#modor as a child

[pandagirl45]

Ultron: *eating a sandwich* Kurt will speak german to his teachers, his teachers who I know don't know a lick of german will always say he says the prettiest things when he is really calling them annoying know it alls

Kurt: *practicing with his sword* Skarr will start fights and take names just so his parents can come down be bigger menaces than he is

Skarr: *playing a video game* Modor will purposefully piss off the school principal with her tricks just so Strange and Loki gain a new level of stress but a proud streak

Modor: *looks up from her book* Ultron is Tony Stark and Bucky Barnes kid, surprise? Don't be. He is a dead-eye laser shooting menace, used a knock-out laser to put a kid to sleep, funniest thing ever

interviewer: *horrified and fearful of these four heathens* oh... your parents are so... proud of you (how are they the next generation of heroes???)

[ao3feed-tolkien]

No Need to Suffer Needlessly

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/kGt3mlZ

by Darebear_21

Frodo awakens from a nightmare about Gollum’s hands around him in the fires of Modor, and goes to seek comfort from Aragorn but can he accept comfort from Boromir instead and can Boromir mend the rift between them caused by the influence of the once evil ring.

Words: 1735, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of Aragorn and Boromir The Hobbit Dads

Fandoms: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen, M/M

Characters: Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Aragorn | Estel, Frodo Baggins, Sam Gamgee, Merry Brandybuck, Pippin Took

Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Merry Brandybuck & Pippin Took, Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Aragorn | Estel & Frodo Baggins

Additional Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Parent-Child Relationship, Healing, Nightmares

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/kGt3mlZ

[ellus986]

Underneath the mistletoe

Single dad Ben Hardy x reader part 1

Sorry kids, I know all my fan fics are filled with kids, but I can’t help it as I’m 21 weeks pregnant when I’m writing these lines. And I know I know it is over christmas, but had other things than finishing it, sorry 🤦🏼‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️

Warning: kissing, dark humor

It is a casual friday night in the diner you work in. Not much of costumers, but your heart stops as your favorite two comes in. The little Keila smiles at you in the minute your eyes meet. They sit in the box they did every friday night for the past year.

“Good evening!” Greets you the blue eyed father.

“Welcome back at our tiny kitchen!” You say as you hand them the menu.

“Y/N, you look so beautiful again!” Cheers the little blue eyed girl.

“Thank you... I almost forgave you...” you giggle.

“For...gave...me?” Mumbles Keila.

“You never ever even tried to hint that your father is a famous actor!” You answer with a smile on your face, and you can see his face change too.

“That changes something?” He asks.

“No! I just wasn’t aware you played the best drummer alive!” You giggle.

“It sounds like you are a Queen fan, but than that movie came out more than a year ago and you just saw it now?” He chuckles.

“As I have my fridays booked always...” you nod your head in they way. “And having school next to work I have zero social life, but yesterday finally I had a class canceled and decided instead of a nap, I watch the movie I wanted for a long time now!”

“And we are really thankfull that you choose us over partying...” he mumbles.

“Everything for the smile of this princess!” You smooth her hair out of her face. Normally you would not touch your costumers, but these two was so different from the others. They come to you every friday, and you only worked on this day because she was so heart-broken one night you had it free and someone else surved them. She was smart and full of heart, and you loved her.

“I’m sorry...” she mumbles not looking up from the table.

“It is okay honey! I was just suprised, that I had your father playing in the background in my teenage years while having dinner!” You giggle again.

“So you was a fan...” he lift one of his eyebrows.

“Nooo... but Easterenders was something that went well as white noise for dinner... I let you decide what you want!” You turn away and walk.

“Daaaad...”

“Keila, no!”

“Dad! Don’t be a...”

“Y/N?” You can’t keep his voice out of your head.

“Yes?”

“We... have Frankie over the weekend... would, you like to come for a walk with us?” Sutters the blue eyed blonde.

“I’m sure I can make time before my afternoon ship if that is good for you?”

“Perfect!” Answers the adorble little one.

The next day:

Bournemouth was cold, and snowy, but the christmas decoration on the street made everything joyfull. A big smile sits on your face as you see Keila running in your way.

“Y/N!” She jumps into your arms and you lift her up.

“Hello, beautiful!” You greet her. “Hello, handsome!” You wave in Ben’s way.

“Princess!” He looks angry.

“It is okay! We know eachother for a year now, she didn’t run in some strangers arms... I mean I hope I don’t count as one...”

“No, you don’t count as a stanger!” He nods. “Are you okay with a jumping 4 years old?” He asks as he gets to you, and you already put down his daugther.

“4 and a half!” Keila holds her finger to her dad’s chest.

“4 and a half, sorry!” He mumbles.

“But back to the question, I’m more than okay with jumping 4 and half years olds!” You giggle, winking in the little ones way. “I study to be a primary teacher, so...”

“Maybe you will teach me?” You can see how Keila’s eyes are shining, as you are walking on the beach sidewalk.

“I don’t think honey, I have years to finish my studies and even if I could finish in two years there would be so little chance to get a job in a school you would go in...”

“Ooh... Frankie lets run!” She gets cheerfull again as she gets the leader from her dad and runs off on the empty street.

“So you want to work with kids one day?” You can see how he is struggling to even ask you.

“Yes defenetly!” You smile at him. “And you are a famous actor?”

“Could say...” his face just gets so red and a half smile gets on it slowly.

“Not fan of the fame?”

“Nah... kinda... I don’t like to be just me infront of people, but I love to perform thought...”

“Y/N, do you like Frankie?” Runs Keila to you, with the dog, who you immediately pet.

“She is so cute!” You nod.

She runs away again and you just walk next to Ben in silence until you think you have something better to do: throw a snowball into his chest. Suprise rises on his face, but he respondes quickly. You get into a big fight fast and you can see Keila running with worry on her face.

“What is happening?”

“She attacked me!” Ben points in your way trying not to laugh.

“Ooh blame it on the woman!” You hold your hands up.

“Ooh adults!” She hides her face in her hand before running away again with the dog, and both of you burst into laugh. You try to get a new snowball, but before you could get enough together he runs in your way and both of you end up in the fresh, white snow laughing, fighting. You lock eyes with him, and your heart just want to leave your chest. “Dad! Really?” You look up to Keila holding her hands on her hips still holding the dog on the leader who just lickes Ben’s face.

“Sorry, you are right little princess!” He gets up and holds his hand out for you.

“Dad! Now she needs to walk home in wet clothes!” You feel like a four and half years old little girl has more responseablety than you two sometimes.

