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astarionsilverbough · 7 months

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AHH! Another place to gush about your work! Stupendous! Wonderful! So excited for more 🙌

I live for the softness ❤️ a glutton for the sweetness of their relationship.

Things I like thinking about include

Hair care: Astarion not being able to see himself and Halsin’s braids so they can take care of each other hair which is such a soft bonding activity which can also lead to a gentle bathing and washing together. Also scar hurt/comfort???

Halsin & animals playing with baby ducks and other baby animals. Imagine Halsin gently placing a small chick in Astarion’s hands to hold 😭

Wild shape shenanigans: Astarion’s feet hurting or just for fun using Halsin as his steed and general wildshape cuddling ❤️

Astarion having a hoard of little wooden creatures Halsin whittled. Also if Halsin had a hidden talent for drawing it would also be soft and angsty because Astarion can’t see himself, but now he can at least see how Halsin sees him.

Okay so firstly thank you so much my dear 😭💕 secondly, thank you specifically for this ask because my GOD it is so soft but nothing gets to me like braiding a lover’s hair/scar care like NOTHING does so I’m now just thinking about -

“Hold still, darling, it’s the last one.” A pause, and then - a mockingly scandalized gasp. “Halsin! Keep those hands to yourself, if you please! This is delicate work.”

It’s no use. They’re already everywhere, those clever, keeping hands; it’s Astarion’s fault, really. He’s naked and hovering over the larger elf’s very inviting lap, which also happens to be conveniently barren of clothing.

And he can’t be distracted - the customary braids in Halsin’s hair are best done when the elf’s mahogany locks are just damp enough.

“You always save that one for last,” Halsin burrs against Astarion’s chest, big hands cupping his ass.

The tips of Astarion’s ears go pink. “Nonsense.”

Halsin tips back and gives him a knowing smirk. “Is it because it’s the mating braid?”

He says it in elvish - low, and smug. Astarion reacts all over.

“You’re dreadful,” the vampire says, “absolutely horrible. Accusing me of sentiment? I know I have a tadpole in my head but - Halsin!”

Somehow he manages to pinch the bottom of the last braid and hold it aloft as his absolute beast of a lover rolls him into the sheets with a gusting laugh.

And, later - much later, after they’ve gotten filthy again and after Astarion finally finishes that damn braid - Halsin gets Astarion spread out on the sheets and slowly, gently massages the sigils carved into the landscape of Astarion’s spine.

Rosemary oil slicks Halsin’s way as the elf - looming over Astarion now with a thigh on either side of Astarion’s narrow hips - runs expert hands up and down the length of his back, thumbs pushing in all the write spots to loosen the tension he unknowingly carries in the places around the tattoo.

“It feels different,” Astarion says quietly. When he speaks, he speaks in elvish. Halsin’s hands pause; Astarion rarely speaks in elvish.

“What does? Are you in any pain?”

He says it evenly - measured and calm. An oath-bearing warrior he may be now, he will always be a Druid at heart.

Astarion smiles faintly against his own upper arm. They’re folded under his head, keeping it pillowed as Astarion watches Halsin’s reflection in the sliver of mirror just past the archway leading into their bathing chamber.

“No, darling,” he hums, “not anymore. It… feels different. The mark. Like you’ve gone and purged whatever evil was still lurking inside it. My own personal shadow curse - and you’re the light that drove it out.”

There’s a beat of silence. Astarion expects it, of course he does, but it still renders him breathless when Halsin bows over him and kisses slow and lingering down the exposed side of his face. Shifting, Astarion presses up and back against the larger elf, reveling in the strength of him, the heat of him.

“Evil could never dwell in this body,” Halsin murmurs in aching tones against Astarion’s ear, “for the sunlight of your soul would cast it out. You have only ever been made of light, dawnstar. No darkness could snuff that out.”

He expects it, most of the time - when Halsin utters some absolutely heart-shattering epitaph dedicated to their love or Astarion in general - but this time, Astarion’s moved to genuine tears. Call it the vulnerability after sex, the boneless exhaustion of a good massage, whatever.

