#broke my oath within an hour

[eye-of-yelough]

well that was quick

[themotherofhorses]

foolish men dream foolish lives

summary: it is our fate, I think, to crave always what is given to another.

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!targaryen!reader

warnings: explicit language. some small smut. voyeurism. breeding kink. incest between uncle and niece. allusion to pregnancy towards the end. aemond is a possessive little shit that does not mind breaking hearts and ruining lives.

notes: hi my little loves, please enjoy this little drabble i whipped up in like three hours this morning while i continue to work on the third part for my modern!reader series.

masterlist

Foolish men dream foolish lives, his lord father once said.

Looking back, this knight wished he believed it a little bit more.

He was a son of House Bywater, who left his homelands to take his summoning as a new houseguard for the royal family. By the request of the king, the Hand, Ser Otto Hightower, sent a raven to his family with the offer, and in the later summer months, the knight rode through the bronze gates of King’s Landing, excited and proud.

A moon later, the Kingsguards gave him sacred oaths to swear his life on, and then cloaked him in heavy chainmail and wools of blood-red and black. And from that day onward, he stood guard for the royal family, as they broke fast together in the mornings and slept at night and bustled around the Red Keep.

He found he grew favorable towards the Princess Helaena and her sweet children, as well as the Queen Alicent.

But none of them held a candle to the princess of Dragonstone.

He had not expected your arrival nor heard any news of it; instead, it came as a great surprise when he caught a small glimpse of you as you wandered through the castle hallways with your step-grandmother and aunt, dressed in a gown of the prettiest silks.

The People’s Princess, the court singers had named you. The only daughter born to Princess Rhaenyra and her royal consort, Prince Daemon, back on Dragonstone, you had been sent to King’s Landing for a marriage, he had then been told.

Perhaps his heart wept at that, but he could not remember.

You were like no other, bold and bright and beautiful as only one of dragon’s blood could be. Silver hair, and with the softest lilac eyes, you were of pure Valyrian blood, no doubt, highborn and a dragonrider.

He swore his heart and soul and sword to you and only you, though you had not the smallest clue. You were blind to his eyes, to his little gestures, and the protective nature he blanketed over you. Wherever you went, he was sure to follow, ever your shadow.

He loved you, so much so he thought his life unable to carry on if he could not have you.

But what could he do? Would a princess- like you- ever wed a simpleton of a royal houseguard, like him? Would a dragon of Old Valyria lay with a mere river fish of the crownlands?

And he thought himself very careful and secretive, figuring that no one could possibly know his feelings towards the princess. He bit his tongue and kept his gaze lowered to his feet whenever others took up the room she was in, and only worshipped her from afar.

Maybe if he prayed hard enough, to the Seven gods that seated themselves within the heavens, they would pity this poor knight, this white river fish, and bestow to him this princess as his wife.  

He smiled at that.

Yes, that would be wonderful.

And with that, he forgot his father’s words.

He had not meant to come across them.

The day had fallen to the evening, and he was making his way back to his room, tired and sore and hungry. And as he passed by one of the Keep’s little libraries, he overheard a sound. It was high-pitched and breathless, a woman’s moan.

Prince Aegon with one of his whores? He thought, curiously.

It was not his business, he knew, but he could not stop himself. He peered into the room, ever so slightly, mindful of any noise he made. And with what he saw, his heart broke.

His dear princess, the love of his miserable life, riding the second son of King Viserys II and Queen Alicent, the Prince Aemond One Eye. You bounced on his cock, fast and hard, resembling more a wonton and unashamed whore of the Street of Silk rather than the princess he knew and loved and desired.

Your pretty gown- his favorite of yours- crumpled around your waist, and both your ample breasts were yanked out from inside your bodice, with Aemond palming at them.

“How does it feel, my love? My darling girl, my sweet bride,” he heard Aemond ask, while sliding down a hand to rest on your hipbone. “Does it feel good? Tell me, how do I make you feel?”

You moaned, tossing your head back as your hips rocked, in some desperate attempt to match his thrusts. Your eyes fluttered close, and one of your hands flew to your breast, covering Aemond’s, whimpering a bit as he tweaked your nipple. “Oh! Oh, so good,” you mumbled, pretty face scrunching up in pleasure.

The knight could see the countless bruises and love bites scattered along your neck and breasts, and could not ignore the way your lips were pink and swollen.

“You’re so good for me, my love,” Aemond purred, “-so tight and perfect. Fucking made for my cock.”

The princeling was without his usual eyepatch, and the knight saw the blue sapphire he wore beneath in his empty eye socket. He had not believed it at first, waving it off as the lowborn’s stupid gossip. “My pretty bride, my beautiful wife. All mine,” and he flattened a hand against your shoulder blade, bending you down, so your face fell over his.

“Tell me that you want my seed, niece,” the prince hissed, through low grunts and moans, “beg me, wife. Beg me, and by tomorrow, our son will be in your belly.”  

“Aemond…!” you gasped out, fingers combing through his damp hair as you tugged his face and lips up to yours. “Please, uncle…! I want it- I need it! Oh, don’t make me beg, please, just give it to me,” you cried, pressing your forehead against his, your hips slamming against his own as you quickened your riding, feeling your cunt tightening around his cock.

“I promise…I promise to be a good wife! The best wife! A good mother…to our kids! Please, please!”

The knight could not watch any longer, almost in tears. He had not known that your uncle, Prince Aemond One Eye, was your intended betrothed. His beating heart felt pierced and frayed within his chest, and he wondered if his soul just died, along with every little hope and dream of a future by your side, as your husband and protector and father to your children.

He turned and resumed his way back to his room, trying to ignore the fading echoes of your ongoing little moans and whimpers, for the sake of what was left of his own dignity and sanity.

The next morning, after the royal family broke fast, Prince Aemond Targaryen pulled him aside.

There was a smirk twisted on his lips when he said, “My many thanks to you, my good knight, for keeping guard as my princess and I made our first child last night. When he is born, I shall ask for you to become his sworn protector, along with the rest of my children.”  

[sotwk]

Taken (Eomer x unnamed OC )

Part 1 of 3

Part 2 / Part 3

Love Confession feat. Eomer Eadig

Valentine 2023 Event by @sotwk

Summary: The lone shield-maiden in Eomer's Éored has been secretly in love with him for years, but has long accepted that that he can never share those feelings. At the feast of King Elessar's coronation, she is surprised to learn that there may yet be hope.

Prompt: "It's like you never really see me. I'm standing right in front of you and you don't see me!"

Requested by and Dedicated to: @writefortherain-blog Thank you for making this request and giving me the opportunity to write for Eomer!

Word count: 2.4k

Content: Romance, angst, mutual pining, oblivious to love, jealousy, forbidden relationship, class division, shield-maiden, King Eomer, post-RotK

Rating: T (Teens and up)

Warnings: Some sensuality

To Read on AO3: Link

Taken 

Third Age 3019 May 1

Minas Tirith

PART ONE

Downing that fourth cup of wine had been a mistake. Or was it the fifth? Sixth? The ridiculous dress with its rib-crushing bodice and neckline positioned nowhere near your neck, had also been a mistake, even though the local clother had insisted to you that it was in the "proper" Gondorian fashion. The entire evening and its inconveniences had all been for a failed end. 

You finally jostled your way out of the packed feasting hall and stumbled outside to the courtyard, your compressed lungs and flushed skin rejoicing at their contact with the cool night air. One hand rose to massage your throbbing temple, and the other clawed irritatedly at the boning that caged in your unacceptably unfeminine frame. 

"Never again," you seethed under your breath, as you crossed the white-stone pavement to move even farther away from the chaos you escaped. 

It had been a painful decision to ride out to Minas Tirith with the rest of your Éored and attend the coronation of the returned King of Gondor. You despised grand affairs, knowing well enough the requirements rules of court would impose on you, unwieldy formal attire being just one of them. These were at least tolerable within Rohan, where you could find some comfort amongst familiar faces and settings. But as the lone female who rode in the company of the Third Marshal, you refused to be excluded from any undertaking by your Éored, however dangerous or unpleasant. Whether it broke your arm or shattered your heart.

"I can just go," you thought, casting a quick glance back at the great hall, alive and alight with the merry cacophony of a thousand revelers that would surely last until dawn. The two hours you already spent mingling to the best of your limited ability had to suffice, and it was doubtful your presence would even be missed. 

But the call of a deep voice stalled your retreat, loud and commanding and instantly recognizable even across a distance as it shouted your name. The soldier in you succumbed to the instinct to obey your Marshal, to honor the oath you had sworn on your knees years ago. 

The flickering flames of nearby torchlights reflected against the carved silver panels of the breastplate he donned over his lavishly embroidered tunic. Famously handsome even when caked in blood and grime, Eomer was breathtakingly resplendent bearing the regalia that befitted his station. King Eomer now, you reminded yourself, as you dipped your head in a bow. 

“My lord.”

“Is something amiss? Why did you leave?” His narrowed eyes upon you were penetrating, his tone demanding rather than concerned. Lying to someone you had spent practically every single day of your adult life with was difficult, and even more so with an addled brain, so you knew you had to mince words carefully.  

Fortunately, you had years of practice doing exactly that. 

“I underestimated the potency of their vintage, and downed one cup too many.” You scrunched up your features in a grimace that just slightly exaggerated your pain. “I thought it best to excuse myself and retire for the night.”

“Perhaps if you rested a while and ate some food…” He rested a hand lightly on your shoulder. “It is much too early and the quarters would still be empty. I know you detest fraternizing, but just sit at the table with the rest of our men.”

You released a graceless guffaw and a puff of wine-tinged breath. “Half of them are already deeper in their cups than I, and getting sloppier by the second. I finally had to remind Héothain of his manners the second time he tried to sneak a hand down the front of my dress.”

“He did what?” Eomer’s sudden growl awakened you to your own carelessness and slip of the tongue. Smooth-cheeked Héothain was the youngest and newest addition to the Éored, and remained sorely lacking in experience with women. He should not be held accountable for his awkwardness amplified by insobriety. 

“It was a silly mistake that caused no harm,” you insisted, pulling back as Eomer attempted to lead you off by the elbow. “Two sprained fingers taught him a lesson he shall not soon forget.” 

Eomer glowered at you but remained silent for a pause, as he did whenever running through courses of action in his mind. “Then you can come sit by me at the King’s table.”

Your laugh in response to that suggestion was shrill and nervous, as he looked so serious making it. “I most certainly cannot… my lord.” You stated your defiance firmly, baring a toothless pertinacity against your leader, and underneath it a silent plea that the friend in him would understand. “There is no place for me amongst such esteemed company and truly, there is nothing in the world I would enjoy less at this moment.” 

You sighed and braced one hand below your rib area, massaging a spot where the corset dug into a still-tender battle injury. 