“Oh shoot... do you live far away?” He mumbles.

“Half an hour bus drive from the diner...” you answer, pulling your shoulder.

“Than, I owe you with a coffee, and dry clothes!” He blushes.

“I really don’t want to bother!”

“Please!” Begs Keila.

“Okay...” you give in. “I can’t say no to a princess!”

You follow them to the their near by house. It wasn’t a luxury home, and you liked it for that. As you are about to get to the front door, you see a car parking in front of it, and an auburn man steping out of it. Your heart stops, you just saw him on screen two days ago.

“Uncle Joe, uncle Joe!” Keila forgets all about the dog and runs to him, jumping into his arms.

“Hi Princess!” He kisses her cheek as she is sitting on his hip. “Hi, I’m Joe!” He holds his free hand out for you.

“I kno... I mean, I’m Y/N!” You blush.

“So you know...” he chuckles.

“She just watched bohrap two days ago...” Ben helps you out.

“Yeah, too much work and study!” You pull your shoulder.

“She didn’t know daddy was famous before that!” Steps in the littlest one.

“You didn’t?” He looks at you suprised.

“He was familiar, but who would think of Easterenders?” You giggle.

You walk in as he chuckles with the little girl on his side. Ben shows you around and hands you some dry, and warm clothes. “Really sorry for the wet experience!”

“The wet experience?” Joe yells one room away chuckleing.

You take the clothes and walk into the bathroom. The cosiest bathroom you ever saw. It had wood everywhere and had the a suprisingly big bathtube in the corner, what was really calling for you, but you just come to change your clothes, to the man’s clothes you had no idea was famous, but was so nice with you in the past year.

As you open the door Keila is already standing there. “Are you staying for lunch? Uncle Joe got us food!”

“I don’t want to into...”

“Pleeeease!” She begs you with those big eyes, and as you look up you see Ben, looking at you two.

“If you are hungry, we got enough food, Joe always dubles our needs!”

“Eat with us after your wet experience!” Laugh Joe from the kitchen.

“Pleeease!”

“Okay... okay! I’m staying for lunch, but after I need to go to work!” You answer.

Lunch goes by so fast, and funny. You already saw the trend for #hardzello but you now understand it. They are just two adorable dork perfectly being bestfriends. Keila’s laughter filled the whole room along side yours. As you are about to leave she hugs you, and Ben is about to walk you out.

“Daaad!” You hear almost a scream, both of you turn scared, but than you see Joe laughing.

“What?”

“Look up!” She giggles,as both of you look up.

“Ooh...” he forms it so softly as both of you are standing under the mistletoe.

“Don’t cheat! I needed to kiss uncle Joe on the cheek last year!”

“But you two are over the legal age so... just saying!” Joe holds up his hands.

You can’t even answer as Ben grabs your hip and locks lips with you. It is modorate as there is his child, but passionet as well. It ends as soon as it started, but you still can’t let his eyes go, you just star into eachothers eyes.

To be continued...

My sweet perms:

@simply-sams-things @spacedustmazzello

[mikrowrites]

all hail the magic man

•part one•

Doctor Strange x Apprentice!OC(platonic)

A/N: Thanks for all the love for Charlie! Tag list is open and after the chapter! Thanks lovelies xx

Charlie opens her eyes.

It isn’t like the movies where she’s blinded by light, she squints her eyes and finally noticed the world around her.

No, Charlie was immediately aware and terrified.

She sat up in her bed, her eyes darting around to see two figures standing still in the shadows. “H-Hello?”

They step forward, making Charlie go rigid and her breathing stop.

Mary Anne Greyson steps forward first, her face pale and her brown hair now a deep auburn with blood. A mystic mirror knife goes straight through her head, blood decorating her face, neck, and light green Master robes.

Then Henry John Greyson steps up milliseconds later. His face pale, his eyes dark and glossy, the trails and salt deposites of shed tears on his taut cheeks. Another knife goes straight through his abdomen, bloodieing his blue Master robes.

The two figures glower at young Charlie, before they open their mouths.

“Why did you watch, Charlotte? Why didn’t you try to save us? You’re weak and pathetic. We’re dead because of you.”

Charlie screams.

- - - - - -

It’s a beautiful and ugly thing, a funeral for a Master of the mystic arts.

Charlie has only attended one before, when she was seven, the Master of the London Sanctum had passed of old age and sickness. She remembered the old man, he had a kind smile and a silly accent and would sneak Charlie candies behind her parent’s backs.

But this funeral was for five poor souls.

Jeon Sihyung, a sweet but stoic man from Korea who headed the Hong Kong Sanctum.

Gieva Frueble, the Master of the London Sanctum.

Henry Greyson, Master of the New York Sanctum and his wife, Mary Anne Greyson.

And lastly, the Sorcerer Supreme, The Ancient One, had passed in a battle against Kaecillius, the woman fought valiantly along side Stephen and Modor.

Charlie stood in all black robes, her face stoic and emotionless through the whole service. She could sense Stephen staring at her the entire time, trying to catch her eye.

She had been approached by Wong, explaining that one of the Ancient Ones’ last decisions was to appoint Stephen the Master of the New York Sanctum (with good chances of him being the next sorcerer supreme; he was clearly immensely exceptional in the mystic arts).

After the service, Charlie felt a tug on her arm. Stephen towered over her, his face softened and littered with healing cuts. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”

The girl looked down at her feet. “S’Okay...”

Stephen put his hand on her shoulder. “Wong told you about her offer to me?” At Charlie’s nod he continued, “If myself being in the role makes you uncomfortable or you do not want me as that position, I won’t do it. It’s okay, it’s up to you.”

Charlie shook her head, finally looking Stephen in the eye. “No, no, take the position. Please. As of right now, I can’t think of anyone I’d want in that role more than you. If the Ancient One believed you could do it, so do I.”

Stephen smiled softly, leaning down and pulling Charlie into a quick embrace. “You’ll be coming back to the Sanctum, right? I know Wong was kind of hoping you would.”

“Wong did?” Charlie raised an eyebrow.

Stephen shrugged sheepishly, chuckling. “And um... maybe me too...” he mumbled.

Charlie smiled.

“I’ll see you at the Sanctum, then.”

- - - - - -

Living in the New York Sanctum with Stephen and Wong was... interesting for sure.

Wong and Charlie would read in silence together, merely enjoying each other’s presence. They’d also care for the relics together, Charlie recommending him new music and Wong teaching her random new little spells here and there.