Really, it’s just Halsin. And it will always be just Halsin, won’t it, he thinks, turning his head to catch the larger elf in a kiss as his fingers find the mating braid in his thick hair.

A thrill runs through him.

It feels like sunlight.

#I know there were three prompts to this but MY GOD THE FURSR ONE. nothing gets to me like mutual hair care and scar care #nothing #baldur’s gate 3 #halstarion #astarion #the land of gods and monsters verse #halsin #rambles #I am RUINED #however the idea of Astarion cradling a baby rabbit nearly moved me to tears #so there’s that

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the-tomato-patch · 2 months

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The Hand that Assures You

"Petulance won't change your situation, Jedi. You know what needs done." In which a burnt out Jedi requires reassurance on the days leading up to the face off against the Emperor.

Pairing: Jedi Knight x Lord Scourge ( pre-relationship )

Word Count: 2.5k

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54443620

The rays of the setting sun chased back the encroaching darkness. Nightfall brought little relief to the pair that wandered up the lonely mountain pathway. The air had been stifling humid yet faded into a biting chill, the sky overhead a bright orange-pink color quickly fading to dark blue, tinging the clouds and the high-hanging stars above, as well as the reflective shimmer of the massive planet filling most of the eastern horizon, both beautiful and hazy and far away.

Rhiasen wished it was just the miserable humidity of the day that had given her a headache. Wished it was just the strain of the days mission and exhaustion and hunger that dragged down her eyelids, her strength and sapped at her body heat now with the frigid air. Wished it wasn't endless stress and the thought of what lay ahead making the prospect of sleep anything but welcoming.

Wished she was anyone but herself at that moment, standing at a precipice with a horrible fate waiting, looming ahead with no where to run. In less than a week, they would meet the Emperor once more.

The Force didn't always guide her choices, it let her be the master of her own life. But every once in awhile it became clear this was not a fight Rhiasen could avoid. And here on the threshold she slowly approached, her heart quivered like an animal wishing only for escape and fearing death. Her mind screamed in equal dread with the same longing to flee and hide. Every cell within her strained for freedom in any direction but this one.

At her shoulder Scourge stepped forward to better be seen, as tall and silent as a statue of stone carved in a great temple. Ever ready, ever unwavering, his own dedication a burning hellfire compared to Rhiasen's own tepid embers.

"I can smell your fear." he whispered, low and measured.

There was no comfort in his words. This wasn't one of his attempts at dark humor, as much as that took on the form of crude jabs. It was cold, the truth spoken unflinchingly. No platitude given for the sake of kindness or some attempt to lessen the blow of his brutal words. He said this because he was stating a fact of her reality for the last few weeks.

Even her eyes had seemed changed, more bloodshot. Unrefreshed. Rhiasen smiled weakly at him, bitterness in her eyes, "Perceptive as always.." She hissed. "Anything else you'd care to comment on?"

Scourge only stared her down, in all the ways such a gaze could be given. The stare was hard, intense... A subtle bit of aggression to go with a straight line across his mouth, no hints of what could lie behind those lips. That kind of stare had once made her flinch and look away. But she knew him too well now. Even his stares didn't bother her anymore. And she only glared right back, her jaw stiff, her feet planted and shoulders squared in defiance.

"Petulance won't change your situation, Jedi. You know what needs done."

"My name is Rhiasen!" The words hissed out through her clenched teeth, frustration coming off her in a blistering wave of fury. Hands running through her hair, before gripping fistfuls and pulling at the tangles. He remained unphased, she expected that, "A little tact! Just a little! Tell me I am not ready, I won't feel offended..."

Scourge scoffed and turned, gazing at her from the corner of his eye, as if watching a small child throw a tantrum, "I would insult your capabilities, but that would be a lie, even by my standards."

Rhiasen didn't stop, "Thank the Force for small miracles, huh?...But it doesn't matter if I can do it or not! Do I even have a choice!?"

She glared at his profile as he scanned the horizon, ignoring her display. He was no help. And no consolation either, no matter what he told her or what he didn't. Because ultimately it was about the path the Force had laid upon them three centuries ago. They both were as trapped by it's guiding light as they had been the Emperor's enslavement. This was where their fates led, this was all they had to follow. There was nothing beyond this path, no future but a deep abyss waiting, where a choice couldn't even be made anymore should the Emperor be allowed to live.