“Please. Let me go back to my room where I can be rid of these dreadful garments.”

“No.” The immediacy and sharpness of his refusal made you blink in surprise. “Not until you explain yourself to my satisfaction.”

“Pardon, my lord?”

“Hah, there! That is what I am speaking of.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand--”

“When did you cease to call me by my name in private conversation? Or last bother to converse with me at all?!” You took too long to answer, and he barreled on, hazel eyes flashing with the sudden rise of agitation. “Let me enlighten you, since I recall it well. It began after Theodred’s death, accompanied by a host of other changes in your behavior towards me that you think I have not noticed!”

You scrambled to concoct a rebuttal, another feint to keep him from uncovering your secrets. Alas, your dulled mind had frozen completely in the face of the horse-lord’s fury, which had never been directed at you in such a manner.

“You are misreading things, my lord, or else imagining them. I cannot say that I--”

“You cannot even look me in the eye these days of late!” Eomer snapped. “Nor can you stand to be in any room I am in for long.” He threw out his arm in the direction of the great hall. “Even now you rebuff any attempt I make to spend time with you.”

“I…I…” You stammered, rendered helpless before his unexpected wrath, cursing yourself for the poor timing of your inebriation. How could you put up your shields when your mind was struggling to pick out your own lies from the truth?

“If you are angry with me, I would have you admit to it now. I will no longer be played for a fool.”

Indignation pooled in your gut, crawling upward until it deepened the coloring of your already flushed face. “I confess to nothing! For what cause do I have to be angry?”

“Because you loved him!” Eomer erupted. As you gaped at his outburst, he gripped a fistful of his hair, and took in one sharp breath, steeling himself. “You loved Theodred,” he finally said, in a voice gone cold and quiet. “And you place blame on me for his death.”

The fire in your belly flared at the terrible accusation. “Theodred was murdered by Saruman, and only a traitor would fault you for that vile cur’s deed.” You shook a finger at him emphatically. “I am no traitor.”

“Did you love my cousin?”

“Of course I did,” you said stoutly. The prince’s demise plagued you still, for you had been the one to spot Theodred’s body amongst the corpses that littered the fords. And after he’d been borne away to Meduseld, you never saw him alive again, and all you could do was weep in the privacy of your quarters, which you did for weeks, mourning the loss of so much more than a dear friend and mentor. 

“No one has ever shown me greater kindness than Theodred.” You held a hand over your heart as a different ache rose in you. “He believed in me at a time when no one else would, not even you." 

Eomer had fallen silent, but you saw his cloaked shoulders rise and fall, broad chest heaving in the manner so familiar to you. It was the way he looked on the battlefield, where his blood ran hottest, and he was fighting to balance out the genteel lord and savage killer that both resided within him. He was so thoroughly upset with you. 

“If I have made you feel like your cousin’s fate was in any way your fault, I am truly sorry,” you said. "But what sort of questions are these, and why are you asking them now?"

His gaze flicked back in your direction, leaden with anguish. "You should know why."

“I am telling you I do not, my lord, and I must beg you to explain why you are speaking so cryptically."

“You wish for me to explain in words something I have been trying to show you for years now?!” He gave a strangled laugh and raised his eyes and hands to the night sky. "Bema…"

“It is as though you never really see me,” he muttered, almost as though speaking to himself. “Here I am, standing right in front of you, and you do not see me!"

But you did hear his mumbled complaints, and suddenly it was all too much. Your sickening weariness, your aches both physical and emotional, your befuddlement caused by the six drinks and this man's unhinged raging as he launched yet another ludicrous accusation at you.

"Not see you?" you repeated, and something about just saying it rammed open the gate behind which you had caged up every real thing you ever wanted to say to Eomer, Son of Eomund. 

"If such a thing were possible, I would wish it upon myself immediately!" you exclaimed. "But you are all I ever see, even when I do not wish to! Even when I flee from your presence, I can never escape a face that refuses to leave my thoughts!" 

Oh Valar, no. STOP. Panicked, you bit down on your lip to imprison the words fleeing your mouth, so hard you tasted blood. But Eomer suddenly moved forward, encroaching on the space you desperately fought to maintain for your own protection, and his hazel eyes locked into yours to wrench away the last of your defenses. 

"It hurts too much, can you not understand?!" you cried, managing one step back. "To remain in the presence of the one thing you most desire but will never have, to be taunted by a dream that will never be fulfilled, to watch as it falls into the possession of another while you can do absolutely nothing!"

He spoke your name, his voice oddly hoarse, and shame finally came crashing down inside you. Your hands flew up to hide your face and suddenly he grabbed your wrists, tugging your arms away only to replace your hands with his own, warming your cheeks with his calloused palms. 

“Then see me now,” he ordered. “And know I have always understood how that feels. What great fools we have both been all along to deny ourselves our true desires.”

“Eomer, what--” The stroke of his thumb over the corner of your mouth drove the rest of the words away, and the parting of your lips and flutter of your eyes gave him the approval he sought. 

His kiss tasted more glorious than they did in a thousand daydreams combined. It did not surprise you that he was completely unlike the other men you had kissed before. Whereas lesser men were greedy and sloppy in their hunger, the caress of Eomer’s mouth was deep and languid, almost worshipful in its exploration of your lips, as though he aimed to savor every small sensation and intended to carry on doing this with you forever. 

His one arm looped around your waist to hold you covetously against him; his broad left hand traveled from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, his long fingers burying themselves into your hair, tips grazing your scalp. It fired up a new heat in you that you had never felt before, not with such raw intensity, and a tremulous whimper escaped your throat. 

But the sound of your own pleasure was your undoing, for it triggered an alarm in your head, one that caused you to break away from Eomer’s passion. You mumbled against his lips the words you had conditioned yourself for years to think around him. 

“My lord, I cannot…”

He paused, his eyes still dazed and unfocused, caught in a state of bliss--one that you caused, you realized with a shiver. “You cannot… what?” he said thickly. Without waiting for an answer, he dipped back in eagerly to trail his mouth up your jawline, his tongue skimming the tender pulse underneath your ear. 

You gave a small cry and pushed against his chest with more force, immediately waking his attention. His arm around your waist remained stubbornly secure however, and it took you physically prying the powerful limb off for you to slip free. Either due to shock or lingering delirium, Eomer did not resist. 

“I cannot…” Your voice broke even as you clung to your resolve. “I cannot have you.”

His heavy brows furrowed. “What?” Within seconds the confusion lifted to uncover his dismay, layered with anger. “You would speak lies and nonsense again, after everything I told you?”

“It is the truth, Eomer!” You started backing away already, stepping faster and faster as he began to move and reach out for you. “You can never be anything more than a dream to someone like me. I cannot have what is already taken.”

“Taken? What--wait! No!” He started to run, but you had already turned heel and were sprinting full-speed towards the Citadel Gate. You had always been faster on your feet; there was no hope of him catching up if you refused to heed his orders. “Stop!”

His shouts of your name faded quickly, drowned out by the noise of the milling crowd you plunged into and the thunder of your own frantic heartbeat. You slowed to a walk but kept a quick pace, weaving haphazardly through the throng and on and on until you’d descended at least two levels. Only then did you duck into a side street and survey your surroundings.

Your escape succeeded. Neither Eomer nor any Rohirrim were anywhere to be found, at least for the moment.

You collapsed upon the nearest doorstep, exhaustion and aches finally overcoming you. As the chaotic whirlwind within you settled, so too did the reality of what just occurred sink in. 

Eomer desired you, perhaps even loved you as you did him. But the King of Rohan’s love was not for you, a common soldier, to take. You had known that all along, and he did too. It was unkind of him to give you such false hope. 

Raising your fingers to your swollen lips, you felt the ghost of his perfect kisses on them, and finally burst into tears over yet another memory that will grieve you until your trampled heart could bear no more.

To be continued...

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[c0rvidbones]

Fem!Durge Paladin x Gale

When the Durge finds out what she once was, and an Oath that was unintentionally broken.

My Durge, Daekrana (Or Dana to those she cares for) did not handle the news of who she once was well. Not hours before, her Oath to the Raven Queen had been broken, and she was already unwell.

Contains: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, allusion/reference to animal death

Be gentle I have never posted anything on here for this before <3

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

Dana felt sick to her stomach when her eyes fell over the letter she found. It was her own handwriting. And what it said was truly horrifying. Gale, Karlach, and Astarion kept a loose watch as she poked through the littered texts of the desk, but it was Gale who saw his lover's hands trembling. Moreso than they already had been when she had been overtaken by the Urge earlier and broke her oath. That gutted feeling already had her a bit compromised, but otherwise unharmed - Dana had said she would fix it that evening as there were far more important matters to deal with.

Gale leans slightly to peek over Dana's head - it isn't hard, his paladin is awfully short for an elf - but she crumpled the letter and shoved it in her bag before he could see Anything other than the hue of the ink. Red like blood. He was curious, but Dana's now Severe expression and more-pallid-than-usual complexion told him not to pry yet.

She would turn and motion for the others, the scale of her armour making sufficient noise for them to hear and turn to see the sign. They follow, and onward they proceeded through the colony. Dana stayed silent the entire fight, her expression hard, cold, a thick wall of defensive mask thrown up to shield herself from this mental strain.

Defeating Ketheric and then the avatar of Myrkul was quick work for her and Karlach, both dealing significantly heavy damage with their respective weapons and combined strengths of Rages and Smites.

It was immediately after the battle and evacuation with Aylin to the main halls of Moonrise that the elf would toss her hammer aside in an unusual outburst of emotion, quickly walking away from her party and Outside of the halls, her hands coming up and pulling her braids and ponytail out in an anxious Fit. She stayed within the light of the moonlanterns, but just barely. Just at the edges. She stared off into the shadow-cursed lands, her hair let down for the first time in a long time, her eyes glazed with a mix of tormented agonies and dejected acceptance. She drops into a crouch, her feet staying firmly planted but hugging her knees to her chest, her forehead pressed to her forearms.

She could Feel Gale standing nearby. He didn't pry, didn't speak. He instead knelt beside his lover and slid an arm around her, cautious in the event she shied away but warmed when he felt her shoulder lightly lean into him.

No tears fell, but she was grateful for the company. He didn't quite know what was going on, but he would be here all the same. He does know when to be quiet, contrary to popular belief, and he stays with her as she mentally processed whatever she was thinking of.

It had been a two-for-one. Hours before she found that letter, she had come across Steelclaw, she had tried to grasp at memories and instead had grasped the feline's head in her hands and... well. She felt sick thinking about it. And little would let her forget the ripping sensation of her oath being broken and the vision of the first Oathbreaker knight. A piece of her still feels missing, and now she can't even find the words to get her oath repaired.

