extent. You sounded so tired when you spoke, so faint. So weak. You could have disappeared any second. Claude held you in your arms softly, gently—you could disappear any moment, your breaths wavering and quivering.

No, no, no.

I love you, Claude thought deliriously. I love you. I love you. I love you so much—

The voice grew and became stronger; louder even as you grew cold. Claude rocked you even when your hands fell, holding one to his own cheek. Your hands still had the faintest bit of warmth. He clung onto it desperately; motionless with the tears dried up with his throat feeling like sandpaper.

You can't leave me, he'd thought deliriously, hugging you close and rocking you again and again and again, you can't leave me.

Y/n L/n, I love you too much to let you go.

.

.

Claude had failed to save you. In front of him, your beauty was still visible in his eyes; your (h/c) hair, your (e/c) eyes—because of his arrogance, his incompetence, you had unfairly died. He had not noticed the blooming feelings in his stomach until you had been cold in his arms, and his tears had splattered on your cheek.

The universe has been cruel to you.

He had stood by your side and had watched you suffer and suffer and suffer; and for what? Only for the gods to turn their back on you? What was the point, really? Claude had been with you this whole time. Had seen the sacrifices you poured in, had seen—

He should have been the one that died, Claude despaired. Not you. Never you.

That night he couldn't sleep. The place was too empty without you. He had been crowned Emperor. But there was no you to accompany him by his side.

There was...absolutely no point.

Why was he even alive at this rate? Claude wondered. Everything would go back to life before you. Tedious. Long. Meaningless.

"Your Majesty, the Empire—"

"—do whatever you want." Claude rasped out. "Just...just..."

Please. If the Gods are listening. Please, please—

Turn back time. For me, for Y/n.

For...

[ The Gods have heard your prayers ]

.

.

Turning back time was unheard of. Something in the legends. Something Claude didn't believe in. Yet when he woke up—there had been disappointment in him, he had assumed that this was heaven yet you were nowhere in sight—there was the familiar surroundings of a room.

Not the Emperor's bedroom.

The bedroom from the manor he once lived when he was the illegitimate son of the Duke.

I must be dreaming, Claude thought. There was a flicker of hope he didn't dare to believe in. I must be dreaming of the happier times and the million what ifs.

Pain was tugging at his heart. It was painful. Everything was painful...

"—don't bother him. He just recovered from a sickness."

What?

What?

Delusional. Hallucinating. Delirious. To hear your sweet, sweet voice in such a dream—perhaps this was heaven after all. Claude didn't ever want to wake up. He didn't.

Because you were there. In front of him.

He sucked in a breath.

As sweet, as polite as he remembered. Every inch of his face had been committed to his memory. Every contour, every line. He had mapped you out in his head and had aligned you with the thousands of dazzling stars in the universe because you were the reason he bothered to continue living. Because you had become his reason for living.

You stood, in regal attire, with your posture as graceful as he had remembered. The sunlight streamed in through the paneled windows, caressing your features and alighting upon your lashes. He swallowed, trying to remember how to breathe.

"Ah, you are awake, Your Grace." You smiled at him.

"Y/n L/n," he said finally. "Y/n L/n." It's been so long since he could say this name to someone who would hear and respond to it. So many times he called your name out of your desperation in vain: hoping for some sort of hallucination to pop up, for some sort of inkling that your voice would carry over to his ears.

And you smiled.

Smiled.

Smiled.

Smiled—

Claude reached out to you and buried his face into your clothes.

You gave a startled smile.

.

.

The Duke had done a 180 complete turn.

"Y/n," he spoke with uncharacteristic fondness that you just didn't understand, "you are..."

Tears. There were tears on his cheek. Had you done anything to offend him? You thought not.

"Your Grace..." you reached out to brush his forehead with your fingers, "are you alright? You don't seem to have a fever."

Claude stared at you with wide eyes.

"Oh," You heard him say, and then, "you are as beautiful as I remembered."

What?

"Your Grace, are you really sure you are fine—"

Claude dashed forward, not even registering your words. He crushed you in his arms, a hand in your hair, head buried in his neck. He missed this. This warmth and this scent. Home, home. It's the smell of home. It's the smell of you. It's you. It's you. It's you. 

It worked, he thought. It worked. It fucking worked. I traveled back in time. 

"... Well then," you gave a small chuckle, confused upon what was happening, "it's a relief to see you have awoken—why are you crying?"

"You're here," Claude breathed, his first tangible words since his return. "You're here."

"Of course I'm here, Your Grace." You looked at him with confusion etched all over your features, frowning. "What's wrong? You..."

The Duke was looking at you like you were the only one that mattered in the world. And that—

Wow. What kind of coma did he have, to be behaving so peculiarly?

You wiped his tears, sighing and fussing.

"You know what—never mind. Tell me later—why are you still crying, Your Grace?"

Claude held onto you tighter.

Maybe he had bad dreams in his coma, you thought. He was holding on to you like you were a lifeline. Like you would disappear any second, any minute.

As though he would never let go of you again.

You patted the Duke's head gently, slowly, fingers running through his hair. "Don't cry. The future Emperor doesn't cry."

Those words. It was so hauntingly painful to him.

Claude didn't want to remember anymore. He didn't  need to remember. He had succeeded. The Gods had listened to him. You were alive and breathing, in front of him. You were—

Alive.

reblog/like the post! comments are appreciated even if you read this before :)

[icaruspendragon]

hiii, this might be weird, but who is Lazarus? I'm not religious, so I've tried searching for who he is, but I can't seem to get a clear answer and was wondering if you could explain him?

ah yes, lazarus of bethany. a man i consider to be equal parts friend and foe.

lazarus lived in bethany with his two sisters, mary and martha. and when we meet him, he’s sick. so much so that his sisters send for jesus of nazareth saying, “lord, your dear friend is very sick.”

jesus of nazareth was in jerusalem when he received the message. and despite being only a few miles from bethany, and despite jesus loving martha and mary and lazarus, he waited. he didn’t go to them straight away. he waited. he waited until lazarus died and then said, “lazarus’ sickness will not end in death. no, it happened for the glory of god so that the son of god will receive glory from this.”  