How fitting to bring them both to this moment.

So, finally, she sighed and pulled her hood up, closing her eyes and struggling to calm herself, pushing her anxiety down beneath the surface, taking her courage by the reins and strangling the rest into submission.

She walked on.

Through a doorway and into the living area of a long abandoned building, broken by age, disrepair, and war. Thankfully Voss architecture stood strong and solid against the decay of time and damage. Stone columns held aloft the ceiling of the small house, a domed archway decorated in red and gold, reminding of old times and what this home might have looked like before when light of a warm hearth and voices of family and friends had lit it up.

Silence. Cold and barren. Forgotten and covered in shadows and dust, filled now only by Rhiasen and Scourge. And what it represented, all around them. And her damned mind betrayed her once more.

Is this what awaits the future, Rhiasen wondered. Should she die? How many more homes would stand like this, the air growing colder and colder without people to remind it why it had been warm in the first place. As devoid of life as the planet of Nathema, to whom even the dead could find no peace.

Scourge once more broke through her gloom, hearing the heavy clunk of his boots against the duracrete floor. He emerged from the single other room in this house aside from the main room, the bathroom, and leaned against the wall. Hands crossed across his chest. Waiting, watching.

"Empty."

Rhiasen sighed, "We... will stay here for the night.. I can't take another step.."

Silence again, heavy and all encompassing as the dust that settled itself on Rhiasen's robes, sneaking its way in past every fold and wrinkle. He nodded. She pulled her pack from off her shoulders and began looking for something, digging. But her search was not fruitful and a huff left her nose.

"...No rations... just great." Rhiasen snapped, throwing the empty pack against the far wall.

The crash it made was muffled, defeated. A stark symbol of everything she didn't say out loud, it rang out within her mind until it was nearly maddening and deafening. It sounded too much like her heart breaking under the strain of the constant pressure put on her, one problem piling on another, each adding to the next, each an echo and each growing stronger, feeding off one another.

The sound of crinkling wrapper and a package thrust before her made her blink and come back to herself.

It was food. An energy bar of some sort. Plain, gray-colored, not very appetizing looking. But it was food, and Rhiasen practically pounced on him for it. Scourge looked less than pleased.

"Eat, rest, meditate. This world can wait another day to die."

Scourge rumbled as he let her snatch the bar, watching her already try to shove most of it in her mouth, as if trying to avoid tasting it.

Her mouth full, cheeks puffed, Rhiasen let herself sit down on the ground and ate with some measure of joy at that point. She mumbled a thank you as best she could and watched Scourge look around. Not much else to keep his attention apparently. Not that his attention could keep hers either, thoughts were consuming her. When did it become a fight to force her thoughts elsewhere.

After her meal, she adjusted her position into a meditative one, not even acknowledging Scourge's movements as he moved around the house. Doing whatever it was he did to kill time.

Her breathing exercises were long learned and easily called forth in her mind. She cleared herself of distractions, her aura, her physical pain, the discomfort and nervous energy of her fear. Every distraction, a sound that broke the silence or the faint movement of Scourge near to her, all of it fell away into nothing. Only calm awareness as her body became more and more numb.

Only then could she open the door between her mind and the living world that surrounded her. Feeling, sensing, touching everything that surrounded her. Not seeing, but not blind either. Her spirit, her energy, feeling her power and life so vibrant and true and flowing. All life was present. Living. Alive and aware. She could see them and the potential for their lives as pure light. The trees, the plants and insects that crawled upon them. Everything.

Even Scourge, though her senses could barely perceive him. Barely detect the fact he was there. Nothing. Empty. No spirit, no glow. Nothing. Yet a vague memory of living, yet not fully. Perhaps he could be brought back, Rhiasen thought. Would be brought back in time. When this was over and the galaxy freed.

She breathed again and her body responded. Awake, aware, yet feeling so connected and at one. Here. She was here. She was safe.