After a few drawn moments, she forcibly takes a deep breath, lightly shrugging Gale's hand from her shoulder and standing, her back turning as she starts putting her hair back up into its ponytail and braids, already walking back into the towers. Gale frowns, a little hurt but willing to look past it for sake of knowing this just isn't what Dana usually acts like. He tails her inside, watching her fetch her hammer and stow it on her back where she always carries it, her expression carefully blank as she listens to Dame Aylin and Isobel's reuniting.

After returning to camp, Dana would approach the black knight that uptook residence not far from Gale's camp, and before the knight could speak, she had gently taken the armoured undead by the wrist - another surprise, as she seemed to loathe touch from anyone other than Gale, with the lone exception being a hug from Karlach when she had finally fixed her engine - and wordlessly lead the knight to the most isolated part of the camp. She was still in sight of everyone, and the knight's posture seemed as formal as ever. Yet nobody could hear the first words she spoke when her lips parted save for the knight himself.

"I will accept the title of oathbreaker. I... deserve. The fall."

The knight paused, aware that she was perhaps making the agreement as a self inflicted punishment, but he would nod and lift a hand, his firelight eyes dimming as he speaks the words to induct her.

Hours later, she still won't speak, even as she sets up her part of Gale's tent, and though her paladin auras are still active... one feels new. Like her allies are stronger when close to her.

She lies beside Gale, not initially seeking contact, but after a few breaths, she hesitantly slips her hand into his. Not mad at him, and trying her hardest to not let her emotions rip her away from him. Gale squeezes her hand, his voice soft and concerned, "Did you want to talk about it?" Dana shook her head, her blue-black eyes closing, her brows knitting. Gale tries a different tactic, "I can wait. But holding on to what troubles you is never healthy. I... just want you to remember I'm here for you, alright?" She nods, and after another moment, turns to her side and pull's Gale's arm around her before draping her arm around his waist, pushing her head into his chest. He kisses her forehead and folds her into his arms without another word, lacing his fingers through her hair. She sinks into a trance quickly, and Gale is quick to follow in sleep.

The next day is a horrible and gutwrenching series of events for Dana - the Emperor, Wyrm's Crossing's state, the poor blacksmith replaced by the changeling woman as well as the dryad, and the Circus of Last Days' whole fiasco. That night she chose to rest alone, and was awoken by her wretched little butler of a beast. She spoke with very few syllables and a bounty of irate glares, yet what broke her in full was the mention of what she was at last. Her eyes were wide with horror, and even after sending the butler away, she couldn't fall back into a rest. Her first reaction was to go to the knight again, this time her voice weak and watery, tears threatening to claim her. "How. How did I become a paladin. When I am this. Have I broken my Oath before? How many times have we met, knight?"

He answered calmly. "Who you are does not bar you from chosen paths in life. You have broken it before, and resworn it before. We have met plenty of times. It will always be up to you if it is the last."

Shaking her head, her heart splintering, she called off everything for that day to linger in camp, feeling like a ghost. She would find her way to Gale by nightfall, waiting for him to come into his own tent, standing with her slight and trembling frame looking like a mess, her symbol to the Raven Queen clutched desperately in her hands. Gale looked surprised and wary at first, hesitating before closing the tent flap behind himself and casting a security spell. To keep people from hearing Dana and himself, but prepared to break it should she lose control as she had all those nights ago.

Instead, he's greeted with - at last, once again - her voice. Though it's strained and weak, and barely holding back tears. "Gale," She's already shaking like a leaf, and his wariness shifts into genuine alarm. She sounds desperate, on the verge of a dangerous despair that she can't escape without help. He's in front of her in a heartbeat, his arms slipping around her waist, and hers slide under his to cling to him. Her strength feels returned at least, though it's so unnerving to see the usually calm and level headed paladin shattering like she has been. Gut-wrenching sobs escape her small frame as she presses her face into his chest, and he slowly sinks into a kneeling position with her in his arms, keeping her close

Even as she weeps, her words are a jumbled, mottled mess that Gale can blessedly understand. "Gale, I'm a much worse person than I thought I was, how did I ever swear an oath, how did I ever serve the Raven Queen, how did I ever end up with kind people on all sides while I'm a revolting monster?" He soothed a hand up and down her back, his voice gentle and as reassuring as he can muster.

"Dana, my love, you're not a monst—"

"I AM! GALE —" Her voice is far louder than she intends, pulling herself out of his arms with a reluctant force, her arms wrapping around her as she bows her head. Refusing comfort. Her voice crumbles, "I. I'm — a Bhaalspawn, Gale, and not just any Bhaalspawn, but the one that started the Absolute Cult. If the former was not enough to condemn me, then the latter would. I'm sickened by myself, I - I was horrible. I was a monster — AM, a monster, gods," She groans, burying her face in her hands, pressing the small raven skull to her skin, "I did so many terrible things, why would y—"

She gasps, as if the next touch burned, but Gale had pushed her hands from her face to force her to look him in the eye. Tear-stained cheeks flush as he presses a kiss to her lips to silence her fears and spiralling, and when he breaks it, he presses his forehead to hers with a fire in those soft brown eyes of his, her own still wide in shock. "Daekrana. You are a vastly different person from who you were then. You have fought and resisted every violent thought and impulse until you thought you were safe. You slipped, and you have mourned your mistake. Admittedly, you being a Bhaalspawn is a surprise, but you can't chase me away that easily. Who you were was a monster, sure, but is that who you are now? The woman who fought the goblins, convinced Khaga she was wrong, saved the myconids, the gnomes, the Harpers, the tieflings?Would you call those the actions of a monster?" His smile is genuine and sweet, her expression glassy with awe and a new wave of tears. She shakes her head just a little, and his smile softens a touch, though no less loving. "You've been terribly strong and brave, my love. I assume this is what was eating you alive for the past few days - please. Allow yourself to be weak with me. I can be strong enough for the both of us, at least for a little while."

A weak bubbled laugh escapes her, as she allows Gale to bring her back into his arms. "Strong in the mental sense. I can still carry you around. You hardly weigh anything to me." The fact she was able to tease him meant she believed it, and he chuckled, though a flush still found his face as she slid close enough to settle in his lap.

"True, though if you didn't wear the world's heaviest armour and carry an oversized hammer everywhere, I could still probably carry you. Your height makes you less cumbersome in my arms than I assumedly am in yours, love." He still sounds fond and sweet, and Dana sinks into him, relieved by his comforting embrace.

[mail-posting]

magic and monsters... my many hours poring over my 10 dnd 5e sourcebooks are coming for me. gonna just touch on ale for right now i think because otherwise i will yap for. an eternity. (the racial thoughts are supplementary for most bc i'm not fully sure, except in andrew's case where i have reasons for my thoughts.) andrew: dark elves (drow in 5e) are sunlight sensitive and also there's a whole stigma due to the predisposition they have in lore to be evil-aligned (yes i know they're dedicated to lolth and exceptions are rare but. it fits andrew ok. he can't see shit in the light, people see him and think he's a certain way... ough.) as for his class, i could see him as trying to be life domain cleric (life domain is all about healing and caring for those in need), but he instead is given the grave domain (focused on keeping the cycle of life, keeping the dead dead) or light domain (light is focused on rebirth and truth- though a lot of spells involve flashbanging the opposition and andrew could see that as his penance for asking the deity's aid). if he were a paladin, i'd see him as an oath of devotion one, its tenets line up with how he thinks i feel! also when he fails to save someone or when something happens that is out of his control he'd blame himself long before anyone else would, thinking he broke his oath when he never did... and we have bright light emittance as a capstone ability which. not good for him!! he can't see!! he has str/con from his work, and i think he'd be better at wis than cha (points for cleric - paladins cast with charisma and clerics with wisdom), int is around the middle and his dex is not good. luca: get that boy into the artificer class! i feel like he'd absolutely have an engineering focus, as an artillerist perhaps (sometimes he needs to build a cannon, ok? it's enrichment), or maybe battle smith (a sort of defensive class, which could make sense. he doesn't remember what he originally worked on, but he can work with these tools still, he can make sure he doesn't hurt anyone this time. he can protect them. right?) as for race if we go on dnd standards, i'd place him as a... maybe a half elf, elf on herman's side? maybe a gnome too. that impulsive nature is extremely gnome of him, and i believe he had a good amount of that before he uh. yeah. high int and cha, low str and con, dex and wis in the middle. emil: this man can zoom! give him a high dex stat and a scout rogue build (able to nyoom out of the way of opponents and excels at moving fast: knowing his grappling hook, we could apply that logic), with some barbarian or fighter multiclass to represent his fighting he had to do if we want the pain. i think barbarian due to the focus on channeling rage, though the heavy focus on certain spiritualities and the 'primal path' wording is difficult since i don't think he grew up with connections to living in the area the flavor text associates with barbarians, he just had to survive. beast path where he's been treated like a dog so long he becomes one in battle... berserker path where the memory is just as fuzzy as always, but now with a new goal in mind... sorry. im ill. i could see him as like. a dwarf perhaps? maybe whoever he is he's out of place where he lives currently until he meets andrew and luca and finds a family within them... looking alike never meant belonging. and these two really make him feel like he belongs.

@laceadornedvampire

[lysapadin]

As I sat there at my ease, cross-legged on the deck; after the bitter exertion at the windlass; under a blue tranquil sky; the ship under indolent sail, and gliding so serenely along; as I bathed my hands among those soft, gentle globules of infiltrated tissues, woven almost within the hour; as they richly broke to my fingers, and discharged all their opulence, like fully ripe grapes their wine; as I snuffed up that uncontaminated aroma,—literally and truly, like the smell of spring violets; I declare to you, that for the time I lived as in a musky meadow; I forgot all about our horrible oath; in that inexpressible sperm, I washed my hands and my heart of it; I almost began to credit the old Paracelsan superstition that sperm is of rare virtue in allaying the heat of anger; while bathing in that bath, I felt divinely free from all ill-will, or petulance, or malice, of any sort whatsoever.

Squeeze! squeeze! squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that sperm till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a strange sort of insanity came over me; and I found myself unwittingly squeezing my co-laborers’ hands in it, mistaking their hands for the gentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was continually squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally; as much as to say,—Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy! Come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness.

Would that I could keep squeezing that sperm for ever! For now, since by many prolonged, repeated experiences, I have perceived that in all cases man must eventually lower, or at least shift, his conceit of attainable felicity; not placing it anywhere in the intellect or the fancy; but in the wife, the heart, the bed, the table, the saddle, the fireside, the country; now that I have perceived all this, I am ready to squeeze case eternally. In thoughts of the visions of the night, I saw long rows of angels in paradise, each with his hands in a jar of spermaceti.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Convicts Have Own Ideas of Life's Values," Montreal Star. June 7, 1933. Page 3 & 11. ---- Words Of Wit And Wisdom Are Gleaned From Evidence In Recent Trials ---- THE trials of various St. Vincent de Paul convicts, in connection with last November's rioting at that institution, which have just been completed before Mr.Justice Wilson, in the Court of King's Bench, were not without their words of wisdom and various offering of humor and sarcasm from various prisoners from the great convict station heard in the witness-box.