and when jesus finally made it to bethany he was told lazarus had already died. that he has already been in the grave for four days. and when martha, sister of lazarus got word that jesus was coming, she went to meet him. and mary, sister of lazarus did not. and when martha saw jesus she said to him, “lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

and jesus said to her, “your brother will rise again.”

but then mary arrived and she saw jesus and she fell at his feet and she said, “lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.” and she wept over her brother. because she loved him and he was gone. and jesus should have been there. because if jesus had been there, her brother would not have died.

and jesus saw her weeping. and he saw the other people wailing with her. because lazarus was deeply loved. and now he was gone. and they had sent for jesus. they had prayed for a miracle. and that miracle didn’t come until it was four days too late. and they didn’t know that jesus was going to bring lazarus back. they didn’t know that jesus had waited that long to teach a lesson. to prove a point. they just knew jesus was too late. and now they were forced to grieve.

and then a deep anger welled up in jesus. and he was deeply troubled. and jesus asks, “where have you put him?” and the people say, “lord, come and see.” and he does. and when he sees, jesus weeps. when he sees, we get the shortest verse in the bible. a mere two words to sum up an entire town’s grief. two words to convey the loss of a sibling. two words are offered for the preventable death of a loved man.

jesus is four days too late. and jesus?

jesus wept.

and the people who loved lazarus turned to him and said to jesus, “see how much he loved him!”

jesus loved lazarus. and then he let him die.

and some of the people said about jesus “this man healed a blind man. couldn’t he have kept lazarus from dying?”

and then jesus, who knew all along that he would revive lazarus. jesus, who let all those people mourn. jesus, who let those sisters lose their brother. jesus, who let them weep. jesus, who wept with them. that very same jesus said to those who loved lazarus, who mourned him, jesus of nazareth said to them, “didn’t i tell you that you would see god’s glory if you believe?”

and then the stone of lazarus’ tomb was rolled aside. and then jesus looked up to heaven and said, “father, thank you for hearing me. you always hear me, but i said it out loud for the sake of all these people standing here, so that they will believe you sent me.” and then jesus shouted, “lazarus, come out!” and he did.

lazarus the dead man came out, his hands and feet and face wrapped still in burial cloth. and then jesus of nazareth told them, “unwrap him and let him go!”

and then lazarus of bethany became lazarus of the grave. lazarus of the grave that will never be left behind even though he has risen and relinquished. lazarus of the grave who did not make good his escape unscathed. lazarus of the grave who will now check each darkened doorway as death and his sting is keenly felt.

lazarus was a man. a man whose family loved him. a man whose sisters sent for a miracle. a man whose sisters mourned him in the four days it took for that miracle to show up. a man who was made an example for no reason other than being loved by jesus. a thing that we are all told to be. loved by our savior.

lazarus is a man who makes me wonder three things. firstly, if jesus had been there that my brother may not have died. secondly, if jesus of nazareth too weeps for me. and thirdly, if jesus loves us and we in turn love him too like the scriptures command, why does he use us in the lessons he teaches.

why must we be the men he makes believers of?

so lazarus was just a man whose crime was loving jesus. and martha was just a girl whose crime was loving her brother. and they both suffered a miracle because of it.

[ss-tier-simp]

"mine" - bucky barnes x f!reader

Summary: Bucky is getting a little anxious to show you are his.

Warnings: angsty in the beginning (mentions of war and death) and then BAM here comes the smut. Bucky has a bit of a marking kink, there is a hint of cockwarming, p in v penetration, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) . This is NSFW and contains +18 content, so MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

A/Ν: This is my first time dipping my toes in +18 territory, so I hope you guys enjoy it. Any mistakes made are my own, as it is unbetad and english is not my first language.

The world was a cruel place. He saw it in Brooklyn while his mother barely made meets end, just to put food on the table for his sister and him.

He saw it in the trenches of war as men, both friends and foe alike fell to their untimely demise, without a trace remaining to be sent back to their folks.

The world's cruelty was marred into his skin, wounds that never properly healed, aching. A constant reminder of what exactly was taken away from him. Memories of a past he desperately tried to forget always haunted him, never giving him much-needed peace.

It took his family away from him, his friends, his innocence, his sanity, his arm.

And it kept taking.

And taking.

The world has helped form and shape him into the man he is. A man who put a stake in things he found precious in this unfamiliar era, refusing to let the world take them away from him.

One of his most precious things was you. A fact that he was proud to show off to the world with the marks he was now sucking into the delicate skin of your throat. A brand that reminded everyone that you belonged with him.

"Bucky!" you whined as you felt his lips sucking another mark. The feel of his tongue laving against the delicate skin of your throat made your pussy clench around him.

Your chest heaved against his, trying its best to bring in the oxygen your body desperately needed. You felt lightheaded. The heat and the closeness of your bodies brought out a neediness in you.

Friction. You needed friction. You needed to feel him move. Yet the unrelenting grip he had on your hips rendered any attempt to grind against his lap futile. He got you where he wanted. Panting, moaning, writhing. Wanting.

Your hand made a beautiful trip, mapping the taut muscles of his back before it reached its destination. It found the locks of his brown hair and yanked just enough for his lips to abandon their task and force his eyes onto your pleading ones.

"Bucky, please!" you gasped, your eyes blurry with tears at the delicious torture that Bucky had subjected you to. His metal hand left its place on your hips to caress your cheek and wipe the tear that threatened to spill.

"Please, what?" his tone was taunting, but you paid it no mind.

"Bucky, please move!" the words tumbled out of your mouth, not caring about how desperate you sounded.

"Whatever my pretty girl wants." both of his hands were on your hips again. A shiver went down your body at the loss of his body heat. He straightened his body putting more weight on his legs, in favor of watching your pussy clench and weep around him.

You almost sobbed in relief when you felt his hips finally move, the slow drag of his cock stealing any coherent thought in your mind.