Here in the world the two of them knew. This is who she was. This is what her power allowed her to do. Rhiasen was the heart, and he was the shield. This is who they were together and how they kept eachother going. Even now. Especially now, when her greatest test awaited upon a throne soaked with blood. And now, on a journey of not just vengeance but also of hope. So much rested on her and her crew. All eyes watching. Ready to see her fall, or watch her lead.

Yet in her soul, she found a strength. From her roots that had been watered by many a failure, and blood. Many failures. Countless times she was wrong, was foolhardy and thoughtless, was angry, hateful, arrogant, prideful. Desperate, willing to take risks without thought or regard. Driven by passion and hot temper. Back to her Sith roots, not the Jedi way.

She chased answers and relief in her meditations, and found some fraction of solace after a few hours. But her physical fatigue and exhaustion still were too much to ignore. She needed sleep.

Rhiasen sat up with a slight groan, joints aching. Though the light trance had eased some tension.

A firm presence came to stand beside her.

"Sleep is necessary, and meditation can only do so much. The hour is late enough, and the room is secure. Do not protest."

Orange eyes flickered about the room, spotting the only durable-looking couch in the far corner, "Looks.. cozy."

"You will survive. As will your concern for such niceties."

With a grumble, Rhiasen half stumbled- half dragged herself across the small room and collapsed onto the old couch. It wasn't a particularly big couch either. Cushions sagged down to form the curve of the worn and cracked surface, and what passed for armrests were bent and pressed back hard.

She curled up, head laying back, shivering and tucked up under her robes to save what body heat was left. With one small mercy, she fell asleep rather quickly but her body could not be bothered to fall into the state of healing restfulness her mind demanded. Back and forth she went in this state, barely there, then tossing about. Small whines of distress occasionally breaking the still air. Her own cries mixed with slight shivering. Until she felt the couch shift with sudden additional weight, waking her slightly but not enough to crack her eyes open.

This was not a large couch by any means, and two people being on it forced them to press close together. Scourge said not a word when he sat down, perching himself upon the opposite end, and settled. Despite his own inability to feel it, Scourge radiated warmth, and that was a sensation Rhiasen was happy to sink into in this exhausted state, shuffling to slide closer to his side.

"Come." was all he offered, propping his arm up to make room. She complied.

His arm moved to wrap around her, securing her close to him in a strange half embrace.

"I would make a sarcastic remark.." Rhiasen sleepily muttered, but her breathing was calming. "About you caring. But..."

"Save the energy." came his reply.

Rhiasen managed a soft laugh, nestled against him, allowing a rare moment to rest as if all of this would hold them off for a few more years, away from a looming war. Away from killing the Emperor. How naive.

"I am afraid." she said, whispering it. As if fear had to be a secret, "What if I can't?"

"Then you die. No one can save you from such a fate except yourself. You have that choice and it is yours alone to make, Jedi."

Rhiasen gave a hum, "Am I supposed to think it comforting?"

"Nothing else needs said." A brief pause came as he continued, "Perhaps you lack understanding. Or maybe you underestimate your own power."

She only shrugged against his side, pressing closer, "Whatever the truth... It is hard to tell... this is it, isn't it?" Rhiasen spoke softly.

"He knows you are afraid." Scourge whispered, "His presence fills you with horror. But these are the last days the Emperor will ever feel anything so sweet. Whatever happens in time, his reign will end, and he will be reduced to less than a shadow."

"How are you so sure." Rhiasen sighed.

"I have made certain it will be so, whatever the outcome."

"You will keep him from killing me then?"

"Do not ask what you already know to be a foolish question, Jedi." Scourge grumbled.

Despite her fear and her exhaustion, the bitter, unhappy edge to his tone and words did actually make her smile, "Aren't you just the most helpful, devoted little Sith, Scourge."

"Flattery will not prevent me from letting the Emperor devour your life force and end your pointless, tiresome whining."

She snorted. So scathing, so biting... Not a hint of fondness in his voice even in the least bit, and yet he made her laugh, a smile still touching her tired lips, "What a terrible threat."

"One would think." He bit back.

"I might just be the lucky exception to a terrible fate."