One after another they took the oath and told their respective stories, either for the Crown or for the defence. Some of them appeared to be human derelicts indeed, but others, either by smart bearing, a flashing smile, a turn of phrase or evident ambition to ingratiate themselves, gave proof of light undimmed by long years of imprisonment.

To begin with, they are not "convicts"; the word is never used. They are "Inmates" to officialdom and "cons" to one another. There are some 1,100 of them in the great penitentiary just outside Montreal and it is very evident that social scale exists within its four grim walls, in just as marked a degree as "outside."

The "stool," or stool-pigeon, for whom the "con" has a name not used in polite society, bears the brand of Judas among his fellows. Then,too, your ordinary, common-or-garden criminal, thug, stick-up man, burglar, thief or what have you, has a bitter contempt for the man committed for statutary offences and unnatural crimes. A man with a long record, even among hardened criminals, stigmatized one of these degenerates from the witness-box.

CHESTER Crosley, with 10 previous prison and penitentiary terms to his discredit and self-admitted ringleader of part of the trouble, who pleaded guilty to setting fire to the trades' building of the penitentiary, provided the court with a bright 20 minutes while he told his own story of the affair. He gave his crime record with pride, but staunchly insisted that he had never committed perjury and did not intend to.

Asked by the Court what had happened to him after the fire broke out and he had seen to its spreading by sprinkling gasoline, Crossley said: "Then I got cut off. I was taken out of there two hours later, with my body all burned. The remains stand before you now!" "Pretty solid remains," said Mr. Justice Wilson, when the laughter had subsided.

Incidentally, "Jazz" Crossley, as his fellow-prisoners call him because there is always a song on his lips, lays all his troubles at the feet of fate. "You have not been very lucky," said the Court when the negro's history had been told.

"That's what comes of being born at midnight," answered the witness, showing two perfect rows of teeth. GEORGES BOIVIN, serving life term for manslaughter, star witness for the Crown in several cases, came under fire of defence counsel for his very apparent willingness to help the authorities. He had just finished a somewhat dramatic recital of one of the incidents of the trouble and of his own share in it. "You read detective stories; Sherlock Holmes and that sort of thing?" suggested the lawyer. "Oh no, Sir," retorted the "lifer" fixing his interrogator with a knowing eye, "I would not go as far as that!"

A BURLY negro, who, according to his own evidence was beset with "breakin' an' enterin'" was being loaded into the patrol wagon of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police for the ride from the penitentiary to the court house. He lagged in the line. "Come on, Rastus! Get a move on!" said the red-coated corporal in charge of the party. "Who is you callin' Rastus?" was the smiling retort.

When the party unloaded at the court house cells, the police officer asked the convict "What is your name, anyway?" The answer came in the same clear, slow modulated voice in which the man later gav eevidence in court. "Ma name is Arthur Morton an' I may tell you that I was very much offended when you call me Rastus!"

Another bright spot in a sordid business was Howard Macdonald, who began a considerable career of crime in Calgary, some years ago. He broke out of Burwash and in prepared to "argue the point" with almost anyone who wants to discuss his affairs; even judges. But there is something about this 6 foot 1 3.4 ins. giant that catches the eye and the sympathies. Here is a bad lad, but with the indefinable "some-thing," which one saw in "king's hard bargains" overseas: the same "something" which brought them from detention to be star performers in tight corners. "Mac" will be heard from, yet!

[celynsdream]

Jedi Ceremonies (Pt. 3)

Continued from https://celynsdream.tumblr.com/post/704747542656778240/jedi-ceremonies-pt-1 & https://celynsdream.tumblr.com/post/704747653902237696/jedi-ceremonies-pt-2

◆ Concordance of Fealty

“I, Knight/Master/Councilor (Insert Name-Surname here), entrust my lightsaber to you, Knight/Master/Councilor (Insert Name-Surname here), until I return. In entrusting my lightsaber to you, I give you my trust until the end of days.”

“Knight/Master/Councilor (Insert Name-Surname here), I have something to return to you. It is a product of your own hands, which you once entrusted to mine. In returning this lightsaber, I return your trust.”

When a Jedi is placed on the Blacklist

“You, (Insert Master/Knight’s name here), have overstepped your bounds where Padawan (Insert surname here) is concerned. You swore to them that you would care, guide, and teach them, but you broke that oath. There can be no second chances given when a Padawan is at stake, and we, the High Council, unanimously agree to put your name on the Blacklist.” 

A member of the Supply department is standing by to give the Blacklisted Jedi their new robes, with their embroidery covered in a thick black fabric.

When a Jedi is exiled from the Temple

“Padawan/Knight/Master (Insert name here), you have broken the Trust placed in you by the Order. You have broken the oaths sworn to your Temple, and you will not be given a second chance to break the oaths again. You will be exiled, tracked by the Guards, not to be permitted within one ship-length of (Insert Planet that the Temple is located on)’s airspace until the time of the exile has concluded. Under discussion, the Council has decided that the exile will last (Insert length of time of Exile here). From the end of the meeting, you will have six hours to gather what you need, and then you will be escorted to the ship that will remove you from (Insert planet again here)’s airspace until your time has concluded. May the Force decide your path.”

When a Jedi Falls

“As there are two sides to the Force, there is always a decision to be made as to which path to walk. Padawan/Knight/Master (insert surname here) has chosen to walk the path of the Dark, chosen to walk the path of possessiveness and selfishness. They are no longer considered a member of the Order from this day on. May the Force guide them.”

When a Jedi Leaves the Order

“Despite the years served, Padawan/Knight/Master (Insert name here) has chosen to depart from the Order due to (Insert reason here, if applicable). They still regain the qualifications and inter-galaxy benefits granted to them by their position, but are no longer allowed to consider themselves representatives of the Order. Despite this, they will still be remembered for their acts in service of the Order and the wider Galaxy. May the Force watch over, and guide their path until the end of days.”

When a Jedi Switches Branches

“Padawan/Knight/Master (Insert surname here) has been called by the Force to serve in a different manner than first intended. They will transfer to (Insert new branch here), to serve the Order as a member of (Insert sub-group of new branch here), until the end of their days. May the Force guide their hands as they learn the new branch of service.”

[shutupyeats]

It’s important, when the plot calls for you to draw a large, angry Black man, not to make him look too much like Uncle Ruckus.  At the same time, if ever anyone deserved to be drawn with a dash of hyperbole, it’s a Command Sergeant Major in the midst of calling some hapless SFC on the carpet over what exact shade of white the extra duty section painted his rocks or some shit.  It’s also worth noting that he is in fact chewing out a white man, from a position of unquestioned authority.  20 years ago or so, when people were looking at the military with rose-colored glasses more so than today, some Republican — Colin Powell or Charles Krauthammer or someone — pointed out that the military was one of the few places in American life, even at that late date, where Black people routinely were in charge of large numbers of white people.  Obviously those rose-colored glasses covered a lot, but there you have it.  Pretty sure this is a realistic scene, at any rate, because this guy ticks all of the Command Sergeant Major boxes, viz:

o Is gigantic.*

o** Veteran of six wars.

o Mustard stain from Granada. Yes, Granada.

o Spent his whole career in 82nd ABD / 25th ID because HOOAH, now assigned to an ABCT and does not know what boresighting is, never mind that, look how many bricks I have in my ruck.

o Once broke three of Mike Tyson’s teeth in a bar fight in Mexico City in 1992.

o Promoted beyond his skill set, unsure of his role and unfireable except for gross misconduct, he chooses to focus his efforts on a handful of trivial pet peeves well within his understanding but irrelevant to unit performance.

o Photos on wall of him in LRS sniper section.

o Photo on desk of his estranged daughter from second marriage, taken ten years ago; she is now majoring in Gender and Women’s Studies at Oberlin.

o Does not swear because was brought up in podunk Southern town where cussin’ meant whoopin’.

o Therefore uses an extreme variety of minced oaths that are just as effective if not more so.

o Wants to know why the rocks are painted two different shades of white, and needs them fixed fast because in an hour the whole chain of command of everyone who missed a dental appointment is going to be in this office, too, and it’s not that big.

*OR is 95 lbs soaking wet and composed entirely of sinew.

** Command Sergeants Major will note that I correctly started my bullets with a lower-case “o.”  I did not, however, start them with a lower case letter and a verb, because I graduated from high school.  Fight me.

[sakurabl0ss0m]

You messed up [kaeya/diluc x reader drabble]

warning: N/A

desc: kaeya effs up by trampling over your heart, and now it’s too late to mend it back up

reading time: 8 mins

major tags: kaeya slander

word count: 1k+

author note: i’m sorry kaeya lovers

listens: when I was your man by bruno mars

Scumbag playboy Kaeya who broke things off with you to shamelessly skirt chase another girl, making you the hot topic of mondstat for weeks on end as “the knight whos heart shattered” and ruining the meaning of love for you. It was only after you temporarily left for Sumeru for a few months did you find some peace of mind.

Scumbag playboy Kaeya who, after realizing how he toyed with you, tries to make ammends only to get outright rejected and told to “never come back into my life again” before getting a door slammed on his face. When the time comes that he regrets what he’s done, it’s far too late and you’re already finding warmth in another man as he mends your broken heart and sends it fluttering in the same breath.

Scumbag playboy Kaeya who watches with the utmost shock and dread through the taverns window outside as his own half-brother leans over the counter to give you a kiss on the lips. Not a quick, chaste peck you’d receive from Kaeya, but a lovingly long-lasting and heartfelt kiss.

From Diluc.

Diluc slowly pulled away, and there was an evident vermillion color on his face– A blush. The dark knight hero, ever the one to even stay in ones else vicinity for too long before taking his own leave, blushing! This fact would’ve been laughed at and washed away with a mug of dandelion wine. But there were no jokes, no laughs, no cheers, nothing.

There was nothing.

Just the icicle Calvary Captain witnessing the one who’s heart he trampled on, giggle with glee and joy and all the other joyful sounds he never heard you release around him. Have you ever grinned so wildly the way you were now? As much as he racked his memory, he couldn’t recall you make such a face.

But it wasn't the fact he couldn't recall it, it was the fact that those memories were long gone in the wind, overwritten by every other night he’d spent with a new lady.

“Gosh that was way too exhilarating, I think my heart might burst from excitement!” You spoke giddily, fanning your face with your hands.