Pranking Stephen was also something they delighted in.

Stephen and Charlie would talk about 70s-80s music together, as well as Charlie helping teaching him the basic of heading the Sanctum. They’d often go out for sandwiches together, and sometimes they’d just talk about everything and nothing.

If you had told Stephen Strange he’d get close with a kid—he simply wouldn’t have believed you.

So after much discussion with Wong, they finally sat down with Charlie (much like two parents would sit down their child. The irony was not lost on Charlie, she found it hilarious actually).

Stephen nervously cleared his throat, looking up at Charlie.

“I’d like to make you my apprentice.”

- - - - - -

OC Information:

Name: Charlotte (Charlie) Lynn Greyson

Age: 13 (Doctor Strange) 14 (Thor Ragnarok) 15 (Infinity War) 19 (Endgame)

Height: 5’4”-5’7”

Appearance: DS-IW: light brown hair length to chest Endgame: short, above the shoulder light brown hair | green eyes, lightly tanned skin, a light scar on the left of her forehead (as a kid she tried to ride down the banister of the staircase)

- - - - - -

Taglist: @knightofreaders @imabookworm31 @lizlil

[regalis-solveig]

Fwoosh!

Chiyo stepped through a large Space-Time Tear. It was a small portal that she could open up at the flip of a switch - or more correctly, the flip of a medallion - to travel back and forth between the world she lived in, and the world she had been born in. It was a gateway that harnessed long lost powers that the great Gods... or Legends, as they were known in the other world - Palkia and Dialga once carried with them, and had been sealed in a Locket, and gifted to her over a century ago. She always wore the locket around her neck, and by opening it up, and switching a dial inside of it from the Sun Symbol to the Moon Symbol, she was able to jump from one Parallel Dimension to the next. 

It wasn’t an ‘all-powerful’ device. It simple enabled her to travel from the Sun Universe to the Moon Universe, and that was it. But it was all she needed at the moment. 

In each hand, she held onto the hand of a small child... both around 10 years old. A girl, with golden hair stood to her left. Her blue eyes were wide with both excitement and curiosity. And, to her right, she held onto the hand of a young boy with dark brown hair, and dark, terrified eyes. He hung onto her hand with both of his, and stood so close to her that nearly half his body was lost within the folds of her skirt. 

Chiyo sucked in a deep, steadying breath, then held her head up high, and strode through the portal - ushering the two children along with her.

On the otherside, a fantastic world appeared. Gone was the Castle Courtyard with the stables to the side, and the towers all around, and appearing before them instead, was the entrance to a large facility - the Dragon Sanctuary. 

Not too long ago, Chiyo had sent a message to this world for her friends to meet her here. But ‘not too long ago’ for her, could be an hour for her... a week for them. She just hoped they were here... 

The girl pulled away from her with an excited gasp, and ran forward a few steps, “It’s amazing!”  Chiyo smiled, and followed after the child, “It is... but wait until you get inside.” 

The girl nodded, and started forward again. She looked around excitedly as Chiyo walked towards the front office of the Dragon Sanctuary. As they reached it though, and Chiyo reached up to knock on the front door, the girl slowed to a stop, and looked confused.

“Modor...“ She asked, before she ran up behind Chiyo, and looked up curiously, “Where is the Royal Procession?“ 

Chiyo looked down at the girl, and tried to stiffle a chuckle. She reached down to pat the girl on the head, “Things work a little differently here, Kida. There’s no need for one here.” 

She turned back to the door, leaving Kida to look up at her with curious look. That’s right... both Kida, and the little boy at her side, Youta, were born in the lap of luxury. They were the royal Princess and Prince of the Kingdom of Galar... which was, of course, the alternate universe’s version of the Galar Region. Being royalty... they would have had their presence announced wherever they go. Going out of the castle would require them to be surrounded by Knights, and it would be a huge thing. They’ve probably never actually walked straight up to a door and knocked before...

Chiyo smiled. This actually may be better for the two of them than she had earlier been anticipating... oh well. She shall see when someone comes to open the door!

(( @hygefrymm ))

[theemightypen]

eothiriel for 18?

18) Things You Said When the Sun Was Shining

also yikes this took me 18 million years to fill

It is a beautiful spring day in the Riddermark. There is a gentle breeze coming in from the south, stirring up the scent of honeysuckle and lavender in what was once Theodwyn’s garden. Eomund had built it for her in their house in Aldburg as a wedding present, years ago.

Not for the first time, Lothiriel wonders what her mother and father-in-law would have made of her. Never more so than now that she, at Merthwyn’s insistence, has been all but banished from Edoras for a few days, for a much needed reprieve from her duties as Queen.

“You’ve done your duty admirably these past few months,” the housekeeper had tutted. “And we are all very proud of you, but no eorlingas alive would begrudge you a break, nor time with your children. The council can handle the Riddermark and I the Hall. Go, my lady, and spend time with your babes!”

And so she is. Olfete is playing with her carved horse–a much beloved gift from Eothain–under the dappled sunlight of a nearby tree, while Ecwen gurgles happily around a wooden teething ring, one hand fisted in the fabric of Lothiriel’s skirt.

All in all, a perfect day, but for one thing: Eomer’s absence.

He has been away on campaigns before, of course. Sauron’s fall and the dissolution of Mordor’s armies had not rid Middle Earth of evil. After re-swearing the Oath of Eorl, he has had to aid Aragorn numerous times in keeping their mutual enemies at bay, both within Gondor’s borders and without.

But he has never been gone quite so long. Ecwen had been six months old when he’d left, and six months has it been since his departure. To say that Lothiriel misses him would be an understatement. He has been as consistent as he can, with his letter writing, but that is simply not the same as having him home. Of being able to turn to him for help with Ecwen’s midnight tears, to laugh about Olfete’s attempts at making flower crowns, or to be able to press her face into the curve of his neck at the end of a long day. Their bed has been cold, in more ways than one, for six months. Lothiriel is weary of it.

His last letter had said he would be home sooner rather than later, as quickly as Firefoot’s hooves will take him, but there is the well-being of the returning eorlingas  to consider, the new treaties with North Harad to solidify, and all the many miles still to travel.

Lothiriel had known what it would mean to wed a man in such a leadership position. How many times had Ada been called away for just as long when she was a child?

That knowledge helps–somewhat. The ache of missing him–of their girls missing him, for surely that explains at least some of Ecwen’s fussiness–will not be eased by anything other than his eventual return.

“Modor, look!” Cries Olfete, pulling her from her melancholy thoughts. “Buterflégan!”