"Make sure it stays that way." He advised. "I grow bored quickly."

"I wouldn't want that.", She yawned, closing her eyes as she leaned up against the Sith Lord. He remained unyielding even as her head bowed into exhaustion against his chest, curling inward to use him as a pillow. His breathing never hitched, his body never adjusted, just the barest incline to rest his chin upon the sleepy head of the small Jedi, arm barely bending to settle his palm against the small of her back, his thumb on the ridge of her hip. The gentle touch was all that could reach her. The only act of concern he could give.

"Nor I, Jedi."

It was a reassurance that wasn't lost on her as she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

#swtor #star wars the old republic #swtor fanfiction #fanfiction #lord scourge x jedi knight

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sasorikigai · 2 years

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❝ so much to do today: kill memory, kill pain, turn heart into a stone, and yet prepare to live again. ❞ ( Assassin!Ryou preparing to fullfill the contract like)

misc poetry sentence starters || @sonxflight || accepting

💥 || Everything Hanzo Hasashi does right now could potentially ripple outward and affect not only Ryou Sakai, but of their shared world and beyond. His posture can shine his heart or transmit anxiety, which became long naught after perpetual wrath and vengeance settled into his bones. His breath can radiate intense, vigorous love or muddy the room in brooding melancholy. His glance can awaken joy, or ominous frigidness of death’s cruelty. Perhaps their hearts were not connected through harmony alone; they are, instead, linked deeply through their wounds. Pain linked to pain, fragility to fragility. For their mercilessness had not originated without a ravaging cry of grief. There must be no forgiveness without bloodshed, no acceptance without a passage through acute loss, and no silence without dismantling themselves asunder in an all-consuming surge of depression and despair.

Perhaps in a way dawn turns to dusk, everything that they are were meant to dissolve into a dark abyss; for they are everything and nothing at all once. Hanzo knows, he could be an unyielding, strong current and then he still could be a dried up creek that was once a babbling brook. His existence was smashed into a million tiny pieces while he pretended to exist as a whole heart rather than the tiny pieces shattered all around. In the cold empty pressurized air of the firearm, they call to violence.

“Isn’t this how we become undone? Leading us to calamities beyond our most horrible nightmares, but also euphoria that only gods have tasted? What we wouldn’t do for this power, to right the past wrongs, to rekindle old flames or to escape the nightmares of our own creation. Nothing can be undone, so we must move forward and find our continued path towards tomorrow by being caught in this ouroboros.” It is a soliloquy meant to be heard only by his beloved; for Ryou has seen what Hanzo has seen, and tasted the bitter, humiliating saltiness of his tears. As he continues to sink into the perilousness and obscurity of his profession’s attire and accoutrements, the erupting blaze of his eyes seem to paint the viscerality of what is about to enfold. Beneath their entropy of time and history, they will continue to trudge and wade through the labyrinth of paths untraveled.

And then he closes his eyes, and everything starts to fade to a shaded of black, bended with the lingering sun’s orange light penetrating his eyelids; Light in his life still exists, and so does Hanzo Hasashi. He can still hope for that precise moment when he opens his eyes, he can truly enjoy the light. But for now, he will watch it and bask beneath the diminishing luminescence behind his closed eyes. “Were we even born pure, for we endured so much in the company of cruelty and evil? For us to grow pure, I would gladly become the evil, by vanquishing every evil that threatens our world.”

So Hanzo will continue to brush with death like a lover and in turn, deliver death to the others. For she smiles coyly at him; smoky eyes turned down at him with hunger and pity. Sometimes, vertigo consumes his senses, for she beckons him to stay. The sickened temptation may be there, for her presence makes dread tie into knots in his chest. So he retaliates and reciprocates such promise of looming oblivion as freedom from reality’s ennui and damnation, akin to freeing of his own soul from entangled subconscious. Death will continue to be his muse and his keeper in void, and he will return to her ad infinitum through his own will or otherwise. 💥 ||

Death is simultaneously his and his victim’s reward.