He moved his cock from your deepest parts, feeling your pussy tighten around him as if she was afraid that he would abandon her, leave her high and dry. He let his thrusts be shallow, the head of his cock bullying a spot in you that had your eyes rolling back in pleasure.

He indulged in the sounds that left your mouth, the intense heat of your pussy that sucked him in greedily, the way your back arched against the mattress.

"B-Bucky." you started but another shallow thrust managed to rob you of your words and instead replaced them with loud moans.

"What pretty girl?" Bucky couldn't help but grin at you, loving the way he reduced you to a babbling mess.

"P-please Bucky." you started again. "Please, move."

"Move?" he questioned, his thrust continuing to punch at that special spot inside you. "I'm moving baby. What do you want? Are you going to use your big girl words?"

"Want more Bucky." you sobbed. "Want it harder, want it deeper. Please Bucky, please!"

His hands found the back of your knees, as quickly as the words left your mouth, bringing them towards your chest. "Keep them there for me." His tone was firm, a demand you were more than glad to fulfill.

When you did just that, he found support on the mattress putting once again more of his body weight on you and then finally his cock found its home at your deepest part.

The pleasure robbed you of your voice, your mouth stuck in a silent scream. His strokes were deep, showing off the strength that he hid whenever he touched you. Every time he filled you to the brim. The coarse patch of hair ground against your clit giving you that extra shot of delicious pleasure.

Your moans, his grunts, the slap of skin against skin, and the squeaking of the mattress that you had to get rid of, filled the room building a beautiful harmony. A crescendo that built until it reached its climax.

"I-I'm cumming." you gasped. "Fuck, I am cumming."

"I'm close too," Bucky said. "cum for me, baby."

The tightening of your walls was the only answer he received as the pleasure got too much, your body jerking before going still as you fell off the edge into one of the most mind-blowing orgasms.

The vice-like grip of your heat as it spasmed around him was enough to set off his own orgasm, losing the tempo that he had set, and he buried himself  close as it was humanly possible.

You felt his cock pulse as he spilled inside you. An overwhelming sensation that seemed to prolong your orgasm. Bucky dipped down his head, his urge to kiss you winning over every other instinct and your lips met into a messy kiss, as you both relished in the aftermath.

He let all of his weight on you and the wheezing laugh that escaped you interrupted your kiss. You let your knees fall and instead pushed against Bucky's chest, trying to get him off you.

"Bucky, you are heavy!" you complained as you laughed, a laugh Bucky mirrored before he rolled off you and onto his side.

You felt his eyes on you and you turned to see him staring at the marks he had left on your neck, proud of his handiwork.

"You have to stop giving me hickeys, " you declared, his eyes meeting yours, their disappointment evident. "They are a bitch to cover up, every time I go to work."

"Stop with the puppy eyes." you couldn't contain the laugh at the antics of a man who is supposed to be over one hundred years old.

"What about a compromise?" he offered and you looked at him quizically.

"How about I start leaving them in places, others could only hope to see." he continued and you snorted.

"Bucky Barnes, is this a possessiveness sort of thing?" you asked and he shrugged or at least he tried as he was still lying down.

"I like people knowing you are mine," he admitted. A smile bloomed on your face and you pecked his nose enjoying how his face scrunched up.

"Unbelievable, you possessive grumpy old man!" you started to rise from the bed, to head towards the bathroom. "How about you join me for a shower? We are both sweaty and yucky."

He followed suit, sneaking upon your retreating form to grab you and lift you in his arm, a squeal leaving you at the sudden loss of the floor from your feet.

"You know I've heard great things about fun time in the shower." He commented. You were in for a long night.

[see-arcane]

The idea of one of the Weird Sisters being a romani girl or a slovak girl that was in the wrong place at the wrong time is horrible, and a great way to showcase the kind of power (both social, and supernatural) that Dracula forces upon the humans around him.

Wrong place, wrong time, wrong state of being, social, supernatural or otherwise. Dracula could have taken anyone from any station in Transylvania. Rich or poor, friend or foe. But I think none of the Weird Sisters were noblewomen while alive. They were, like Jonathan, sniffed out among the chattel. Dracula is their superior in every regard that way; and more, the servile classes do one thing better than any aristocrat.

It is their wont to make their ruler happy.

The eldest, a young fair girl, was a drop of sunshine and laughter in a threadbare village. Someone who uplifted and charmed whoever she crossed. Dracula, after some unknown breaking point in the mad red fog as he skulked up the mountains into his broken castle to wrestle with inhuman instincts and hold to something like a man's sanity, was alone. A monster made raw with slaughtering, with his people only fearing and fleeing around him. His halls are quiet. He crawls and lopes through them, snapping at himself, knowing he is reducing night by night into a Thing more than a man, let alone a conqueror.

So he goes hunting. He finds the fair girl who makes others happy and holds their hearts. He steals her. Wrings out months of playacting from her; in turn, he has reason to force himself into behaving like a man. The castle has no visitors in that era. When she cries and calls from her window, she hears only her own echoes as a pleading choir. And then it is back to making her monster happy. So happy that he loves her. She must stay.

The next girl was taken back when ties were first forged between the Count and the early generations of Slovaks he would come to entrust with his errands. There was trust on the human side too. Yes, he was a monster, but he was their monster. Their benefactor. He speaks to them like kin and pays a dragon's ransom for their work. They are allies! He calls them friends!

So it goes until his attention falls on one of the girls. A daughter. A sister. A new wife. She knows their Count, their kind monster. 'A friend of the family.' And perhaps she is not even afraid when he asks her, cordial as a lord, to aid him with something in the castle. A small matter, my dear, but something he would not trust the coarse handling of the men to do. She goes in. The door locks.

Does she go to that same room, that same window? Does she weep and call for her family? Does anyone try to come for her, to plead with their friend-master-owner, or to--ha--raise a weapon against him?

If so, it is a small matter. Quick. Bloody.

She charms him while alive. For she must. She thought, just as her new-ancient Sister thought, that she might find a way out. A chance to flee. But she makes him so happy. So happy that he loves her. She must stay.

And the Slovaks learn a lesson that is shared through centuries. They warn all those they work with in the future of the same. The locals, the nomads, the strangers. No women. No girls.