And it is. A handful of them, brightly colored and graceful in the spring sunshine.

“They’re pretty,” Olfete declares, abandoning her play to climb into Lothiriel’s lap for a better view.

“Pree!” Echoes Ecwen.

“They are indeed,” Lothiriel agrees, “thought not as pretty as you, min swetes.”

Ecwen babbles happily as Olfete giggles, leaning her head against Lothiriel’s shoulder. Their oldest daughter looks very much like her. Dark skin, dark eyes, darker hair–hræfnsweartu, Eomer has always said of them both. Ecwen, even at only a year old, has her father’s tawny hair, his green eyes. But there’s no mistaking the House of Eorl in both of them, in the delicate point of Olfete’s nose, in the stormy expression Ecwen makes when she is well and truly displeased. It has been both balm and pain to see Eomer so plainly in them during the campaign.

“But where’d they come from?” Olfete asks.

The butterflies, Lothiriel thinks, and resolves to stop being so gloomy. Being so will not make Eomer arrive faster and will only serve to upset the children. Olfete has always been very perceptive and Ecwen mercurial, so even the hint of a sour mood is enough to make them both less than happy.

“From far away, I expect,” she says, stroking a hand through Olfete’s dark hair. “Perhaps Haruni sent them.”

“Haruni sent them? Why?”

“Let me show you.” At this she reaches out, gently, carefully, toward the flock of butterflies. One–bolder than the rest–inches towards her finger from its safe perch on a bloom. Lothiriel waits, patiently, until it is settled on her finger to slowly bring it back towards them. Olfete is watching in wide-eyed fascination, one fist tight around the silver chain of Lothiriel’s necklace.

“She will not hurt you, Olfete. I promise. Can she give you her gift?”

Cautiously, Olfete nods. Lothiriel brings the butterfly close to her daughter’s cheek where it obligingly flaps its wings. Olfete giggles, wariness quickly giving way to delight.  

“It tickles! What is it?”

“A butterfly’s kiss. Our loved ones can send them to us on their wings, no matter where they are.”

“Ecwen should have some too!” Olfete declares.

“Mo!” Cries Ecwen, in obvious support of the idea.

Lothiriel laughs, bringing the butterfly close to Ecwen’s nose. Fearless as ever, Ecwen eyes the animal with fascination–so much so that her eyes cross. Lothiriel laughs, Olfete giggles, and Ecwen grins, even though it is likely she doesn’t understand what is so amusing. She grins wider at the touch of wings to her nose and mercifully doesn’t try to bat the butterfly away with her chubby, baby fists.

Eventually, the butterfly takes flight, fluttering off to rejoin its kin in the flowers.

Ecwen has crawled into Lothiriel’s lap as well, her head on Olfete’s shoulder. They watch the butterflies in comfortable silence for a while.

Just as Lothiriel begins to contemplate gathering them both up for a nap, Olfete stirs, turning a little to fix her with a piercing stare. It is such an utterly Eomer-like expression that Lothiriel’s breath nearly catches.

“Modor, did the butterflies have to come from Haruni?”

“Well, no,” Lothiriel assures her, shifting Ecwen more comfortably into the crook of her right arm. “Any one we love could have sent them. Aunt Eowyn, Mistress Brandybuck, Legolas–”

“What about Faeder?”

Oh, Lothiriel thinks, willing herself not to cry. “Of course. That is who probably sent them, Olfete, you’re right.”

Olfete’s lip quivers in what is a valiant–and heart wrenching, Valar, how strong she is, for one so young–attempt not to cry. “S’not as good as Faeder’s real kisses, but. It would be ok. If he did send them.”

“I am sure he did. And besides, he will be home soon. He said as much in his last letter, remember?”

Olfete sniffles and leans her head back against Lothiriel’s shoulder. “Soon is taking forever.”

Lothiriel cannot help but huff a laugh before pressing a kiss to her eldest’s forehead. “I know. I think so, too.”

“Fa!” Declares Ecwen suddenly, with a very forceful point in the direction of the butterflies.

No, not the butterflies, but rather the broad-shouldered figure rounding the hedge behind them–

“Faeder!” Cries Olfete, launching herself from Lothiriel’s lap with every ounce of her four year-old’s strength. She is down the path before Lothiriel can even draw a breath to urge caution–surely it could not be Eomer in truth, she would have been told if his eored was so close–

But no, it is him, handsome and tall as ever, bending down to sweep Olfete up in his arms with a relieved laugh.

“How tall you’ve gotten, mitting!” He is saying, as if he hasn’t been gone for months. “And even more freckled than I remembered–

“Faeder, you’re home, I missed you–” Olfete cries, wrapping her little body as tightly as she can around him.

“I missed you too, swete.”

“How much?”

“Very much.”

Lothiriel’s heart is in her throat. Oh, Valar, she’s so happy she could burst. And there has never been anything more touching than Eomer with their children. But she also is torn between the distinct urge to throttle her husband, no matter how much she’s missed him, and give Merthwyn a serious piece of her mind, so for so obviously–in hindsight–tricking her into coming here.

“Say hello to Ecwen, too, Faeder!” Olfete orders.

Somehow Lothiriel manages to stand though her legs feel like water beneath her, with Ecwen balanced on her hip. Eomer has shifted Olfete to one side, so that one hand is free to reach out to her and Ecwen both. For once Ecwen is uncharacteristically shy and hides her face in Lothiriel’s hair as they approach. Eomer’s expression shifts–happiness to incredible sadness and regret–in the blink of an eye. Valar, how could she even feel a moment’s irritation with him? It is not as if the separation has been easy for any of them!

“She does not remember me,” he says, voice rough. “I had not thought–I should have expected–”

“Give her a moment,” Lothiriel assures him. Ecwen had not hesitated to pet a stallion the other morning; surely her own father is less threatening than that?

Mercifully, she is proven right, for Ecwen lifts her head from her shoulder with a small–but still sunny–smile. “Fa,” she says, again.

Eomer swallows. “Yes. That’s–yes, Ecwen.”

He reaches out to touch the soft curve of her cheek. Ecwen giggles, pressing her face further into his hand, and Lothiriel gives a helpless sort of laugh. “She was just surprised, I think.”

Eomer’s eyes shoot up to meet hers. “I do not think she was the only one. I–it was meant to be a kindness, Lothiriel, but–”

She steps forward to kiss him, unable to bear the note of uncertainty in his voice. As if she can be anything other than happy to have him back again, safe and whole. It’s much more chaste than the welcoming kiss she’s dreamed of giving him over the course of the past six months, but it achieves its purpose; Eomer relaxes, his hand sliding to grip her arm that’s around Ecwen’s back.