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ ugly syllables of conjured vindictive crimson (modern au)#✗ there is a bullet for everyone (assassin/hitman verse)#✗ epitome of sunlight (ryou sakai || sonxflight)#(hanryou)#sonxflight

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misskazehana · 29 days

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(I hate art block, have an out of context infodump/ story)

As he's holding a bouquet of vibrant chrysanthemums, Igneous wearily smiles. He admits to Saphir that he isn't okay. Just out of the blue as if his intrusive thoughts have taken hold of him. He reiterates it while affirming that he is okay with that. He thinks if he confesses, it'll ease some of his anxieties. It is no secret he dreads facing Saphir on his own as their history hasn't been exactly rosy. No, it's been a messy affair of miscommunications. Igneous can barely tell if Saphir is being genuine or facetious these days. After all, she always smiles and seemingly feigns ignorance at the sign of anything deep. He simply stares at her, half-lidded and utterly exhausted.

Saphir sees the looming shadow of her sins standing behind her beloved friend. The two-faced queen knows she has done wronged him horribly. The illness and anxiety he currently suffers from are just the latest (undiscovered) incidents. She smiles cheerfully as she assures the freckled man she'll always be there for him. Despite the somewhat superficial smile, her words are very much authentic. Or as authentic you can get whilst dealing with the guilt of what you've done. Of course, she does all this with her eyes close. In doing so, she doesn't notice Igneous' dead-eyed gaze. She doesn't notice his silent scrutiny.

Igneous knows Saphir's hiding something from him. Her smile to him is an obvious tell. This seemingly happy person is a liar. He doesn't know what or why. He simply knows it and cannot bring himself to say it. After all, anything said to her often leads to him being further condemned by everyone else. It's what led to them breaking off things when they were younger. It's what led to the war and the aftermath they now face. He cares yet cannot feel comfortable to open up without dreading the ensuing consequences. Hence, the deafening silence he lingers in now.

All characters belong to me, misskazehana

#misskazehana #original creation #original characters #sharpie #ocs #colored doodles #doodles #shaded doodles #watercolour #watercolour art #water color #igneous #saphir

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bytheangell · 9 months

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hii can I ask for a fic of gabrily? I read the one in Ao3 you have about them having Christopher and loved itt

(Read on AO3)

Cecily never felt this weak in her entire life.

She feels more useless than she ever has before, and that includes the time she realized that she had Nephilim blood and was, essentially, helpless to use it due to a lack of training. She made a vow to herself after those first days and weeks of reuniting with Will and his Shadowhunter friends that that was the last time she would ever feel like such a burden.

She didn’t account for pregnancy. And why should she have? She’s seen others with child, still able to do daily tasks, still able to enjoy their lives right up until the moment of birth. By the angel, she’s even crossed a pregnant Nephilim or two who still went on partner patrols or helped around the Institute to do their part.

Cecily has a sense of duty now, a sense of honor that she didn’t have before. Being unable to fulfill it eats away at her while she lays in bed. She knows it’s a pressure she puts on herself; Gabriel, the kind soul that he is, tells her repeatedly that the only thing expected of her is rest to take care of herself and the child she carries. Will and Tessa visit often with nothing but well wishes, and even Gideon and Sophie have stopped by with some baked goods that grow more and more bland in an effort to find one that Cecily can keep down.

She’s been horribly ill on and off for her entire pregnancy. These last few weeks seem to be the worst of it, every moment she swears it can’t get any worse followed by one that proves her wrong. She’s been bedridden for two days and it’s driving her crazy, so she decides to try and make her way to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She barely makes it down the stairs, an effort that takes several minutes and ends with her seated in the hallway leading to the kitchen taking deep breaths in an effort to not be sick all over the carpeting.

That’s where Gabriel finds her nearly thirty minutes later. He comes through the door and calls up the stairs to where he expects her to be, and instead shifts his gaze to spot her down the hallway.

“Cecily! Darling, are you okay?”

Cecily huffs out a sound that she wishes is a laugh, but falls flat and listless as it leaves her lips.

“No, I am not. I can’t even walk to the kitchen on my own!”

“Did you fall?” Gabriel looks her up and down to assess for any injuries.