The third girl has no warning. She is Romani, but she has run from her people too. Or else she was trying to find them. Times have always been grim, but especially when the mania over witchcraft was at its height. She lost friends and family to...what? Sham trials and tortured deaths? A scattering to the winds as they fled the self-assigned hunters? Running further, higher, steeper. God's soldiers will not bother with their mission if it means galloping up the cliffs.

Up, up, up.

There are wolves. There is cold. She has no room in her to care.

And then, a fairy tale happening:

A man appears on the moonlit mountain. His eyes are fire. Are you lost, my dear?

She is. She thinks herself already dead or dreaming when he leads her into the castle. When there is food, warmth, and sympathy from this smiling noble perched in the crags of the Carpathians. And for one month, maybe two, even after she smells something worse than death on him, even after every liberty is plucked from her like petals from a rose, even after she has her first glimpse of her grinning Sisters, even after she sees strangers--Living people! Her own people among them! Look, look, I am trapped here! Please! Please, do not go, do not leave me with him...--she clings to charm. To smiles. She makes him happy.

So happy that he loves her. She must stay.

And now there is a young man. Such a winsome thing, young and strong. He makes their monster so happy.

His waiting Sisters think their monster may just love him.

And as they hear him shout from the hand-me-down window, they laugh along with the living in their coffins.

[ciernobiela]

It’s a sorrowful thing, to drift through life when strength fades, and find that not only my mind but my body falters too. Old habits haunt and undo me. Loneliness, my closest friend, keeps me company; a single stray word cuts deep. Sleep eludes me, my head pounds from endless weeping, and fear lingers near. I am trapped in bed as thick smoke fills my lungs, and my friends have become daily burdens to bear, even when my spirit feels hollow. I want happiness, yet I am the one who burns my bridges. I long to create, to write, to move, to live—but I am my own greatest foe. I wish to love, yet how could I, when every spark in me is swallowed by a relentless fog?

mk,24

[resplendent-ragamuffin]

Six Months Since

By Shoshana bat-Yehonatan

A poem for the six (Hebrew) month anniversary of the Simchat Torah Massacre. With thanks to the JPS, Koren, Metsudah, and other translations on Sefaria.org. Footnotes link to sources of quotes. Footnotes connect to sources which will be in reblog, because otherwise it's too long to post.

TW: RAPE

Six months has it been

Since the fields turned red without flowers

Now calaniot bloom where once my darlings danced

But still, my precious ones are gone.

I have no prophets to comfort me

No visions from God [1]

My king remains in exile [2]

How can I sing a song of God on alien soil [3]

In an alien tongue?

Yet I have been too long a stranger in a land not mine[4]—

Two thousand years, to a paltry hundred and twenty—

And I forgotten even how to speak the Holy Tongue

Let alone write in it.

I have neither wit nor words to sing my grief.

And so I turn to those before me

As they turned to those before them

And say,

“God, open my lips, and let my mouth declare my grief.” [5]

Oholiva cries [6]

And Ohola wails [7]

This year was pregnant[8] with a second month of joy

Instead she wails in travails unending

“When will my children return?” [9]

Oh wall of Fair Zion [10]

Shed tears like a river [11]

Cry out in the night and pour your heart out like water [12]

Rachel’s eyes are red as her sister’s [13]

As she weeps over the fate of her children [14]

Six months it has been

Since they ravaged women in Zion [15]

Maidens in the towns of Judea [16]

Since their hands tore my princes apart

No deference shown to elders [17]

On this day six months ago

My infants were taken captive before the enemy [18]

The joy of our hearts was seized

And our dancing turned to mourning [19]

For the youths are gone from their music [20].

Now my eyes shed rivers of water [21]

Over the ruin of my people’s daughter [22]

Bitterly I weep in the night [23]

My cheeks wet with tears [24]

There is none to comfort me: my friends have betrayed me [25]

I cry:

Behold my agony! [26]

My priests and my elders have perished in the city [27]

The elders strewn like dust on the ground [28]

Those whom I dandled and reared my foe has consumed [29]

“This is the day we hoped for! We have found it, we have seen it!” [30]

My maidens and youths have gone into captivity! [31]

“It is your doing.” [32]

Blood on her legs, her nakedness seen, [33]

Zion reaches out for comfort [34]--

“Away! Unclean!” [35]

She can only shrink back and sigh [36]

“May it never befall you.” [37]

The nations have resolved “They shall stay here no longer” [38]

We wander and wander [39]

But where are we to go?

How can I bear to see the destruction of my kindred? [40]

“My life as my wish, my people as my request,” [41]

I begged my Husband [42]

“For we have been targeted, my people and I, to be destroyed, massacred, and exterminated.” [43]

But the King turned His face from me.

My dear ones were purer than snow [44]

Ruddier than rubies or coral [45]

Their bodies lovely as sapphire [46]

Now their faces are darkened with ash [47]

Unrecognizable amid the ruin of the streets [48]

See, God, and behold to whom You have done this! [49]

Look at me, answer me, Oh God! [50]

How long will You hide Your face from me? [51]

I have no prophets now to comfort me

And must take my comfort from those before:

You promised “God will restore your captives.” [52]

Return them, God, and let them come back [53]

Renew our days as of old. [54]

[moniquill]

Dear GRRM: Git Gud, Scrub.

So this article showed up on my facebook feed: https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/article/2024/jul/17/game-of-thrones-writers-dismay-as-he-is-frozen-out-of-glasgow-sci-fi-event-worldcon

‘Frozen out’

No, you whiny manchild, you didn’t fill out the application correctly. You don’t get to bypass the very simple process just because you’re Big Famous. 

“despite his keenness to be involved” “ I am not on any programming. It is not for lack of trying, though”

If you were keen to be involved, you’d have logged into planorama like everyone else.

I made a post about my panel pitches back in april: https://www.tumblr.com/moniquill/747207445292761088/without-telling-you-what-panels-im-pitching-for

These are the panels I’m going to be on - online only, I’m not going to glasgow in person.