Olfete’s giggles pull them from their embrace. “See? Told you Faeder’s real kisses would be better than the butterfly’s!”

Lothiriel laughs at the confused expression on Eomer’s face. “The buterflégan you sent,” she explains, with a nod in the direction of the flower bushes.

Mercifully, he follows her line of thinking. “Ah. I am glad I can stand up to their kisses, Olfete!”

“Silly Faeder,” she says, wrapping her arms tight around his neck again, “you’d always win!”

The blush that fills his face is so endearing that Lothiriel cannot help but kiss him anew, even as Ecwen gives a sharp tug on her hair. “I agree. And welcome home, Eomer King.”

His smile is no less beautiful than it was the day she knew she loved him. “There is,” he says, nudging his nose against her temple, “nowhere else I’d rather be.”

[hennyjolzen]

"nocturnal lepidopterous insect," Middle English motthe, from Old English moððe (Northumbrian mohðe), a common Germanic word (compare Old Norse motti, Middle Dutch motte, Dutch mot, German Motte "moth"), perhaps related to Old English maða "maggot," or perhaps from the root of midge (q.v.).  "female parent, a woman in relation to her child," Middle English moder, from Old English modor, from Proto-Germanic *mōdēr (source also of Old Saxon modar, Old Frisian moder, Old Norse moðir, Danish moder, Dutch moeder, Old High German muoter, German Mutter), from PIE *mater- "mother" (source also of Latin māter, Old Irish mathir, Lithuanian motė, Sanskrit matar-, Greek mētēr, Old Church Slavonic mati), "[b]ased ultimately on the baby-talk form *mā- (2); with the kinship term suffix *-ter-" [Watkins].

Moths 

[an-alienist]

mother (n.1) "female parent, a woman in relation to her child," Middle English moder, from Old English modor, from Proto-Germanic *mōdēr (source also of Old Saxon modar, Old Frisian moder, Old Norse moðir, Danish moder, Dutch moeder, Old High German muoter, German Mutter), from PIE *mater- "mother" (source also of Latin māter, Old Irish mathir, Lithuanian motė, Sanskrit matar-, Greek mētēr, Old Church Slavonic mati), "[b]ased ultimately on the baby-talk form *mā- (2); with the kinship term suffix *-ter-" [Watkins]. Spelling with -th- dates from early 16c., though that pronunciation is probably older (see father (n.)). […] Mother Nature as a personification is attested from c. 1600; mother earth as an expression of the earth as the giver of life is from 1580s. Mother tongue "one's native language" is attested from late 14c. Mother country "a country in relation to its colonies" is from 1580s. Mother-love "such affection as is shown by a mother" is by 1854. Mother-wit "native wit, common sense" is from mid-15c.

https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=mother

[meteorajulie]

Mother

mother (n.1)

"female parent, a woman in relation to her child," Middle English moder, from Old English modor, from Proto-Germanic *mōdēr (source also of Old Saxon modar, Old Frisian moder, Old Norse moðir, Danish moder, Dutch moeder, Old High German muoter, German Mutter), from PIE *mater- "mother" (source also of Latin māter, Old Irish mathir, Lithuanian motė, Sanskrit matar-, Greek mētēr, Old Church Slavonic mati), "[b]ased ultimately on the baby-talk form *mā- (2); with the kinship term suffix *-ter-" [Watkins]. Spelling with -th- dates from early 16c., though that pronunciation is probably older (see father (n.)).

Sense of "that which has given birth to anything" is from late Old English; as a familiar term of address to an elderly woman, especially of the lower class, by c. 1200.

[sometimesfrancis]

From the Lost and Found of Souls

One sin short of the city of the damned... I used to have sessions with a beautiful blonde woman. Five years on, I squirm in a motel room, asking if I'm being kept as her pet. I can remember the Asylam security now. I have the guts of a penetant con I wake to a leather cuff around my wrist and I learn to use the machine on the small table in the motel room I illustrate highlights of my life in the paper city I can use a full spectrum of color now the display is framed in silver plastic and backlit we keep our old reports on the ghost side of the bed. There's no need to go digging through my dreams since broken I think I've been rented out to a successful lesbian and besides my reports I can only remember my bedroom. I drink too often. I meet characters; the former mayor. The librarian's son. I'll digest this past and call it heartache. A bowl of microwave pasta sit s unfinished. I could eat another spoonful of hazelnut spread. I can feel my suppliment wearing off. It helps me think more clearly. But sleep comes later the more I take the gumdrop-flavored psychotropics draw on my sleep centers my childhood a daydream I'm no stranger to three in the afternoon. I did basketball, water-polo, and comedy. My mind grind s harshly between doses and I'm tempted to swallow a handful life reeces puffs cerial.

I'm addicted to my stim toy. I try to stay in reality, but there are Shadow people claiming Mr nuisance. I want to register at the hall of unexpected people. I want a known opposition to the name on my birth certificate. I want my middle name to be Morbid, like it was in Gotham City. There was an itch on my identity state the other night, clamming in my modor's voice that we all have a private persona, but I wasn't meant to live in a cloister watching that blonde live my life. Skilled nursing assistants have spoken it better mine and to give it back I would earn a one way ticket to the city of the damned, even if i have to put up a fight to keep it, the fight is mine, since Blue Eyes branded me for work release. I'm due an education. All I do is fix snacks and print it out word by word how I got here, so I can commit to memory my past. Every minute I stay awake is a minute I've earned against the thin lines of my sickly youth where this rich plaster box holds my Shadow and words of a narrative bend to my will I don't want to live through the mask of a doll asking "are you sure you want to think of that right now?" "You're so fragile, Mr. Dent." Every word I put down is a dictionary code to a program that will either fizzel out or set me free to work my way through college I need more to give people at a bar than a diagnosis and a palsied smile like child abuse won me as her trophy wife. One step at a time.

[pandagirl45]

Kurt, age 13: I have never seen my parents thrown hands that fast

Ultron, same age:...I have. My dads are vipers

Modor: I place bets to see my mom to throw hands in her jotunn form

Skarr: HA, my parents made sure everyone knows their hands are rated e for everyone

[bern33chaser]

The Meanings and Variations of “Mother”

Mother derives from the Old English term modor, which is cognate with the Latin word mater and the Greek word meter. (From the Latin term such words as maternal and maternity are derived.) The term refers not only to a female parent but also to a woman in authority, such as the head of a women’s religious community; it was also long employed as a respectful term of address for an elderly woman (as in “Mother Goose”), though this use is almost obsolete. It may also apply to an origin, precursor, or source, as in the expression “Necessity is the mother of invention.”