“No. I made it this far before I had to sit down, and simply didn’t get back up,” she admits. She hates how defeated she sounds. Maybe if she tried, she could’ve pushed herself to get back up and at least make it back upstairs.

“My love…” Gabriel says, a soft fondness to his tone. “I know how much you hate this. But you’re doing so wonderfully. Any day now and it’ll all be over.”

Gabriel holds his arm out for her to take for leverage, then allows her to lean heavily on him as they make their way to the dining table.

Cecily thinks about his words, about the looming inevitability of giving birth, and instead of bringing relief, she pales, an oversized knot of dread filling her oversized stomach.

“What is it?” Gabriel asks. “Are you going to be sick again?”

“Again? I’ve hardly stopped being sick for weeks,” Cecily sighs. “But no. It’s… I’m worried, Gabriel. I’m so afraid that all of this is a sign that I’m not meant to have this child. What if something goes wrong with the birth? What if-” she can’t bring herself to voice her strongest fear, not that she has to. Gabriel knows. He feels it too, even if he doesn’t mention it to try and keep up enough optimism for both of them.

“Both of you have made it this far, and you’re going to be just fine. I feel it in my soul,” Gabriel says. “You’re the strongest person I know. It may not feel like it right now, but it’s never been more true.”

Cecily manages a small smile at that. She may not fully believe his words but they’re still nice to hear.

“I wanted tea… and maybe one of Sophie’s scones?”

“Of course,” Gabriel agrees. “You know…” he adds slowly, not turning around to face her. “It might help if we picked out potential names…?”

“No,” Cecily says sharply, shaking her head. “I don’t… not if something goes wrong… It feels too much like tempting fate.”

She knows Gabriel’s been thinking of names. She found a little list he made and left out on his desk with some family names and potential other options. Cecily would be lying if she said she didn’t have her own mental list, too - but thinking about it is one thing. Talking about it is another.

“Okay. We’ll wait,” Gabriel agrees easily, walking over a small plate with a scone and a teacup on a saucer with a special remedy to settle her stomach. “And with the Angel’s favor, we won’t be waiting long.”

The Angel’s favor. It’s something many have wished upon them and a phrase Gabriel has taken a liking to falling back on when things seem particularly bleak. It’s growing on Cecily the more she hears it.

There’s a name that’s been on her mind more often than not, one that stuck with her the moment she read it. Anna. It means ‘favor’. She doesn’t even know if their child is going to be a girl or a boy, but she hopes it’s a sign.

And in those moments she allows herself to hope, embracing the optimism her friends and family share so often, she hopes for Anna.

#cecily herondale #gabriel lightwood #shadowhunters #cecily lightwood #tsc #tid #elle writes a few deadbeat lines #THIS IS SUCH AN OLD ASK I AM SO SORRY TO WHOEVER SENT IT #but thank you for the request!#anon glamour activated #ask rune #pregnancy

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colonelcrusto · 2 years

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The Lamp was on

The light was on. I hadn't touched it, and no one other than myself and the dogs and cats was home. And none of us had been downstairs, where the light in question resided. It was a small table lamp, black, with a mesh shade that projected a twisted, dark forest when on. Throughout the day, it had come on twice. Once sometime in the afternoon. And then again in the evening as I relocated to the first floor to begin on dinner. It was not uncommon for me to be alone in the house, but this day something felt off. I chalked it up to the gloomy weather, the threat of rain looming from dawn until dusk. A bitter cold filled the air, both inside and outside my home. A bastard cold, heavy with dread. For the first time in the year plus, I felt as if there were a presence lingering in my house. This was a new sensation, one not felt before. Despite the age of the domicile, over a hundred years old, the energy has never felt anything but hospitable. I am not one to believe in ghosts. Choosing instead to live by "suspension of disbelief." Life is more exciting if ghosts and ghouls walk among us. Though it seems improbable. Because of this stance, I ignored this feeling. -- I ignored the light and went about preparing dinner for my children. Thoughts of my father filled my head. Not an uncommon thing. But on that night, they were different. Stronger. In the day leading up to that night, I had found myself thinking of him more and more. Feeling a connection as elements of my current life mirror his. My wife sometimes writes letters to the dead, and that night the thought of writing to my dad took over my mind. And I very much considered penning a letter, telling him all the horrible and amazing things that have happened. Letting him know I was doing okay and that I never would've made it this far if not for him. Of course, I knew I'd never do it and went to watch some cartoons and wait for my family. The dogs were getting restless, possibly needing another walk, and it was as I got up to do just that, that my wife called. She had been in a car accident on her way home from school. No one was hurt, aside from our car. The panic and anxiety that haunts my daily life began to quickly rise. What would we do without our vehicle? How would my wife get to work and school? Our errands? Our kids? How much would all this cost? But just as these thoughts grew overwhelming, a feeling of calm pushed them back. Yeah, this wasn't a welcomed event, but life never is, and we'd get through just as we always had. These were not my thoughts. My thinking is never so calm and rational, and I knew this was my dad. And he had been there all day, ready to make sure my family and I got passed this obstacle.

