#Bolton Library

[downthetubes]

“Make Mine Manga” exhibition set to tour the North West

Coming soon to the North West is Make Mine Manga, a free, touring exhibition for anyone curious about manga

Coming soon to the North West is Make Mine Manga, a free, touring exhibition for anyone curious about manga, as well as the avid fan.  The exhibition explores the origins of manga in Japan, the creative techniques behind the art and the wonder of Manga-Anime. The exhibition features artwork from incredible creators from Japan and UK manga creators. The exhibition has been specially created by…

[aemondsbabe]

A Kindness

summary: you're finally ramsay's most favorite toy, but is that really a good thing?

pairing: ramsay bolton x reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark content it's ramsay hello, blood kink but no injury/gore, mentioned major character death (again, no injury/gore), slight au (ramsay wins battle of the bastards), choking, rough sex, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation, slapping, piv sex, unprotected sex don't be silly wrap ur willy, hair pulling, creampie, slight breeding kink, puppy play, boot humping idk how to else to phrase it, slight angst but a happy ending for ramsay lmao, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 6.2k

a/n: my first foray into dark or at least semi-dark writing and my first time writing ramsay! i've had this one in my head for such a long time so it feels really good to actually get it out! hope everyone enjoys and please make sure to heed the warnings with this one!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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“Dip the cloth again, you dolt,” you snap, looking up from the scroll of parchment rolled out before you on the table when you hear the coarse woolen cloth begin to scrape dryly across the silver Ramsay’s… thing was supposed to be polishing, “If I have to remind you of that one more time, I’ll tell him you tried to touch me. I wonder which part of you he’d hack off for that, hm?” 

Reek’s eyes go wide at your threat and he nods his head frantically, quickly reaching over and dunking the cloth into the small bowl of vinegar before him. “Yes, m’lady. Apologies, m’lady.” 

A small sigh leaves your lips as you rest an elbow on the table, nose scrunching up slightly at the sour smell that seems to hang like a cloud over the room, the small one by the kitchens.

 Probably where the staff ate, you think, staring blankly at the fire crackling away in the hearth. You’ve tried hard to picture it – Winterfell in its former glory, trussed up with wolf banners and filled with children’s laughter, how it was when the Stark’s called it home. 

Your eyes linger on Reek and for a second, you’re halfway tempted to ask him about it – what it was like living here, being one of them. You don’t, knowing the question would fall on deaf ears at the least, or send him spiraling to the point of being unable to finish his chores, and then it would be your head on the chopping block as well. 

Distantly, you hear the familiar baying of Ramsay’s hounds and your eyes flick up to the narrow slit windows on the wall; you do your best to ignore the way Reek’s head swivels to the sound in the same instance yours does, the way that adrenaline so keenly rushes through you – a burst of panic leading the charge before you have the chance to correct it. 

Anticipation, you remind yourself, jaw clenched, Passion, excitement. 

Your eyes vacantly scan over the parchment you’d nabbed from the library earlier that morning, an account of the birth of Arya, apparently the sister of the one that had actually managed to escape some weeks back, no doubt frozen now in one of the snowy forests that surrounds Winterfell. You don’t really care, your thoughts once again reverting back to Myranda. Bitterly, you remember how he never made her stay behind when he went hunting, never made her watch over his man-servant, never made her second guess.

The last one is a lie, the truth woven deeply into the many nights you’d spent up with her – listening as she fretted about each word she’d uttered to him that day, hoping each one had been right and had been said at the right time, that he wouldn’t find some made-up cause to punish her. Tendrils of jealousy had twisted into you even then, even as she painted a picture of what he truly was. 

Just as men’s voices filter through the windows from the courtyard outside, your lips quirk up into a mean, victorious little smirk. 

It’s her body he fed to the dogs, you think, the voice in your mind a proud hiss, Just like Violet’s and Tansy’s and Kyra’s. You remember the day well enough, remember the shock of seeing your friend's body laying in the courtyard as you’d run out to greet Ramsay, teal eyes staring at nothing. It had been you that had warmed his bed that very night, and all the ones after it. 

“There you are,” a familiar voice sounds from behind you, nearly making you yelp as Reek scrambles to stand up from the table. Before you even have a chance to, a strong hand clasps over your shoulder, stilling your movements, “No, no, don’t get up on my account.” Rusty copper stains color his hand, dried blood outlining each of his nails. You don’t let your mind linger on what the source of it could be.

You whip your head around and swallow nervously as he chuckles lowly, “Ramsay!” You breathe in greeting, the corners of your lips tilting up into a tentative smile, though that’s quickly washed away as you take in the messy splotches of red that stain his coat and tunic, that snake their way up the pale column of his throat and dot the sides of his face. 

He looks every bit the hunter and you wonder, not for the first time, what that makes you. 

“You seem quite comfortable here, pet,” he drawls, leaning down until he’s eye-level with you, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re more at home down here with the help,” he continues, hand tightening to the point of pain on your shoulder, making you grit your teeth, “Than you are in our chambers where you’re meant to be.”