A stepmother is a woman who marries one of one’s parents, and a mother-in-law is the mother of one’s spouse. Motherly describes maternal behavior, and motherlike alludes to a resemblance to the qualities of a mother. Motherhood describes the quality or state of being a mother.

The verb mother pertains to the act of producing biological or figurative offspring. Motherland describes one’s home country, although the term is most prevalent in Russia and adjacent nations as well as some in the Near East and seldom used elsewhere. Mother Nature is the maternal personification of nature as the source of all that exists in the natural world. Mother also appears in a compound word ending with an obscene term; in this form and by itself it can be, depending on context, a mild epithet or an extreme insult.

Open compounds that include the term mother include “earth mother” (meaning “a maternal figure”) “mother cell” (“a cell in an organism that produces usually different types of cells”), “mother hen” (“an overly protective person”), “mother lode” (“a primary mineral lode or vein” or “a primary source or supply”), “mother wit” (“natural intelligence or wit”), and “mother ship” (“a ship that serves smaller vessels”). “Refrigerator mother,” a label once applied to cold, distant, unmaternal mothers, was coined as part of a since-rejected theory for the cause of autism. A stage mother, meanwhile, is one who pressures a child to participate in the performing arts and demands special treatment for him or her; the term is derogatory, with the implication that a she is living vicariously through the child.

Compounds employing the informal variant mom include “helicopter mom,” which describes an overly protective mother, as well as “soccer mom,” a sometimes pejorative term for a specific demographic—a suburban mother who pushes her children to participate in extracurricular activities such as youth soccer leagues—and the related phrase “hockey mom,” which pertains to inhabitants of geographic regions where ice hockey is prevalent.

Expressions that use the term mother follow:

a face only a mother could love: said of an unattractive person at (one’s) mother’s knee: alluding to learning something as a child every mother’s son: an evocative way of saying “everyone” everybody/everyone and (one’s) mother: a hyperbolic expression referring to a crowd the mother of all (blank): a hyperbolic reference to the best or greatest of a type of thing swear/swore on (one’s) mother’s grave: a hyperbolic reference to a solemn confirmation that one is telling the truth because of the association with the sanctity of a parent’s gravesite tied to (one’s) mother’s apron strings: said of a man who has not asserted his independence from his mother

Click here to get access to 800+ interactive grammar exercises! Publish your book with our partner InstantPublisher.com! Professionally printed in as few as 7 days.

Original post: The Meanings and Variations of “Mother” from Daily Writing Tips http://www.dailywritingtips.com/the-meanings-and-variations-of-mother/

[pandagirl45]

Ultron, 17: kurt, skar and modor, want to fuck shit up?

Kurt, 16 and half: oh yes please

Skar, 16: let's go!!~

Mordor, 17 and half: *grins with mischievous glee disappearing with them*

Two hours later, an AIM cross HYDRA base blown to smithereens

Tony: our kids are awesome

Steve: *posing in front of the destroyed base*

Bruce: awesome as hell *snapping a picture* thor will be thrilled

Loki: *posing with for a picture*

[pandagirl45]

Moder, 7: I don't want to go to school! I'm smart!

Strange: we know that. I know that, but your parent and I think-

Moder: *glaring* you're not my dad!

Strange knows that. He knows how many partners loki had over his immortal life time. The tales he can speak of. The adventures as a God and jotunn. A seductress even. He knows this well. These kids of his, their fathers either aren't around, don't care to be or they are dead. He knows this. Yet modor seems to be having the hardest to adjust.

Times he hears her whisper angrily about wanting to know her real parentage. A small being, a mini giant in a way. Four hooves, four eyes, antlers made of flesh. She is the truth of loki children being different. In eyes of most asgardians who longed for their old world, a monster.

Strange seen worse beings than an angry child wishing to know who they are. Even when her abilities whispers his hands to shake as he practice. Her viper tongue like her mothers snaked out to cut him down. He stand strong because there is 6 beings relying on him. A great wolf child, a horse of many legs, a world snake, a magical old as him device, and cloak. Last modor.

Who is friends with even stranger kids, who is friend with a android turned human. A teleporting mutant. A hulking with unknown abilities. They are friends and strange wishes he can give her that comfort.

So when he is reading incantations, studying old sigils and alchemical properties, he stopped seeing her monster and child form in multiple orbs. Big eyes wet, blanket clutch in her hands.

"Mom... is still off on that stupid mission?"

Yes, loki is off to speak with jotunn that wish for asylum. A problem brewing. Unfairness spoken a language he can't even begin to decipher.

"Yes. Are you okay little one?"

A perk up, modor looked down then wandered over, "when will she back?"

"In a other full moon."

Strange rambled off, he wasn't excepting the surprise in those dark yellow eyes, "oh, soon then."

"Yes. Anything I can assist with?"

Shaking her head, she grabbed his pant leg looking at the moving magic, "why do you try?"

"Because, as much as I seem not to like children," a surprising childish giggle, strange half smiled, "I do love you guys, you. Your mother. Your siblings."

Modor stayed silent fingers digging till a tear was heard. Strange looked at her again seeing dark purple tears bubbling over, "you're dumb. Jorgamundr is dumb too."

"Well, let agree," strange lifted her up with a flick of his finger, he watched cloak swirl around eliciting happy hiccuping giggles, "that teens are dumb."

It was going to take time. If loki came back home with a pleasant surprise of seeing the sorcerer asleep with makeup on his face, a spell book on his chest, and modor asleep against his side. The God of mischief grinned snapping a picture.

(Sorry I keep spelling her name wrong )

[mikrowrites]

all hail the magic man

•prologue•

Stephen Strange x Apprentice!OC(platonic)

A/N: I’m trying something new with this mini series please bear with me haha

- - - - - -

You never really do know when the day comes you stare death in the face.

You’re lucky one if it comes upon you swift as a hare, you see death for a millisecond before the end of your story.

You’re the poor unlucky bastard if you see death coming. If you hear it’s footsteps, it’s scythe dragging along the floor. When you feel it’s cold breath and it’s poison already within your veins.

Charlotte (preferably Charlie) Lynn Greyson was one of those unlucky souls.

Let’s set the scene, shall we?