Indigenous Futurisms in Conversation

Saturday, August 10, 2024, 5:30 PM GMT

If the future is indigenous, what forms might it take? How do indigenous writers draw from their diverse traditions, languages, myths, music, and art to challenge colonial storytelling? What concerns are shared across indigenous futurisms and how do they diverge? This panel brings different imaginations of indigenous futures into conversation, emphasizing diversity while opening the possibility for building bridges between communities.

Everything We Love (a Little or a Lot) About Fanfiction

Saturday, August 10, 2024, 10:00

What do we love about fanfic?  The ships! Alternate realities! Adult topics! Fix-it fic! X-reader! More adventures! Why does an original procedural have gay pirates as a main trope? And why did action-adventure sci-fi spawn the coffee shop AU? Do we just always want something else? Or ever more of a very good thing? Join this panel as we get our squee on.

The Myth of the Wilderness

Sunday, August 11, 2024, 4:00 PM GMT+1

Is the wilderness a myth? Indigenous groups say the land weeps without people; people who care for it properly, that is. How do writers of the fantastic use wilderness settings? Is the wild a friend or foe? Are wild places their own characters, or only mirrors to human strengths and weaknesses?

Appropriation Versus Inspiration

Sunday, August 11, 2024, 11:30 PM GMT+1

Writers often find inspiration outside the familiar. How do we draw influence from other cultures without appropriating their history and identity?

I’ll be posting links here on my tumblr, when they’re live. 

[theshslpumpkinghost]

drdt summer fun day 3: flowers!

DRDT But It’s Flower Meanings!

Teruko

- Butterfly Weed - ‘Leave me,’ ‘You’ve been warned.’

- Marigolds are seen as a sign of death and misfortune by many cultures

- Anemones - mean forsaken and also a sign of fragility

- Bells of Ireland - Good Luck

- Blackthorn - Hope against adversity, Good Fortune, Difficulty

- Catchfly (white) - Betrayed

- Celandine - Deceptive hopes

David

- Mock oranges - mean deceit

- Cyclamens - meaning resignation or goodbye

- Angelicas - meaning inspiration

Eden

- Daisies - Innocence, Loyalty, Love

- Arborvitae - Everlasting friendship

- Aloysia - Forgiveness

- Asters (pink) - Innocence, Love, Affection.

- Violets (purple) - Love between two women

- Freesia - Innocence, Trust

- Hydrangea (Purple) - A desire to deeply understand someone

Xander

- Adder’s Tongue - Deceit

- Hyacinths - Rashness

- Weeping Willow - Mourning

- Purple Hyacinths - 'I am sorry, please forgive me,' sorrow.

- Rue - Regret, Sorrow, Repentance

- Coltsfoot - ‘Justice shall be done.’

Min

- Roses - Love

- Asters (pink) - Innocence, Love, Affection.

- Pink Roses - Perfect happiness, 'please believe me'

- Evening Primrose - Silent Love

- Walnut - Intellect

- Scabius - Unfortunate attachment

Charles

- White Chrysanthemums - Used as a funeral flower or to lay on graves, also meaning 'truth'

- Adonis’ Flower - Painful remembrance

- Buttercups - Memories of childhood

Ace

- Petunias - Resentment, Anger

- Barberry - Sourness of temper

- Basil - Hate

- Lilies (orange) - Hatred, Disdain, Contempt

- Foxglove - Insecurity

- Roses (yellow) - Cowardice

Levi

- White Roses (Dried) - Death is preferable to loss of virtue

- Purple Hyacinths - 'I am sorry, please forgive me,' sorrow.

Hu

- Orchids - Love, Beauty, Refinement, 'Beautiful Lady'

- Wood Sorrel - Maternal Tenderness

- Daylilies - Chinese emblem for 'mother'

- Cinquefoils - Maternal Affection

Whit

- Crocuses - Cheerfulness

- Coreopsis - Always cheerful

- Tulips (yellow) - Hopeless love

- Xeranthemum - Cheerfulness under adversity

- Tulips (orange) - Understanding

Veronika

- Monkshoods - Beware, a deadly foe is here

- Roses (black) - Death, Obsession, Mystery

- Tuberose - Dangerous pleasures

Arturo

- Jonquils - 'Love me,' desire for affection to be returned

- Callas - Beauty

- Narcissus - Self-love, Egotism

- Sweet Sultan - Felicity

J

- Gladioli - 'Give me a break

- Petunias - Resentment

- Roses (yellow) - intense emotion

Rose

- Acanthus - Art

- Forget-Me-Nots - Memories

- Moonwort - Forgetfulness

Nico

- Adder’s Tongue - Deceit

- Borage - Bluntness

- Petunias - Resentment

- Hellebores - Anxiety, 'tranquilise my anxiety'

Arei

- Zinnias (Mixed) - Thinking/In memory of an absent friend

- Laurestine - ‘i die if neglected’

- Arborvitae - Everlasting friendship

- Irises - 'Your friendship means so much to me’

if you wanna add any, feel free to ask! :D

…i spent so long on this thing aaa

[starrynightarchive]

“what’s your favourite part of yourself?” my teeth. my eyes crinkle when i say, “my smile.”

lions carry their young with their teeth.

they clamp their jaws down on the delicate skin of their cub and lift them up by their scruff. i remember being eleven, with brittle teeth and tongue still tasting like chocolate, when i looked back at my mom and asked, “wouldn’t it hurt the baby?” i don’t think she really knew the answer. and yet she said, “i’m sure it’ll be careful not to.”

i remember once being told that my teeth are white, but not unnaturally so. just the right shade. i’m pretty sure i smiled. if only they had looked back at the back of those shining incisors; the tar black of my lies stick there. stubborn, those things are. no amount of mint toothpaste can wash them off.

i think my teeth were always meant to sink into people’s skin, friend and foe alike. i’ve never known where to carry all that care if not in the tip of my canines. i’m sure it’ll be careful not to, she had said, like a question. i wonder what she saw that day. i wonder if her hesitation was never hesitation. i wonder if she knew of my need to hold things that i love between my teeth all along.