“You look like you drunk one too many bottles, ” Diluc replied, referring to the way your face was shaded crimson, almost the same color as his hair. “Oh, I’m sorry! It’s just, I’ve-” Before you could continue your stammering, the redhead keeled over to press another minute long kiss on your lips. The moment he pulled away, you had practically collapsed over the bar counter. “Shhh,” He simmered your nerves, and you felt your body relax, truly relax. Unlike when you had been told to calm down after getting angry for catching him making eyes at another woman. “There’s no need to apologize.”

Your adams apple bobbed as you swallowed a large lump of breath and spit down. “O-okay...” and, with your face still burning bright as the candlelit flames, you nodded. “I just... Never been really kissed like that before, so it caught me off guard.” Never been kissed like that before? What a joke, Kaeya had kissed you plenty of times.

But they didn't hold the same amount of passion Dilucs did.

“I-I think we should…” You swallowed again, nervous to get the next few words out. As if he’d guffaw in your face and pay no mind to what you said. “Still… Keep our relationship secret.” That said, you squeezed your eyes shut and broke out into a cold sweat. It was only seconds before you received an answer, yet they felt like long-winding hours. “Thats fine.” Came Dilucs simple reply, successfully stunning you to the point you were visibly shook. “I-is it!? It really is!?” You looked like a child who’d found out santa wasn’t real.

“Of course, ” Your beloved complied as he shined the glasses that were far past ready to be drunk from. “I’d rather not have my relationship with you out in the open anyways.” He started and you remembered the tavern owners huge dislike for unwanted attention. A secret he shared with you in the comforts of his bedroom. “Yeah, I agree. Too many people looking for attention I don’t want to give.” Saying that, your eyes quickly softened, a gleam of hurt shining through them. “What we have isn’t something to display for others to exploit or talk about like news. I don’t want to be the talk of the city…” And what you spoke next nearly had Diluc drop his glass. “Not again, not like last time...”

Obviously aware of what you were alluding to, but not daring to actually say it out of respect for your boundaries, Diluc pretty much skidded over the countertop to wrap his arms around your body and enfold you. His hold was so affectionate and tender, yet firm, like he had to keep you together from what was eating up at you from within. “Hey,” He called your name and you had no choice but to stare up at him, entranced by his ruby eyes that you loved so much. They were welcoming, blazing bright with a flame that burned for you. No one else, you.

You could get drunk off his stare by itself, no wine glasses required.

“Don’t worry. We can be a secret for as long as you’d like.” Yet another kiss– Who knew that the typically distant and quiet Diluc could show such a vast array of emotions to one person? “Alright?”

“Mhm…” You hummed and nodded, melting into his embrace with eyes fluttering closed. “ ‘Luc? Could we… stay like this a little while longer?”

“Of course.” He didn’t mind in the slightest, perhaps he’d even refuse to open up shop until later just to stay in this position with you.

“Thanks, and…” For a second, your breath got clogged and you couldn’t speak. It felt wrong to speak what you did next, but there was also a necessity laced in, the need to say it before you missed the next opportunity which you’d always have;

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” It was an immediate response that sent your heart soaring through your chest and made your cheeks sting even brighter. You were tempted to ask him why he answered so quickly, but deep down, you already knew the truth; It’s because he meant it, with utmost sincerity and not a hint of foretold lies.

And that, that was all you needed.

He wouldn’t break your heart. Not like Kaeya did. Diluc would love you so much, make you so happy, you’d forget all about the bad memories all of them in general you attached to his waste of space brother. Bury and spoil you with endless riches, love, pleasure, flush away the negatives that threatened to drown you.

He made that silent oath to you, himself, and the cryo-blessed knight he stared down from outside the window.

That event had foretold everything he needed to know; You had moved on, from his cold grip to Dilucs warm, inviting arms. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out.

Yet, for some reason, he couldn't believe it.

Or maybe, he simply refused to.

That day, Kaeya laughed. At what? Nobody knew, but it was certainly a sight to see the cavalry captain break out into hysterics like he’d heard the greatest joke in Teyvat.

[mythiccheroacademia]

Delivery HCs with 1-A’s Big Three

A/N: Maybe I’m a bit biased because I want to be a pediatrician when I’m older, but I think children are the true gems of the world. I’ve seen a few deliveries in my life, and it’s a moment that not even magic can explain. I can only imagine what it’s like for the parents--to see the baby you’d start a war for if need be. So, here’s my attempt to translate that special love within a headcanon. 

Enjoy and continue to stay safe honey bunnies

Also, remember to thank a (good) mother for being literal superheroes once in awhile. Delivering is no joke!

Warnings: all the wonderful things that come with pushing a baby out of a 3-4in hole

All characters are aged 18+

Midoryia Izuku:

when you and your husband got to the hospital, the nurses were suprised to find you laughing and your husband muttering 

they soon came to find out he was reciting how to books about delivery

word-for-word

the buff, muscley, #1 hero who scared villains into a crime rate of 2% was wiggling his knees in fear every time you had a contraction

he was running around, calling his friends and family about how he was going to combust

asked you every five minutes if you were ready to push 

“izu, honey, i don’t think it works like that”

“true....but are you ready?”

it was funny

but it stopped being funny after 14 hours of labor, when the contractions got really bad

now you were just snapping at izuku to quiet down otherwise you’d united states smash his face in

him: 😧

the nurses: 👀

he knows you’re in pain but damn 

it’s a relief when you get the epidural 

after that, it was a relatively smooth birth 

it still hurt like hell, but your husband is holding your hand, giving you encouraging kisses

one final push and the baby is out

immediately, the little boy is screaming his head off making his presence known

you let your head fall back with a relieved sigh as your body works to get the placenta out

whiles you do tiny pushes, izuku is in a love-struck daze as he stares at your son

it’s like he has tunnel vision

suddenly, nothing in his life was ever more important than this tiny little human who couldn’t weigh more than his left hand

the nurses hand you your son and you laugh through your happy tears

“it looks like i’ve got two cry-babies to deal with now” you lovingly smile

izuku is on his knees, sobbing, kissing your forehead and rubbing his finger against his child’s cheek

he’s so thankful

he’s so very thankful, he doesn’t even know how to comprehend it

you’re the best hero in his eyes

“he’s so beautiful” he repeats, like a broken record

there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you or his son

he silently makes an oath to do everything in his power to see his family smile with security every day

izuku feels like he finally knows what being #1 truly is

Bakugo Katsuki:

pregnancy wasn’t easy for you 

having twins wasn’t rare, but it made the process riskier

giving birth is still quite dangerous, like women are superheroes bruh

due to forseen complications, you were scheduled for a c-section 

unfortunately, you’re blood pressure sky-rocketed and you had to deliver your babies two weeks early

on the way to the hospital, your contractions were tearing you apart

during each shake and scream you gave, katsuki would hold your shoulder and let you dig your nails into his arms

he took it without complaint

it was like you were a different person when a contraction hit

you never complained about the pain, but he could tell you wanted it to end with how your head would fall like dead weight

never admits to the few tears that slipped past his cheeks

he never wanted to see you like this again 

when you make it to the hospital, they wheel you into the surgery room and he follows after

is relieved to see that you can no longer feel the contractions

in fact, even with all the IVs in you, you seem a lot better--more alert

he makes his way over to you 

“sorry for the car ride. i think i drooled. i probably looked gross. still do” you joke

he speaks in the softest voice you’ve ever heard, kiss your dry lips

“no baby, you look beauitful” 

and he means it

you do. you’re the most beautiful woman he knows

you feel a lot of pressure as they take the babies out, but once they do, the sounds of your children make you tear up

bakugo is frozen as he watches his babies, one boy one girl, get cleaned up

there’s a softness in the air as the nurses lay the boy on your chest and the girl in katsuki’s arms

your heart explodes with so much love that the heart monitor does a little jump that makes everyone laugh

but katsuki makes a pained expression before lowering himself so that his forehead rests beside your ear

he can’t tell what he’s feeling bc he’s felt love before but this was different

this was so overwhelming that it sent his knees buckling

you use your free hand to smooth down his hair as he cries 

“thank you” is all he’s able to say until the tears are gone

Todoroki Shouto:

when shouto looks back on one of the happiest days of his life, all he feels is shame and embarrassment 

he was just doing everything wrong that day

no thoughts, head empty

of course you had to go into labor the day he decided to take a tiny job 30 fucking minutes away from the hospital 

he made it to you in 20, he broke several laws to do it

when he gets to the hosptial, he can barely talk 

the nurses had to call you to make sure this crazy man was actually the father of your child

misses the baby floor twice

walks into the wrong room three times bc he forgot how to read

when he finally makes it to your room, he’s fed up with himself 

“what took you so long? the front desk called me, like, ten minutes ago”

“i don’t wanna talk about it”

“are you having an attitude with me right now? when i’m about to deliver your child?”

shouto: ☹️

shutting up was the smartest thing he did that day

when the 15th hour of labor hit and you were gripping your husband, screaming and rocking on your knees for any type of relief, todoroki was nearly begging you to take the drugs 

“sweetheart, please consider the epidural”

“no, shouto. i’m doing this without one”

“why do you want to suffer when technology and modern medicine--”

“todoroki shouto, you give me one more lesson about modern medicine and i’ll rip your quirk right out of you”

“i dont think that’s--”

the nurse finally chimes in: “sir, i mean this in the nicest way possible. shut up”

after 24 grueling hours, you’re pushing

it’s taking everything within shouto not to pass out from the blood, the screaming, and how tight you’re squeezing his hand 

the baby is out and crying her little head off

you’re happy it’s all over and shouto should be too

but he’s going over the past 48hrs and letting it confirm how he’s just not set up to be a father 

he’s almost grateful that you would hold her first bc he doesnt want to screw up more than he already has, but you have a different idea

understanding the emotions and self-doubt reflected on his face, you say 

“shouto, i want you to hold her first”

he’s shocked and starts his stuttering, but the nurse is already on it

“you heard mama, open your arms big guy”

once the nurse helps him find a good hold, todoroki doesnt even notice the tears falling down his cheeks

“look at you,” you sniff. “you’re a natural”

his eyes are wide with child-like wonder and he manages to give you a trembling smile 

“you think so?” you nod and he’s smiling so big, you wanna take a picture. “she’s so beautiful, just like her mother”

he leans down to kiss you 

wonders what he did in his past life to deserve the love he was given the chance to feel today

[sotwk]

Greenleaf's Day Out, Chapter 6: Last Little One (young Legolas family fic)

Completed Work: Chapters [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

Summary: At the end of his exciting day, Legolas is tucked into bed by an unexpected arrival. (brief OC character profile in end notes).