It’s very rare that a lineage roots within the walls of Kamar-taj. Most who learn the mystic arts in the haven are scattered through the world, all hurting and seeking purpose.

John Greyson stumbled upon the sanctuary in Nepal in 1948, when his injuries from the war had left him in despair and a state of brokenness. The masters took him in, teaching him the ways of the mystic arts and in due time appointing him the Master of the New York Sanctum.

The mystic arts were then passed down to his son, Henry Greyson, who also eventually was given the title his father once held.

It was always noticeable the mood within Kamar-taj changed when little Charlotte (still, she likes Charlie better) Lynn Greyson arrived with her father for monthly meeting with Sanctum Masters. Those training in the arts adored her. It was an uncommon sight to see a child running about the haven.

In 2016, a week after Charlie’s thirteenth birthday, she ran through the portal to the familiar place, sprinting through the stone halls and leaving her poor father in the dust.

“Ancient One!” She cried out, throwing herself into the woman’s arms, the Sorcerer Supreme letting out an out of character chuckle.

“Hello there, Charlie. Happy Belated.” The Ancient One smiled, pulling away from the girl. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

The woman lead Charlie through a hallway into a courtyard, where a lone man stood, attempting to practice rituals.

“Dr. Strange!” The Ancient One called, the man looking up. His eyes narrowed in confusion at the sight of Charlie. “Dr. Stephen Strange, I’d like you to meet Charlotte Greyson. Her father is head of the New York Sanctum.”

Charlie smiled, holding out her hand. “Call me Charlie, please.”

The man hesitantly took her hand, Charlie noticing the scars lining his fingers and the way his hand trembled. He quickly took his hand back, turning back to the Ancient One questioningly.

“Charlie just turned thirteen not long ago, and has begun studying to be a master of the mystic arts. Perhaps you two could practice a bit together, Dr. Strange?” She smiled.

Charlie could see the unwillingness in Stephen’s eyes, but he nonetheless nodded, The Ancient One tossing Y/N a smile and wave before walking away.

She turned to Stephen, nervously wringing her hands. “I-Uh... I only just started studying, so uh... I’m not very good... at all, really...”

The man nodded. “Neither am I,” he mumbled, “my damn hands...”

“Maybe it’s not so much your hands, but you’re like me.” Charlie questioned, the man whipping his head over to look incredulously at her. “Maybe it’s because we’re both still new to this, and—uh—we’re... I dunno, forget it.” Charlie dismissed with a smile.

Stephen nodded. “So... your father is the Master of the New York Sanctum? That’s... a lot to live up to.”

Charlie grinned, nudging Stephen’s shoulder. “It’s really not much. You’d see, come visit some time.”

- - - - - -

It was an ordinary day. Honestly just like any other.

Until Charlie heard her mother scream.

She ran to the staircase, peering between the rungs of the railing as she glanced below.

Charlie would never forget the sight of her mother sprawled on the floor, a kind of mystic mirroring knife through her skull.

A finger tapped Charlie’s shoulder.

She nearly screamed before Stephen covered her lips with his hand, hushing her comfortingly. Charlie felt tears spring to her eyes as she turned back to the scene in time to watch her father be murdered.

Charlie stumbled back in horror, tears cascading down her face as Stephen caught the murderers’ attention. He turned to the girl, murmuring a hasty “Run! Go!” before descending upon the lackeys.

Charlie scrambles to run, bursting through the relic room. She fumbled to grab a sling ring, sliding it on her fingers. She had never made a portal, as she closed her eyes and focused, drawing a circle with her fingers. She let her head hang as she sobbed, running forwards and stumbling as her feet hit a different terrain, fall to her hands and knees.

She heard frantic footsteps and the woosh of the portal closing. Charlie felt a thousand pounds sink onto her back as she collapsed on the floor, sobbing into the floor.

“Charlie?!”

Charlie looked up to see Modor flanked by the Ancient One, concern etched in their faces.

The young girl choked back tears, managing one sentence before the adrenaline left her body and the world went black:

“New York Sanctum attacked.”

Now, this portion of Charlie’s life was not when death approached her and whispered in her ear.

That moment is still to come.

[theemightypen]

“So. It was you.”

The sound of furious whispering is the first thing that greets her as she enters the royal chambers. The second thing she takes note of is the equal parts humorous and endearing sight of the heads of her three children bent together, clearly conspiring something.

“Olfete, Ecwen, Elfwine,” she says, smothering a smile when they all jump in surprise. “Dare I ask what mischief you’ve gotten into this time?”

Olfete cringes–as the oldest, and most level-headed, she’s most accustomed to to cleaning up the messes of her younger siblings, with varying success. Ecwen, on the other hand, offers her best, most guileless smile, which means something is afoot indeed. Elfwine, at only 3, hasn’t mastered lying in any capacity, so it’s he who answers her, saying, “We let Fi out of his stall!”

Fi is what poor Firefoot has been dubbed since Olfete began talking. He’s in his old age now, much more gentle than he had been in the height of the War, little as Eomer wants to admit it. All of her children are as fond of him as their father, but generally with more disastrous results.

“Ah,” Lothiriel says. The mess in the courtyard–an overturned watering trough, a very shaken groom, and a rather muddy warhorse–makes much more sense now. “I see.”

“It was Ecwen’s idea,” Olfete says. “I tried to stop her but–”

“Tattle tale!” Cries Ecwen. “You helped! I couldn’t lift the latch on my own anyways, Modor knows that–”

“I helped too!” Elfwine declares, proudly. “I gave Fi an apple!”

“Did you now,” Lothiriel murmurs. She drifts closer and Olfete–holding off a now wailing Ecwen with one arm–presents her free hand for inspection. It’s dirty, certainly, but there’s no other sign of injury. Ecwen’s hands are much the same and Elfwine’s are entirely clean, likely thanks to his smaller role of apple provider.

“And why did we decide to unleash Firefoot on Edoras?”

“Faeder said he needed a good walk soon!” Ecwen says, through tears. “We were just trying to help!”

“Who was to walk Firefoot once you’d released him?” She asks, gently lifting Ecwen to place her on her hip. She’s nearly too big for it now, at 6, especially with the way the new babe has set her stomach to swelling, but Lothiriel knows there is no better way to calm her middle child’s tears.

“W-well, I thought I could hold his bridle,” Olfete admits in a small voice. “I am 9 now, and Faeder said that is plenty old enough to manage my own horse–”

“Yes, your own horse,” Lothiriel agrees, giving a small sigh of relief as she settles into the chair nearest the fire. Her back hurts nearly all the time now, and it is not helped by Ecwen’s added weight. “A gelding or a yearling, swete, not Firefoot.”