now, at eighteen, with teeth too sharp (too white too crooked too much) and tongue tasting like copper, tar and mint toothpaste, i want to tell her, i don’t think i know how to hold something without snapping its neck. does that make me more animal or it more human?

dead people don't talk. but in the grave beneath my bloody throne, i hear my mother weep.

i like to think of all the ways i’ll kiss someone. soft, gentle, loving. with feather-soft touches and tender words and tingling lips. and anyone who knows me will think so, too. i’m sure they will all look at me and think i kiss with the slow, sweet press of my lips. i brush my teeth twice as hard as i did before. the tar collects on the roof of my mouth now and stays there. everyone thinks anger is an explosion. it never has been one for me. explosions are simple. explosions end. anger, to me, is like hunger.

i wash my mouth and spit my paste. it’s full of blood. i wash my mouth four more times, till the red of the water fades into a pale pink. then, i run my fingers through the hide of the beast in me. truth tastes like warm flesh and i hold it out to its welcoming jaws

the only way i’ll ever be able to kiss someone is with teeth. their lips will sting from the force of my bite and everything will taste like copper and fear and truth. that’s the only way i can love.

and the beast rumbles, satiated. it always forgets that i am human, even if i’m not. it forgets i can only tear off so much of my flesh at once.

i brush my teeth the next day. wash my mouth once and four more times. this time, all i can offer it is tar and mint toothpaste. i like to push and push and push at something till it breaks. when i look in the mirror, my canines glint. a reminder that hungry beasts never stay tame for long.

@noose-lion i really hope this fits the theme lol

[six-white-venus]

“what’s your favourite part of yourself?”

my teeth.

my eyes crinkle when i say, “my smile.”

lions carry their young with their teeth.they clamp their jaws down on the delicate skin of their cub and lift them up by their scruff. i remember being eleven, with brittle teeth and tongue still tasting like chocolate, when i looked back at my mom and asked, “wouldn’t it hurt the baby?” i don’t think she really knew the answer. and yet she said, “i’m sure it’ll be careful not to.”

i remember once being told that my teeth are white, but not unnaturally so. just the right shade. i’m pretty sure i smiled. if only they had looked back at the back of those shining incisors; the tar black of my lies stick there. stubborn, those things are. no amount of mint toothpaste can wash them off.

i think my teeth were always meant to sink into people’s skin, friend and foe alike. i’ve never known where to carry all that care if not in the tip of my canines. i’m sure it’ll be careful not to, she had said, like a question. i wonder what she saw that day. i wonder if her hesitation was never hesitation. i wonder if she knew of my need to hold things that i love between my teeth all along.

now, at eighteen, with teeth too sharp (too white too crooked too much) and tongue tasting like copper, tar and mint toothpaste, i want to tell her, i don’t think i know how to hold something without snapping its neck. does that make me more animal or it more human?

dead people don't talk. but in the grave beneath my bloody throne, i hear my mother weep.

i like to think of all the ways i’ll kiss someone. soft, gentle, loving. with feather-soft touches and tender words and tingling lips. and anyone who knows me will think so, too. i’m sure they will all look at me and think i kiss with the slow, sweet press of my lips.

i brush my teeth twice as hard as i did before. the tar collects on the roof of my mouth now and stays there. everyone thinks anger is an explosion. it never has been one for me. explosions are simple. explosions end. anger, to me, is like hunger.

i wash my mouth and spit my paste. it’s full of blood. i wash my mouth four more times, till the red of the water fades into a pale pink. then, i run my fingers through the hide of the beast in me. truth tastes like warm flesh and i hold it out to its welcoming jaws.

the only way i’ll ever be able to kiss someone is with teeth. their lips will sting from the force of my bite and everything will taste like copper and fear and truth. that’s the only way i can love.

and the beast rumbles, satiated. it always forgets that i am human, even if i’m not. it forgets i can only tear off so much of my flesh at once.

i brush my teeth the next day. wash my mouth once and four more times. this time, all i can offer it is tar and mint toothpaste. i like to push and push and push at something till it breaks.

when i look in the mirror, my canines glint. a reminder that hungry beasts never stay tame for long.

[roohuh]

Mourning the loss of a beloved Professor

Part -1 of Obliviate

Ominis X MC

Summary: Ominis comforts a grieving MC seeing a new side of her

Warnings: main story spoilers!! Grief panic attack

Breathless sobs rattle your entire body. Sitting in the large arm chair in Fig's now empty office you hold yourself weeping for all you have lost. When you came to Hogwarts you were so hopeful for this new life in the magical school. How had it all gone so wrong? Overwhelming guilt of all the deaths you were powerless to stop cripples you so that all you can now do is sit here and cry. You held it together so well in front of everyone; the Hogwarts Hero they hailed you. However after the funeral you could not contain your grief. You had quietly slipped away as soon as you could sealing comfort in Figs office. You are so wrapped up in your grief you do not hear the door open behind you. Upon hearing the weeping Ominis freezes in his tracks. He attempts to clear his throat to gain the attention of whoever is crying to no avail. Unsure of what to do he stands there dumbly. Then recognizes the voice of the muffled “Fig.” Cautiously he approaches the chair laying a hand on your shoulder. You jump a foot into the air not expecting to be disturbed here as you face your introducer, half expecting to see Fig's warm face.

“Ominis!” You exclaim in surprise wondering how long he had been there.

“I am sorry, Professor Weastly had sent me to grab something. I did not mean to intrude.” He stammers, withdrawing his hand. You and Ominis had not been necessarily close; he was Sebastian’s best friend and lately you had been working together to help your friend handle the grief at the loss of his uncle. After Anne had destroyed the spell book Sebastian had began to be more like his old self and you had started to wonder if there was some sort of hex placed on the book. You enjoyed Ominis’ company but he was not one to let a person in easily so that you always felt a wall between the two of you. And now he is standing before you as you openly weep. In an effort to gain composure you take a long shaky breath.

“Are you alright? Sebastian had said how close you and the Professor were.” The word close sounded hollow in your ears and you could not help but break into a fresh set of tears.