Word Count: 1.7k

Content: G-rated, fluff, family, comedy

To Read on AOC: Link

Divider credit: @firefly-graphics

Greenleaf's Day Out

Chapter 6 - Last Little One

Third Age 250

The Woodland Realm, Greenwood the Great

“Little Greenleaf, come out!” Legolas clapped two hands over his mouth and held his breath as his mother’s laughter, fair and clear as a silver wind chime, rose over the whispers of the swaying beech boughs. Mirion had advised him that surprising their Ammë would certainly be futile, that she would discern his presence on instinct if not by sight. 

Nonetheless, the elfling insisted on having his game, and jumped off his horse right before their party came within sight of the Queen’s procession. He ran to hide in the undergrowth several yards from the riding path, staying close enough to still see the riders’ progress down the road. 

Mirion was right, of course. Legolas could tell from his brother and mother’s happily exchanged greetings that she knew he had come along. But the Queen immediately dismounted and played along in searching for him in the darkness of the brushwood, waving off the guards who attempted to follow her and spoil the fun.  

The search did not take long. Cries of surprise and delight intermingled and broke the peace of the woods as Legolas, sensing inevitable defeat, leapt out of hiding. They grabbed one another at the same moment and nearly toppled to the ground in a heap. 

“Oh my dearest,” Maereth gasped through her laughter, hugging the elfling tight. “What a special welcome this is! I have missed you so!”

“I missed you too, Ammë!” Legolas declared stoutly. “And I could not wait to tell you about everything that happened whilst you were gone, especially today!” With barely a pause for breath, he launched into a detailed account of the day’s experiences with his brothers. 

The two escorts joined together to flank the elven royals, and they left the Forest Road to cross the last few miles south to Bar Lasgalen. Riding in between his mother and brother, Legolas filled the silence with his exuberant narrations, going uninterrupted nearly all the rest of the way to the palace grounds. Legolas failed to even realize they had arrived home until horse hooves began to clatter against the paved path to the courtyard. 

Despite the lateness of the hour, a retinue of servants waited with lanterns by the palace steps to welcome home their Queen. Among them was Ninniel, who came forward to lead her young charge inside and finally get him ready for bed.

“I shall be in shortly, meleth nin,” Maereth called out to her youngest. Legolas tarried long enough to see his Ammë take Mirion aside to speak with him privately. Mirion bowed his head to better hear her whispers, which Legolas could not perceive over the distance. The Queen drew out a small roll (a scroll or letter?) from the folds of her cloak and slipped it into his hand, and that was the last Legolas saw of their exchange.  

But something about what he had witnessed stayed with him, so he brought it up to his mother when she later came to kiss him good night. “What did you and Mirion talk about after I left?”

Although she smiled at his question, the Queen was silent for a long moment, and Legolas thought perhaps his inquisitiveness had gone too far. “If it is a secret between you two, then you need not tell me,” he added meekly, hugging his knees to his chest where he sat on his bed. “Arvellas said secrets should be honored like oaths, even amongst family.” 

“That is sound advice, but I do not wish for you to think that your brothers, or your father, or I, habitually keep secrets from you.” She reached over and tucked a thin braid of hair behind his ear. “There are a great many truths in this world for you to uncover, and some of them take years to understand in full. You must first grow in body and mind, to prepare yourself to receive them. But you will learn all things in the proper time, I promise.”

“Perhaps tomorrow?” Legolas said hopefully. 

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Maereth agreed with a laugh. “As you seem to have learned today, you never know what discoveries may cross your path each morning you wake.” She pressed a kiss on his forehead. “Now your day has been long enough, dearest, but I do have one last surprise for you. But you must promise not to let the excitement delay your sleep any longer.”

The elfling nodded vigorously, his blue eyes alight with refreshed eagerness. Maereth nodded towards his chamber door, which Legolas had not realized still stood ajar. The tall, silver-haired figure that swept inside from the shadows of the hall was immediately recognized. 

“ ADA!!! ” sounded the expected cry, followed by a blur that zipped from the bed and threw itself at the bemused Elvenking of Greenwood. 

“Well, there shall no longer be any need to announce the news of my early return. I believe the whole wood must have already heard.” Thranduil knelt to embrace the one remaining person in Middle-earth he would bend the knee for. “Mayhaps you have a bright future ahead of you as the Crown’s herald.”

Legolas laughed and grabbed the king’s much larger hand in both of his own. “They said you would not be back until tomorrow or the next day! Or even the next!”

“If ‘they’ were unable to name an exact day, you should not be surprised when their predictions prove incorrect,” Thranduil teased. He allowed Legolas to tug him further into the room, and when the child scrambled back into his bed, he sat on its edge next to him. “No one ever fully knows the King's mind,” he continued, raising his gaze to exchange smiles with his wife. “None except his Queen. I have not succeeded in surprising your mother in many centuries.” 

“But were you able to visit all the villages and outposts that you meant to?” Legolas pressed. 

“Yes, I did my duty as king as well and speedily as I could, so I could return to my duties as father--that which I love best and above all.” He patted the soft blankets. “You were out so late on your adventure that I arrived home before you did, just waiting for a little prince to tuck into bed.” 

“I would like to hear stories about your travels, Ada!”

“The hour is too late, ion nin. For you, bedtime remains an important discipline, in the way fight training is for Turhir, or archery practice is for Gelir.” As Legolas’s face turned crestfallen, Thranduil chucked him gently under the chin. “The time will come, and very soon, when your body will be so strong that it can withstand the toil of days without growing weary. But first it must grow all it can, and hearty sleep is required for that. My stories will keep till tomorrow, and I have many to satisfy your heart’s content.”

As Legolas reclined and his father pulled the blankets up over him, Maereth bent down to kiss the elfling’s brow. 

“Good night, my Greenleaf,” she whispered, and watched as the lids fluttered closed over those weary blue eyes. 

Arm in arm, the King and Queen exited their son’s room and started down the hall to their chambers in the opposite wing.

“You have been gone for nary a fortnight, and I for much less,” Thranduil mused. "Yet he lights up at the sight of us as though we have been parted for an age."

"Time still flies swiftly in his eyes.” Maereth sighed and rested her head on her husband’s shoulder. “The fear of fleeting moments has not faded for him, so he tries to keep us all close whenever he can. But soon enough, he will recognize the countless years of life that stretch out before him. He will change, as they all have done.”

“And that thought saddens you.” Thranduil stopped their progress and gently turned her to him. He raised his hand to her fair cheek, stroking underneath her ear in the soothing way only he knew. “My love, Legolas will be our little one for years still.”

“Yet surely he grows, every day stronger, and taller, and wiser,” Maereth smiled even as her eyes shone with tears that would not spill. “Until he is a lord of high renown like his brothers.”

She kissed the strong hand that offered her comfort. “Pardon my soft sentiments. A mother’s heart cannot help but indulge in longing for the past. But in truth, I cannot ask for better sons.”

“Bereth nin…” Thranduil’s voice trailed off, and in the silence and dimness of the palace corridor he studied the face he loved beyond measure. “I would give you another child if that is your heart’s wish.” 

His wife’s answer was quick and resolute. In matters involving their sons, she was always decisive in choices, always certain in declarations. “No, my king. Eru’s gift to us is five. Legolas is our last.” She touched Thranduil’s face with a tender caress. “The season has passed for you and I, and the joys of begetting more is their inheritance.”

Her words of a season gone stoked Thranduil's own melancholy that he refused to admit and sought never to show. But he could never hide from the one who held his heart, the one to whom his very being was bound. And so he simply spoke no more of it. 

“You rode hard to make an early return,” said Maereth, breaking his long silence. “Perhaps you too require rest.”

When she resumed walking in the direction of their chambers, he reached out and caught her hand. “I am home, and I am at your side. You are my rest.” He kissed her deeply, afterwards slipping his arm about her and guiding her out to the nearest terrace, where a staircase led down to the sprawling palace grounds. 

“Let us walk in our gardens and dream of the future under Gilthoniel’s lights. Tomorrow is one more day we shall have to enjoy and spend with our last little one."

The End

Thank you for reading this story! For more of my works, you can check out the links here: Intro to SotWK

[tanoraqui]

(proving once more that 'in situ' is the best place to begin a story, I guess)

Fëanor brushed her hand away like a piece of dirt from his fine red tunic.

"I wasn't going to say 'burning the ships' for the worst thing I ever did to one of you."

Ice-cold fury rose within Lalwen like a sudden wave; Helcaraxë-cold fury. This time, she leaned forward with readiness to leap up and do violence.

"And why not?"

"Oath," murmured Finarfin.

"Dying," Fingolfin offered.

"I have already apologized for all of that, many times over," Fëanor retorted, with the faux-patience of a students-worn tutor. "Nay, tonight I repent of words, not deeds."

He turned to Findis, across the table, and said gravely. "Findis, when your mother was pregnant with Lalwendë, and you and Nolofinwë had disturbed the tiara I was making for Father, and I said that I hoped this one 'finally killed her' - I regretted my speech within hours, and have held that regret all these long years since. Even with more kin to bear the burden, I should never wish such grief on another." He offered a hand to Lalwen as well. "I should never have wished it on thee, unborn, either."

Earnest sorrow shone forth from him almost as a glow. Touched with warmth, Lalwen took his hand and squeezed it gently.

"I had forgotten that," Findis said thoughtfully. Her gaze was on days long-gone. "It was not, I will say, the only time you made such ill-wishing known, even if you didn't mean to. But..."

She lifted the wine bottle formally, and reached for his glass. "I accept your apology - "

Finarfin stood so abruptly that his chair nearly fell. He smacked the glass from Fëanor's hand. "I don't!"

"Excuse me - "

"Ara, don't be rude," Findis and Fingolfin chorused, on some bone-deep older sibling reflex.

"I don't! I will!" Finarfin's pointing finger wavered as he jabbed it at each of them, but his strident speech was steady. "How can you all forgive him, when he can clearly still only think of himself!" He imitated Fëanor's rolling Old Quenya, lisp and all. "'Oh woe is me, my mother wearing herself bearing my over-bright spirit, then dedicated herself to her own craft and Vala, so obviously I'm especially Marred and grieving forever, and I'm going to make it everybody else's problem forever!'"

He rolled his eyes, then glared down at Fëanor with bright fury. Holding the table-edge for balance, he started ennumerating on his fingers.

"Of my own children alone, two burned alive in dragon-fire, one was torn apart by a werewolf, and one bore three Ages of the slow mortality of the world before succumbing at last to weariness and homecoming. Nolofinwë fell into such hopeless fury that he suicidally challenged Melkor to single combat, and Melkor made sure that everyone who loved him knew his pain as he died. And you still think you're special? I was barely in Middle Earth for fifty years and I met Men whose mothers, wives, sisters and even children had died in childbirth, and who carried on. Our own Tuor's mother, Rian, was likely still weak from the birthing bed when she fell, seeking his father. And you still think you're special? You still think an ignorant child's insult is somehow the worst thing you ever - "

Fëanor's chair did crash to the ground, with the force with which he sprang to his feet.