“But Fi likes us!” Elfwine protests, coming to lay his head against her knee. “He does, Modor!”

“I know he does, lytling. But Firefoot is much bigger and stronger than you. It isn’t safe for the three of you to let him out by yourselves. You need to ask someone to help you take him for a ride. And you should always as your faeder’s permission first.”

She doesn’t miss the guilty look that crosses Olfete’s face, nor the nervous way Ecwen starts chewing on her fingernails.

Oh, Valar.

“Olfete, Ecwen,” she sighs, knowing the answer before she can truly formulate the question, “did you even ask Faeder if Firefoot needed a stretch?”

“He said so last night at dinner!” Ecwen protests. “He did–he was telling Uncle Eothain–”

Resisting the urge to groan, Lothiriel places a finger to Ecwen’s lips. “What have I told you about eavesdropping, dohtor?”

“That it’s not nice manners. But Faeder’s voice carries, Modor! I didn’t mean to hear it.”

“And he’s let us all ride Firefoot before,” Olfete adds. “Even Elfwine.”

“I held the reins!” adds Elfwine. “Faeder said I was good!”

That is news to Lothiriel, and certainly something she and Eomer would discuss in detail later. Once he’s been fully convinced of his beloved horse’s lack of injuries. And once likely all of their children have been suitably chastised.

“That is beside the point,” she says. “He was with you then. If Firefoot were to accidentally hurt one of you, or you to accidentally hurt him…”

She trails off, watching realization dawn on all three of their dear, sweet, troublesome faces.

“Faeder would be sad,” Elfwine says, lip quivering.

“No, Faeder would be furious,” Olfete amends, twisting her fair hair nervously.

“Nu uh!” Protests Ecwen, contrary to the last. “He’d be proud of us for being eorlingas and taking care of Firefoot–”

“So,” comes Eomer’s voice, cutting across their daughter’s argument, “It was you.”

All three children flinch. Elfwine tucks himself more securely against Lothiriel’s legs, Ecwen does her best to hide her face in Lothiriel’s hair, and Olfete–who takes after Lothiriel most, in all things–turns bright scarlet.

Lothiriel can’t say she blames them; Eomer looks anything other than happy. She shoots him a look–be gentle, they meant well–that has his shoulders relaxing, at least a little, as he crosses the room to stand in front of them. In nearly 12 years of marriage, Lothiriel doesn’t think she’s ever seen him so stern.

“Faeder,” Olfete starts, “it was my fault, I turned the latch–”

“Yes, under considerable duress,” he interrupts. “Or at least that’s how Heurbrand tells it.”

Herubrand, Master of the Stables since Eomer was a boy, would not lie. Lothiriel presses a hand to her temple. Ecwen, for all her good intentions, is trouble made flesh in many things. In contrast to Olfete’s natural responsibility and Elfwine’s innate sweetness, she is the source of most of the mischief the children get up to. It would seem now is no different.

Ecwen is crying again, tears dripping down on Lothiriel’s neck. “I just wanted to help,” she whispers miserably. “Modor says–”

“Modor says to help when you can and if you can, Ecwen. Firefoot is not your responsibility. You could have been hurt. Olfete could have been hurt. Elfwine could have been hurt. Poor Freca very nearly was hurt when he tried to get Firefoot back in his stall.”

“Is he alright?” Lothiriel asks. Freca has been a loyal groom for years and has a family to feed.

“He is fine, thank Bema,” Eomer confirms. “But you owe him an apology, Ecwen. And Firefoot as well. He is an old man, now, dohtor, and does not do well with surprises.”

Lothiriel purses her lips to keep from smiling. Eomer’s eyes narrow; he knows her too well to not easily read the he’s not the only one so clearly writ on her face.

“I will go with her,” Olfete offers. “I should apologize to them too; Ecwen could not have opened the door without my help.”

“Yes,” Eomer agrees. “And then to your rooms. You will eat dinner alone tonight.”

“B-but the spring festival starts tonight–!”

“It does. And you should have thought of that before disrupting Firefoot and the stables.”

Lothiriel presses a kiss to Ecwen’s forehead before gently depositing her on the floor. “You owe your faeder an apology too, swete. It was kindly meant, what you did, but not well done.”

Sniffling, Ecwen murmurs a muffled sorry into Eomer’s hip as she hugs him. Eomer sighs, stroking her hair once before giving her a nudge towards the door. He chucks Olfete under her chin as she passes him, earning a wobbly smile. She takes her younger sister’s hand and leads her back out into the hall.

“M’I in trouble too?” Asks Elfwine, finally removing his head from her leg.

“That depends on what your role in this was, my son.”

“He gave Firefoot an apple,” Lothiriel murmurs. Eomer pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Yes. You’ll stay with your sisters during dinner as well. And no more rides until the festival is over.”

Elfwine frowns. “But Faeder–”

“I agree,” Lothiriel interrupts. “And it is high time you had a nap, Elfwine.”

His frown only deepens, but he mercifully doesn’t cry even when one of Lothiriel’s ladies appears to take him to the nursery. Eomer sinks into the chair opposite her with a groan when the door closes behind them.

“Bema, what did we do to deserve this?”

“I certainly got up to my fair share of mischief as a child,” Lothiriel says, crossing the distance between them to run a soothing hand through his hair. “And with a sister like Eowyn, I suspect you did too.”

Eomer snorts. He wraps an arm around her waist and reaches for the swell of her stomach with his other hand. “And yet we have been mad enough to try for another.”

“I do not recall you complaining during the trying–”

He snorts again. “Well, I may be mad, but I am certainly not a fool.”

She’s still rolling her eyes, albeit fondly, when he rises to pull her into a kiss.

“And perhaps,” he says, pulling away just enough to press his forehead to hers, “this little one will be less trouble?”

It’s Lothiriel’s turn to laugh. “Do you truly think we could be so lucky?”

Eomer’s expression softens. “Do you not think we already are?”

And what can she do but kiss him for that?

(Five months later, when Mistress Deorwyn emerges from the birthing chamber to inform Eomer is father to twin boys, he cannot help that think that lucky may not be quite the right word.

“Well,” Lothiriel says, smiling despite her weariness, “they do call you ‘the blessed’, my love.”

“I did not think they meant it in terms of number of children,” Eomer grumbles–though he remains as helpless as ever at the sensation of one of the babe’s–their babes–tiny fingers wrapped around his own.)