#Ghosts #Life #Family

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biserarose · 2 years

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The Woman Question in Turkey

The Woman Question in Turkey then, is the question of changing the character and the direction of the influence of the women of the country—a class in all essentials of different aim and interest from the men, in mental power far less cultured than the men, in religion still dominated by heathen notions which have lost their hold on the men, in knowledge centuries behind standards attained by the best of the men—a class, even to some extent among the Christians of the country, still walled in against influences from outside, and yet having in their hands control of the nation during its early years, as well as the ultimate direction of the acts and the consciences of the men through the same means by which women everywhere influence the conduct and aspirations of their husbands. Ignorance, superstition and crude selfishness have their citadel of refuge in Turkey among the women, and this citadel is well nigh cut of if from approach. Yet if the plane of life of this people is to be elevated, access to this well defended citadel must be found. The key to success in such an enterprise is held by the women of the country, for the men see them, that they are fair to look upon, and at once they do their bidding..

Some Mohammedans have painfully wrestled with this problem and long to secure change that will modify the character and influence of their women-folk. The missionary bystander necessarily asks himself how such men may be helped to gain their wish. Tveal comprehension of the condition of women among the millions of Asia will lead any one who has a trace of good will toward submerged humanity to feel sympathetic yearning that those women may be led to a better use of life. Perhaps some able to lend them a hand may find it hard to escape responsibility if the help is not given city tour istanbul.

Acting the good Samaritan

Some will answer that we have the best authority for leaving the dead to bury their dead. But that phrase was not uttered for the consolation of those who wish to escape the burden of acting the good Samaritan. The use of it in a case like this is short-sighted as well as cruel. Recent experience in China shows that penalty can reach even to us for neglect of effort to humanize the backward races. Furthermore the history of the siege of the Peking Compound has revealed a reward which we actually gained for taking a juster view. For I opine that if all the money were reckoned up which missions to China have cost during the last twenty years of effort, and if those few hundred of Chinese diggers and ditchers at the Legation who thus learned to be men were set down as the whole result of the expenditure, the humble part taken by those Christian Chinese in preventing the horrible catastrophe which we feared was not dearly bought. There is self- interest as well as duty in studying what we can do toward solving this Woman Question which looms so large at Constantinople.

The whole force of Oriental logic and philosophy is directed against culture of womankind as a class. To prevent her use of her mind woman is forced into marriage in childhood, becoming a mother often at fifteen. For this end the dwarf- in” effect of premature encounter with the heaviest perplexities of life is derided as proof of mental deficiency. For this end the moral consequences of lack of training are rated as evidence that woman is so essentially vicious as to make her education a crime. The man of the East knows that if the woman is allowed to read and to think, facilities for gratifying his own tastes will be greatly diminished. So he obstructs efforts to open her mind, pointing out that any large view of education for women will teach her to sew instead. All this shows that custom and prejudice in Asia fear attacks made at this point. Hence the line of effort which promises effective results on the Woman Question in Turkey is the line of education for women. Before we saw how the reactionary Turk dreads education for woman, wc all knew that she must be brought out of the depths to the level of the century in which she lives before she can take her due share in the work of stimulating its progress.

#The Woman Question in Turkey

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mirelanast · 2 years

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