"Of course it's not!" he bellowed up at Finarfin (who was still half a head taller, though a full shoulder skinnier). Finarfin's wrath was a unexpected lightning strike from calm blue skies; Fëanor's was a rising wildfire.

"Of course it's not!" he repeated. "The worst thing I ever did was draw my own children into a burning slave-whip of a curse that drives them to this day, that twisted them and broke them all in my name, that will chain them to the End of Days like the work of Morgoth himself - that even now only with great and repentant self-restraint am I myself resisting, rather than dragging your precious, noble, blessed great-grandson - " a venomous shot at Fingolfin, the praise poison on his lips - "down from his overwrought ship and taking back what is mine from his hands, dead or alive. The SECOND worst thing I did was draw the rest of my people after us into death and destruction, of bodies and souls, with no end in sight. I saw it all upon my own mother's weavings - yea, I am special among the Eldar, for to I alone of all the Noldor, Mandos and his kin did grant clear memory, upon my return to life, of all that I saw in death! I know what I have wrought, and I have regrets the likes of which you could not dream, you loyal lapdog of 'greater' powers!"

Far beyond the heady warmth of the wine, it felt like the whole room was aflame. The fireplace, waiting for empty heavier winter, had literally flared to life. The chandelier shook above their heads, a chiming tumult of glittering crystal. Finarfin hadn't so much as flinched, but he and the rest of Lalwen's full-siblings had battened their hearts like sailors in a storm, now passing like stealth-spelled ships in the night.

She'd drawn her feet up on to her chair. She wanted to put her head on her knees and weep.

Fëanor uncurled his fists finger by finger. The flames in the fireplace abated.

"But that was later," he said. His voice shook with swallowed heat, but it was level. "When I was young and innocent - when we all were - I could imagine no worse fate than to be motherless, and at fault for it. I'd barely imagined being fatherless and at fault for it as well! So I apologize to thee, my sisters, as well as to thee, my brothers, for ever wishing upon thee what I thought then to be the greatest grief and horror one could endure."

Stiffly, he stepped back and gave them all one of the many ornate bows from the Years of the Trees, when all of Tirion had delighted in endless nuances of angle, footwork and flourish. This one indicated apology to multiple respected full-siblings.

Too much wine always made Lalwen's moods swing wildly. She nearly burst out laughing again at the sheer incongruity.

When he rose, he strode to the door without another word. He plucked a short silver wire from one pocket and began picking the lock Lalwen had fastened.

Lalwen caught everyone's attention by slamming a fresh wine bottle onto the center of the table.

"Alright, new game," she said. "'The Worst Thing I Ever Did To You Was...' It's like The Worst Thing I Ever Did, but it has to be specifically to someone else in this room, and you have to apologize for it. And you only get to drink if everyone else agrees that your apology was good enough."

Fingolfin raised one finger. "Point of order: what if you need to be drunker in order to apologize for something?" He didn't look at Fëanor, but his gaze was sliding around a bit, so in order to achieve this, he turned his entire head to the right.

"Tough luck," said Lalwen.

"Point of order," said Findis. "What if we don't want to play this one, either?"

"Then you have to sit here and endure it without getting to drink any more. Because - " Lalwen forestalled Fëanor's imminent query - "the door is still locked and no one is leaving until Family Game Night is over."

The boys all radiated rebellious pedantry, probably still not over how she'd lied to get them all here. But they didn't say anything, so Lalwen smiled brightly and said, "Great! I'll do an example to show you how it's done."

She retook her own chair, wobbling only a little as she moved from standing to sitting, leaned toward her youngest brother and said earnestly, "Ara, I'm sorry that I lied to you that Gil-galad was Fingon's son and your foster-great-grandson. It was politically expedient but essentially an orc move, and mostly I just did it because I was bitter at you for swanning in with all your golden armor and righteousness and optimism, when we had none of any of that. That was wrong of me. Also, obviously it fell apart as soon as he and his parents were all re-embodied."

Fëanor still had half a glass of wine from the now-lost bottle. He'd started slipping it slowly while glaring pointedly at Lalwen, to prove that he didn't need her stupid game.

He nearly spit it out.

"That's why a random half-blood became High King of the Noldor?" he demanded. "You just lied that he was part of the House of Finwë? And nobody challenged it?"

Lalwen was laughing too hard to answer. Findis was also laughing, more quietly.

"To be fair," Fingolfin offered, swallowing his own snicker in favor of loftiness, "from what the elf himself has told me, at the start of the Second Age, Galadriel, Elrond, and Celebrimbor between them could have crowned an unwoken tree High King if they'd all agreed on a candidate. Support from each of our lines, you know."

"Fëanor, how did you think Gil-galad became High King?" Finarfin asked curiously.

"I hadn't thought about it much - I've been busy, you know. I suppose I assumed he'd been elected, as we do now."

Fëanor tipped his head back to drain his glass, then rather slammed it down on the table. Yet again, the jewel-grade goblets proved themselves the right choice for the evening.

Lalwen could barely breathe for laughing. "No Noldor on either side of the Sea did that until nearly the end of the Second Age!"

Fëanor scowled.

Findis smiled serenely, and twisted the top off the new wine bottle. A melodious scent swelled forth of sweet grapes, bruised peaches, and warm summer sun.

"Well, that seems well-apologized to me." She refilled Lalwen's glass - though she paused before handing it back, and asked, "Ara?"

Finarfin nodded grandly, and for good measure took Lalwen's hand and kissed it. "We are well-reconciled, sister, and have been for many years."

"Good, good, gimme!" said Lalwen, grabbing at her well-deserved wine. "Ahh..." The Yavannandil wine was soft and soothing against her laughter-dried throat.

When she'd downed a good third of the glass, she gestured broadly and declared, "There! You see how it's done! Your turn!"

She pointed to Fëanor, then jabbed her finger at his chest. "And you're not allowed to say 'burning the ships', that's too easy."

[ablackwomansurvivingrape]

Juries were blocked from hearing the other women's stories in court.

Shatia Lansdowne-Ware Mar. 8, 2017

On November 10, 2011, the sick acts of a violent repeat sexual offender named Nelson Bernard Clifford changed my life forever. He broke into my home as I lay asleep. He tied me up. And he raped me without a condom as my two daughters slept in their bedroom, separated by one thin plastered wall.

I remember offering him money and valuables, only for him to tell me he only wanted sex. I falsely told him that my daughter needed medication every two hours to get him to leave.

When he finally left, I immediately dressed my two daughters — one in the pants he used to tie me — and covered my three-year-old daughter’s mouth, not knowing whether he was waiting in the hallway. We crawled up the stairs to a neighbor’s apartment, and called the police.

On that tragic morning, my entire family began our unimaginable six-year fight for justice.

I can recall the trial as if it were yesterday. I fought back tears as I took the stand to testify against this monster, detailing every aspect of my brutal attack — things I am ashamed to repeat to this very day. Yet it soon felt as if I was the one on trial. Under oath, I was forced to recount every detail of that horrific night in front of my four brothers, my father, and my husband.

Prosecutors played my 911 tape at trial. The sight of my brothers’ inconsolable cries after hearing their nieces scream hysterically in the background was gut-wrenching.

Then, as I thought this nightmare couldn’t get any worse, and despite DNA evidence, Clifford took the stand and falsely testified that my vicious attack was a consensual sexual encounter. He had the audacity to tell the jury that I was a prostitute who didn’t want my husband to find out. He was acquitted.

I thought, “How could this happen?” I knew for sure it was an open and shut case.

Still without justice, my emotions were a whirlwind of rage, confusion, violation; and yes, grave disappointment in our justice system. Honestly, had I known the outcome, I would never have taken my family through that emotional roller coaster.

However, I managed to find the strength to continue my pursuit of justice. As I agonized over the night of my attack and recalled the threats of my attacker — he said he would kill my children if I screamed or called the police — I thought about each of my loved ones who had also become victims of my rape: my husband, my children, my parents, and my siblings. And I vowed to do anything within my power to stop Nelson Clifford from terrorizing other women.

I attended every single one of Clifford’s subsequent rape trials. As I listened to each woman, I became each one of them. I was disgusted to hear how similar their attacks were to mine. And, just as in my trial, all of their vulnerabilities were put on display in open court, as our attacker falsely testified that it was consensual sex.

While observing each of these trials, I realized that regardless of how many times this same man was put on trial for these shockingly similar attacks, the juries were completely unaware that he was in fact a serial rapist. The 12 men and women of each jury were not informed of his prior allegations, charges, trials, or that Clifford was a registered sex offender who had already served nearly 10 years in prison for a 1997 conviction after admitting to sexually assaulting a woman.

“Every time I heard “not guilty” I felt as if I was being raped again.”

Clifford was tried and acquitted for four separate rape cases involving four different women over the course of four years.

Every time I heard “not guilty” I felt as if I was being raped again. Four more blows to each part of my body Clifford ravished for his sexual exploits. Each acquittal made it more of a reality that this monster could someday return to the streets of Baltimore City and continue to terrorize women.

I couldn’t understand how a system designed to deliver justice could be so unjust. But, I finally understood why so many rapes go unreported. Here you have a serial rapist getting off scot-free, while those he terrorized are put on trial, receive no justice and are labeled “tramps.”

Around 2013, as political campaigns were in full swing, I noticed a woman by the name of Marilyn Mosby, who was bringing attention to the then-State’s Attorney’s inability to convict Clifford based on a loophole in Maryland legislation.

I learned that in Maryland, serial rapists know that often their prior sexual predatory behavior and status as a sex offender cannot be introduced as evidence during trial. So, even with DNA evidence and the survivor’s testimony, sexual offenders know they can falsely testify that they engaged in consensual sex, raising doubt in the minds of the jury.

In 2015, justice prevailed and my attacker was finally convicted and sentenced to 31 and a half years in prison. He had allegedly attacked nine women. Although I was relieved that this sick individual was off the streets, drug dealers receive harsher sentences. Why do I have to ever worry about someday running into a man who climbed into my window, viciously attacked me, threatened me and my children’s lives, and left me to live with this harsh reality for the rest of my life?

I knew I had to get involved in an effort to put an end to the loophole that had allowed for the inequitable outcomes in my attacker’s cases.

Alongside other survivors, advocates and State’s Attorney Marilyn Mosby, I lobbied for legislation that would allow for evidence of prior sexual predatory behavior to be introduced during the prosecution of serial rapists and child molesters when a defendant uses consent as a defense to rape, or accuses a minor of lying about allegations of sexual molestation.

Last year, I gained the courage to testify before the House of Delegates and Senate committees in support of the Serial Predator Prevention Act. The bill passed unanimously in the Senate, but died in the House.