“I failed him.” You stammer through the tears. Unsure of how to help, Ominis kneels next to the chair. To him you were always so composed so sure of yourself; you took on any foe without hesitation and always emerged victorious.

“You saved Hogwarts.” He offers in a feeble attempt to help but it falls on deaf ears. You gasp for breath desperately trying to regain control of your body but it will not listen. Ominis gently picks you up from the chair and holds you in his lap sitting on the floor together. His hand is gentle on the back of your head pressing you into his chest.

“Just try and slow your breathing, listen to my heart and try to match that.” He is calm and soothing, stroking the back of your hair. You embrace him tightly, holding on as if he is your only lifeline. The scent of his cologne fills your senses as sobs break over you. Tears wet the front of his shirt as he holds you gently shushing as you begin to slowly regain composure. Eventually you stop crying and you both sit in silence until you let out a small hiccup. Ominis can not help but chuckle at the sound. Blushing furiously you realize you are sitting in the boy's lap with your face buried in his chest. Another hiccup.

“Would you like me to fetch you a glass of water?” he offers. You chance a look at his face which is flushed straight up to his ears. Awkwardly you scoot off his lap with a soft,

“Yes please.” You watch curiously as the boy disappears in search of water. Once out of the room you press your hands to your cheeks feeling how hot they are, thanking your lucky stars Ominis is unable to see you. Pulling a handkerchief from your pocket you blow your nose. Ominis returns much quicker than you had expected. You are thankful for the water as you take the cup your hand bushes his and his cheeks flush.

“Thank you.” You stammer awkwardly.

“Crying always makes me thirsty.” He offers.

“Hard to picture you blubbering.” You giggle in response.

“I used to cry all the time as a child. My aunt was the best comforter, she always hugged me and brought me water when she caught me crying.”

“She taught you well then.”

“Never thought I would be the one to comfort someone els. I am sorry about the Professor.” You sniffle and bite back the tears which are all too ready to resurface.

“He was a good man. First person to believe in me.”

“In what way?”

“When my eleventh birthday came and went with no magic my family was all so disappointed in me. I was a squib. Then this last summer my magic came in and still I was looked upon as a disappointment assumed to have weak and undeveloped magic. Then Fig came. He taught me about magic and helped me realize my ability to wield Ancient Magic.”

“I never knew that about you. You are so gifted I just assumed you transferred or something” Ominis marvels. You laugh and shrug

“I had a great teacher.”

“We both know there more to it a an than that.”

“Who knows, I am not sure what use it is since I couldn’t save so many…” your throat closes up at the thought and you swallow hard. Unexpectedly Ominis takes you in his arms again.

“You can not think like that. Think of the countless people you did save. The Professor did not die in vain. Fig gave his life for all of us.” Initially you stiffen at the contact then soften, you are not use to this side of Ominis but you are certainly not opposed.

[written-by-just-a-girl]

My little bright child You are just a fawn Scared to leave your own lawn You try to be a lion who rawrs But you cannot fight the war Still a cub at your core Fear oozes from every pore A sheep in wolf's clothing To your mother, you still cling A lamb lead to slaughter You hold your own halter Leading yourself to your doom You make your own tomb Surprised when danger lands Knowing it's from your own hands You fly away like a dove And shy away from love For you, your mother weeps and your father mourns Do you not feel shame at their sorrow? You continue to follow the foxes into their hollow They are cunning and for you gunning Why are you not running? Refusing to listen you hop all the way to the cage You lock yourself in a rage It's all you know Cannot differentiate between friend and foe You're the rabbit and the world's a bad habit Quit, quit now while you have time Before you get drunk on wine and the lines Take this advice o child of mine And get out get out get out Please get out my little bright child It's not safe out there in the wild

[nellycanwrite]

A Vow: a Fic Preview

Preview of Part 3 of “A Request” || Attuma x Talokanil!Princess!Reader

Summary: A war has been waged in your name. When all hell breaks loose, and when you have just risen from a week long coma, you are Talokan’s hope to turn the tides of battle to defeat the enemies who had hurt your people once and for all.

Or, in which you and Attuma were not happy with the King’s decision for allegiance.

Rating: 16+  ||  Viewer Discretion is Advised.

Note: It is worthy to note that I have not included any deep Yucatec Maya phrases (besides the terms of endearment) despite the Talokanil speaking in their native tongue as respect to their language. Therefore their mother tongue shall be labeled with italics.

More notes because the author can’t stop talking: Hi hi! Super sorry this took a while; I’m currently in the middle of moving from province to the (big, very very big, it’s literally the capital) city for college! Huzzah! It’s gonna take a week for me to fully settle in so I might be a tad bit slow on responses as well, so super sorry in advance if I can’t get to you in time. Nevertheless, the love I’ve gotten for this fic and my other BP:WF works have been nothing but heartwarming so I took the in-betweens of my move to update! Love you all so much! Muah!

Part 1 ||  Part 2 ||  Part 3 (Fic Preview)

“We have failed her. I had failed her,” he bowed his head in shame, “how dare I call myself her beloved—her sword, her shield—when she had been attacked by those people? How can I show myself to K'uk'ulkan when I have failed so miserably? I promised I'd be with her, but she—! But I just…”

Attuma must still be frustrated that the Wakandan princess isn’t dead, Namora thought.

Their warning to Wakanda was of great scale. K'uk'ulkan's righteous fury had so taken the life of the queen of their home nation. The life of a queen was the retribution delivered for scarring the crowning glory of Talokan's most precious treasure.

Hardly a fair exchange, one would argue, but you were the Radiant Pearl of the Sea. A drop of blood from your skin from the atrocities of a fiendish foe was worth a thousand deaths of their enemy's kin. 

Namora patted Attuma's back twice, her lips pressing into a thin line as she held back her own heartbreak. To see her childhood friends in such a state…it was eating her up from the inside out.