It’s hard enough to cope with the fact of being raped, but it’s even harder to step up and ask for help; yet, not receive it. How many times must I put a Band-Aid on this horrific incident, then have to rip it off? I am trying to heal from my vicious attack, but each time this bill doesn’t pass, just like each acquittal, I have to go back and rip it off again. Yet here I am for another year, ready to share my story and put my family on the front line once again in hopes that it will motivate some of our legislators to do the right thing.

This year, Maryland House Bill 369 and Senate Bill 316 must pass.

Even after its passage, I will still have to deal with the mental anguish of my tragic attack. I will continue to live in fear, wonder if my attacker touched my children that night, wonder if I was infected with HIV despite being tested regularly, struggle with intimacy in my marriage, and shelter my children.

After six years, he still controls my life. This man has literally attached himself to my life forever — when you google my name, his name pops up. Each day, I ask, “Why me?”

This is why I feel compelled to fight for this law because if I do not I am contributing to the brutal attack of another woman or child. I am certain that this legislation will prevent another family from having to endure this turmoil, as it will help secure convictions and lengthy sentences for serial rapists.

I encourage you all to join me in the fight to stop serial predators.

Shatia Lansdowne-Ware, Survivor and Fighter

[person-with-multiple-interests]

The small things he suppressed

(Thank you so much @mostauspiciousmanner for being a beta reader for this fic, hope this was worth the wait.)

It had been a month since Hunter had moved into the Owl House and while he wasn’t fully honest about why he came to them the change of environment was nice maybe-nope nope nope he couldn’t. He just knows that they would be as bad as his uncle when he did those strange movements and make small amounts of noise.

Sometimes it would be him shrugging, jerking his head back or grimacing, other times he would click his tongue, popping his lips or just whistling, grunting and repeating certain sounds and words. Regardless he made the connection of that stuff equals bad a long time ago and he was certain that everyone in the household would react the same way. But a gut feeling was telling him that they wouldn’t react like that they’ve done nothing but give Hunter love, still that fear never left.

He knew that he couldn’t hold them in forever and it was only a matter of time till one movement, one bit of noise from his mouth comes out and pops like a balloon.

And then it happened.

It was just a normal day except the only people within the house was just the fuzzy excuse for a demon and the house demon that could appear in front of his window to give him a terrifying good morning or good night. The human is at school and The Owl Lady is also at said school to get him enrolled.

Rascal is on his shoulder as he watched the small demons movements playing and pretending to be his namesake a King, as if the thing looked like one but, he decided humor the little guy by joining in his game of conquering. Hunter found it to be surprisingly therapeutic it often helped him suppress those tiny things a bit more by focusing on the game and he would often join King at every moment possible.

Oh why did it have to go all wrong.

The two were playing the game when the balloon, after years of being afloat finally popped. It was just a shoulder shrug and just like that, years of those movements and noises being suppressed were coming out all at once and he was just waiting for someone to hit it out of him but nothing came and King had left the vicinity. And that was the most terrifying part Hunter didn’t know what King was going to do. He was hitting himself, he felt the pain he wished that he could just stop but he just can’t control it, whatever this was it was horrible.

Footsteps were heard coming down the stairs and Hunter’s muscles tensed both on reflex and involuntary as he heard them coming closer, then something surprised him amidst the chaos that he was going through he felt a blanket being draped over his still shrugging shoulders and a bit of weight that weaved it’s way onto his lap

It continued for two more hours but to Hunter it felt like an eternity, but now thankfully it was over for now, he found King curled up in his lap Hunter suspected that this was King’s attempt to comfort him. Then he finally spoke,

“Sorry, I’m pop so so sorry.”

King responded

“Don’t be sorry, it looked like you couldn’t control it anyway.”

Hunter piped in a bit.

“I know, it’s just click that the emperor didn’t grunt like the small things that I did so pop, pop I started tch suppressing them.”

“How long have you been holding them in?”, King asked

“Uhh…pop six years maybe give or grunt take. Why.”

This took King aback.

“Six years?! Why didn’t you let it out earlier?”

“I didn’t want hiccup you guys pop to throw me out tch.”

And that nearly broke King. Sure the kid had some issues but him thinking that he would be kicked out of the house because of something he couldn’t control almost broke him. Then King had a idea. An oath, a promise they will make.

“Swear an oath to me commander!”

“Y-yes grunt sir”

“I Hunter Clawthorne.”

“I pop Hunter Clawthorne.”

“Solemnly swear.”

“Solemnly click swear.”

“To never ever suppress your movements or noises again!”

“To never hiccup ever suppress tch my movements or noises grunt again.””

“Great!”

Hunter for the first time in his life since he was little finally felt accepted. Sure he has to unlearn how to suppress but now he felt like he found his forever home. A place where he is loved and happy.

[dhwty-writes]

To Hold and Kiss You, Gods Be Damned

Another one of @spielzeugkaiser‘s requests: "secret relationship". I hope you’re happy now

Summary: Geralt apologizes after the mountain and he and Jaskier get together. Still, they have to keep their relationship secret. Hurt, no comfort, implied/referenced homophobia

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Geralt was in love. He knew he shouldn't be; he knew it was dangerous, he knew there were even some who thought it impossible. A witcher in love. Ridiculous. But it wasn't. But he was.

He had fought tooth and nail to prevent it from happening because after one look at that ridiculous bard he'd known it was inevitable. He had tried everything: gruff words and gut punches in the beginning, then more gruff words, a djinn wish to bind him to another (which had almost cost the bard his life, he'd never do that again), more gruff words, shouts, an ugly dismissal. All to no avail.

It was torture being apart from Jaskier, after twenty-two short years of laughter and music, twelve long months of silence followed. Twelve long years of broken-hearted ballads and that was when he knew for sure. When he heard another bard sing and his heart still broke with the ache of it. That was also when he knew that his secret affections were not unrequited. Spring came and he left Ciri with his brothers, and he himself set out again as soon as the snows allowed it.

He rode hard and fast for a different hunt, chasing every trace of his bard he caught. And when he found him in a tavern he fell onto his knees where he sat in a corner, begging him to take him back.

"I thought you didn't want me," Jaskier said with a voice as cold as ice.

"I did. I do. I lied," Geralt confessed, still on his knees, fidgeting nervously with his hands. "I can't- I couldn't- I mustn't lose you. I know it's inevitable. But I thought if I lost you because I chose to, it would be easier. It wasn't. It isn't. Please, Jaskier, I know I don't deserve it, but please, let me love you again."

"Love...?" Jaskier echoed as if he didn't believe it. "You love me?"

"Yes." How could he not?

"Not here," he said decisively and stood. The touch on the witcher's arm was nigh unnoticeable but enough to get him to follow him up to his room.

The door fell shut behind them and Jaskier turned with tears in his eyes. "Tell me again," he whispered.

"I love you," Geralt answered. "I love you; I love you; I love you." It felt almost like a prayer. "Will you forgive me?"

The bard released a shuddering breath. "Kiss me," he pleaded and Geralt did. It was the easiest thing in the world, with his whole body aching for it. It was like breathing. Like suffocating. Like waking up.

Jaskier pulled away to breath and leaned his head on Geralt's shoulder. "Don't do this to me again," he sobbed and Geralt wished he could cry, too. "Don't do this to us again."

"I won't," he promised. "I won't, never again, I swear it."

"How?" he asked agonisingly.

"Come to Kaer Morhen with me," he murmured and cautiously tightened his arms around his waist. "Let me take you home."

"Alright," Jaskier answered and that was all he needed to hear.

They set out at sunrise on the next day, settling into an almost familiar rhythm. Only that everything was different. They travelled together again, that much went unchanged, and Jaskier sang and talked like always. But he had a horse now, too. Apparently singing of heartbreak was very lucrative. And he wasn't the only one talking anymore. More often than not Geralt actually joined in the conversation, giving his opinion on songs, and rhymes, and untrue lines. There was laughter, too. A lot of laughter. It was heaven on earth.

And in the privacy of their room, in the dark of an empty clearing, he was allowed to touch, too. To touch, and kiss, and show Jaskier exactly how much he loved him. As he could, with his deeds instead of words. He never wanted anything to change.

He knew that it would, though. They had agreed upon it on that very first night when Geralt had apologised: neither Ciri, nor Triss, nor any of the witchers needed to know about them. In fact, it was probably better if they didn't. The likes of them had never been welcome in Cintra nor in Temeria. And while there had been witchers known to bed their brothers or other men, he wasn't quite sure how Eskel and Vesemir would react. Or gods forbid, Lambert. He'd be an arsehole about it, just like about everything else.

It was for the better. They would manage. They had managed for twenty-odd years, after all.

So, when they arrived at Kaer Morhen one month and a half later, there were no grand gestures despite what Geralt wanted. No kisses, no hugs, no carrying his bard over the threshold. No shared bed, no lazy kisses and missed meals; not even a wink or a casual flirtation.

Instead there were two rooms, two beds, only warmed by the pelts within. For Geralt there was love and warmth, a hug from Eskel, a kiss on the cheek from Triss, Vesemir nodded and Lambert insulted him lovingly, and Ciri clung to him for an entire day.

Jaskier was greeted by the old ruin with all the cold and loneliness Kaer Morhen had to offer. It made Geralt's heart shatter to see him glancing warily at the grey walls, to meet the cold stares with defiance where he should be met with laughing eyes. It was almost enough for him to break his promise and tell them. But not quite.

The bard shot him a lifeless smile and bowed before Vesemir to thank him for his hospitality. Then he went to his knees before Ciri and placed his lute at her feet. "I know that I don't have much to offer, princess," he confessed. "But what I have I pledge to you. I hope that you might accept my oath."

The kneeling bard made everyone in the courtyard uncomfortable and Geralt quickly pulled him to his feet again, careful not to let his touch linger.

After that awkward first meeting life quickly settled back into a familiar rhythm. Geralt took his lessons with Ciri up again, filling his spare time with chores. He barely saw Jaskier safe for the evenings when he had offered to perform for the witchers. But he knew from Ciri that he was teaching her, too. History, literature, and languages, and suchlike. It wasn't like they would've wanted it to be, but at least they weren't apart anymore.

And sometimes there were even nights when they could steal away from the others, fleeing to the top of crumbling towers where not even the other witchers would follow. Only to spend a few precious hours in each other’s arms before they had to go back to pretending.

"I'm sorry," Geralt whispered against Jaskier's lips. "I'm sorry it has to be this way. I'm sorry this is all I have to offer."

"Shh," he soothed and gently stroked his hair. "Don't be. I chose this, too. It's better than being alone. Better than being apart." He kissed him desperately. "Better to know. Better not to fear-" He choked on the words but Geralt knew what he was saying anyways. 'Better not to lie awake at night, fearing our last goodbye was the last to ever come.' Better than nothing.