“You are still those things, Attuma. Her sword, her shield, her beloved,” Namora felt her own guilt weigh her down, but she held her chest up high to set an example for Attuma to see, “what happened in the caves was not your fault. K'uk'ulkan knows that. The princess knows—”

“It doesn't matter!” His voice was strong and mighty, the waters around then shaking by the anger and the frustrations from his voice. Attuma was grateful that they were still in the sea—his tears were hidden and drifting away with the currents.

“Attuma…”

“If that is all, Namora, then I'd appreciate it if you leave. I'll be there as soon as I am done.”

Namora sighed. 

Attuma's stubbornness was getting on her nerves.

“Have you so little faith in the princess?” The female warrior could hardly believe that those words had escaped her mouth. But the damage had been done; and it was something that needed to be said.

Attuma snapped his head to Namora in shock, but it slowly morphed into a warning glare.

“What are you instigating?” He asked with gritted teeth. Namora stared at him passively.

“You know her more than anyone. She will not blame you nor would she want you to practically weep whilst we prepare for our next battle. What would she say if she saw you despicably wallowing in self-pity?”

“You watch your mouth.” Attuma stood up, his frame towering over the female general and covering her whole. Despite the waves of rising anger, Namora did not stand down.

“Am I wrong?”

“You dare—”

Namora swiftly raised her spear and pointed it towards Attuma's neck. He glared daggers at his fellow general, but Namora's piercing gaze had left him speechless. Was this the power of K'uk'ulkan's own blood, he wondered, for such eyes would ground him and lower his gaze in their presence?

“You promised to burn them down in her name, correct? She will rouse in due time, but you were given an order. She has faith in you to carry her will; now it is your turn to have faith in her to do her part in recovery.” 

Attuma stayed silent.

Namora kicked his spear up and caught it mid-air. She lowered her own spear and shoved the shaft into his chest, her eyes burning with a new resolve. Attuma could only accept it while gripping the weapon with such strength that would have left dents in the metal if it weren't made of raw vibranium.

Namora hit the butt of her spear on the ground.

“You are wasted here. Instead of weeping for a circumstance that you cannot control, you have the power to fulfill her orders this instant. 'Burn the world,' was it? Well then—a battalion awaits your command to burn it with you, General Attuma.”

Attuma looked down on the weapon in his hands. It gleamed with an imminent danger, the inscriptions of his name carved into the metal. Along with it were delicate paintings of sharks and waves, something that you had so meticulously drawn for him as a joke, a playful way to annoy him, you always said. But he kept it there; you made it, after all. 

He glanced at you, your body incredibly still. His eyes lingered on your face, and like a helpless catch to a fisherman's bait, he slowly bent down to kiss your forehead and inhaled your scent one last time before he went to battle.

“I will follow your will to the ends of the earth. And though you lay still with no signs of waking, know that my heart lays with you, my love. My world…”

Namora stared impressed at Attuma as soon as he straightened himself with a newfound determination. There were no more signs of that pitiful man who stayed by your bedside while waiting for a miracle, no more signs of an estranged soldier who'd rather rot at your feet until you woke. 

In Namora's eyes he saw a steeled warrior. A king candidate who would fight to the death for his world.

And that world was you, his beloved.

“For the princess.” Namora raised her spear towards him, her chin held up higher in pride. Attuma followed suit, his spear drawn and spears clinking with a new promise.

A new vow.

For the first time since you had been bedridden, Attuma showed a sliver of a smile.

“For the princess.”

Taglist: @w0niecult @abbyeliza28 @fckwritersblock @chaoticevilbakugo @cascadingbliss @erisandra-noir @queen-bee-32 @rheannaaaz​ @antisocial-architect​ @lunamoonbby @kellzsthings @sodonuthideout @vilentia @llamayom  @violet-19999  @f-ergj @daddyslittlevillain @omgsuperstarg @liz776 @zeeader @atssukoo  @idontwannabeherenow @halalalalalalalala  @shebeast7121scared @spookymicrowave​ @nyainterlu4ee @blushsage 

[elluno]

Eli Eli lama sabachthani //

As Judah fell, ransacked, enslaved,

So too, my heart, in parts,

lays unbeaten before you.

Oh how you shun me, my King.

In my joy I am struck down;

In my weeping, admonished.

The light has been withheld from me, daily,

Yet it whispers to me promises of warmth,

in the dark, nightly.

I would rather you threw me

into the flames,

Once and for all, my King.

Why do you prolong my suffering?

I see enemies in friends and foe alike.

Why do you curse me with such useless sight?

Still, I must bless you.

Could it be that I misjudged you?

I fight off the words

‘I’ and ‘hate’ and ‘you’,

Too fearful to braid the sentence of three.

What if you smite me, while I am on my knees?

What other offering could I give to you?

I gave you my heart;

look at the state of it.

I thought it would be safe with you.

I thought I would be safe with you.

I cannot think anymore,

my thoughts betray me,

Violate me, or is that your voice?

I don’t know anymore.

[dragon-ashes1485]

Trick or treat! 🎃

helloooo my friend *holds out box*

🎃

In your treat box you have received:

A dwarven bracelet with a gemstone of any colour you choose that brings laughter and smiles to the wearer

A stunning meteor shower at midnight

Gigantic blackberries stolen by Harfoots, they are sweet or sour or both. But they are always juicy and ripe.

Lastly I give to you a time Elrond made Galadriel smile without even knowing it:

Galadriel has returned after an exhaustive journey. She has fought many foes and decided to take a brief respite, recharting her ships course to make a surprise visit to Elrond, who is staying with Elros in Númenor for a little while. She gets off the boat, clad in armour and feeling like all she wants to do is sleep and maybe weep a little.

But as she walks through the scented streets of Men, she hears the laughter of children. She turns the corner and sees Elrond, much taller than when they last spoke, crouched behind a market stall, playing hide and seek with Elros' children. They are giggling and hiding beneath Elrond's green cloak.

Elros turns the corner, searching high and low for them, no more looking identical to his twin in age. The giggling stops as he gets closer to the children's hiding spot when suddenly they all jump out at him yelling, "boo!". He falls back with a shriek and the children giggle in delight.

As Galadriel watches their uncle Elrond delighting in spoiling them, she feels rejuvenated and joyful again.