Our chambers. A privilege he never granted her. Stupidly, your heart sings. 

His hand tightens on your shoulder once more, finally drawing a pained whine from your lips.

“Y-You told me to watch him! To make sure he –” You’re cut off as Ramsay unceremoniously hauls you to your feet, clawing at your leather doublet. A cry leaves your lips as the hand on your shoulder tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging as he forces your head back, blue eyes flicking to your neck as you swallow thickly. 

“I told you to be in our chambers when I return from hunts,” he corrects you, standing to his full height as he holds you tightly, forcing you unsteadily onto your tip-toes, “That I expected you to be at the door, ready and waiting for me.” His lips ghost over your ear as he speaks, his voice a low growl that shouldn’t excite you the way it does. 

“I’m sorry,” you wince internally at the way your voice comes out as a pained little squeak, your hands scrambling to hang onto his forearm, nails digging into the stained quilted fabric of his jacket.

“You know how I get after a hunt,” he suddenly pulls away from you, his hand pulling out of your hair, a gasp leaving you as your heels drop to the floor. You blink as he reaches up, not flinching from years of practice, though instead of striking you or harshly gripping at your jaw like you expect, his hand cups your cheek. Your chest rises and falls as he strokes his thumb over your cheekbone, blood stained fingers now delicate against your soft skin. 

“Today’s was a special one, too. Don’t you remember?” He questions, icy eyes sliding from yours to the red-headed man still standing by the table, glimmering cruelly as he smirks. 

Still, you nod your head, knowing Reek won’t answer. “To celebrate killing Jon Snow,” you breathe, gripping at the leather of his tunic, desperate to win even a scrap of approval.

Surprisingly, he grants it – fixing you with a proud little grin, like how an owner would look at a dog that’s just mastered a new trick. “That’s right,” his hand ruffles the hair on the top of your head, a gesture that should feel demeaning, yet it sends a tingle of pride through you instead, “Seems you can remember something after all.” He pulls away and traipses over to Reek, hands clasped behind his back.

“Surely you remember too, Reek? You were in the kennels that evening when the dogs had their treat, were you not?” He taunts, the playful inflection in his voice entirely for show, “Our little problem’s been dealt with and now we hold not only the Dreadfort but Winterfell as well! What do you think about that, hm?” Ramsay studies the other man carefully, eyes flitting over his face as he takes great pleasure in the subtle twitches of pain that still manage to flicker through the harsh conditioning he’d endured. Your eyes stay fixed firmly on the stone floor. 

“A… A great victory, master!” 

“Yes, a great victory, indeed,” he smiles, watching Reek for another moment before turning back to you. His smile morphs into a cold, callous frown that ties your stomach into knots, each of his steps making your heart hammer faster in your chest. “You know, it’s actually rather amusing,” he starts, bloodied fingers twirling a stray lock of your hair, “How my hounds seem to be continually more well trained than you, pretty little idiot.”

Pretty, pretty, pretty! Your heart thumps dumbly, a rabbit in a snare. 

“I’ll do better!” You whimper, shaking your head frantically as your eyes meet his, “I can do better, really, I was just confu–”

The hand in your hair shoots down suddenly, yanking several strands with it as he clamps it around your neck. “Confused?” Ramsay murmurs, watching with rapt attention at how you struggle in his hold, lips quivering as the words die in your throat, “Really? I give you one task, I ask one thing of you, and you can’t even figure that out? You still disappoint me?” 

He’s not expecting an answer, you know this, and yet you still try to give one as your mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water, only the faintest little whines managing to escape. You feel faint, both from his grip around your throat and from the myriad of emotions coursing through your veins – your heart twists at the thought of failing him, your stomach is in knots as various punishments flash through your mind, and yet your center still sparks, still sends little glimmers of arousal through you. 

His grip loosens enough to allow you to suck in several shaky lungfuls of air as he snickers, endlessly amused at how eager you still are, how you still yearn so deeply for him. Again, he pats your head condescendingly, muttering little hushes as if you were a crying puppy. “Lucky for you, pet, I have plenty of experience training stubborn bitches,” Ramsay chuckles, blue eyes glimmering with mirth when he feels you swallow apprehensively, “I think we’ll have your behavior corrected in no time, won’t we? Even the stupidest of beasts can still learn a trick or two.”

Before you have time to react, the hand cradling the crown of your head harshly grabs at your hair again, tugging you suddenly toward the door. “Ah!” You yelp, stumbling as he all but drags you behind him, your hands shake as they struggle to grab onto his forearm, “Ramsay, pl–!”

“You should be grateful I am allowing you the kindness of walking!” He growls, sparing you a glance over his shoulder as he leads you through the Great Hall, “Pity I’m so protective of you, really, I’m sure it would be quite entertaining for my men to watch you crawl.” His drawled threat sends a spark of fear down your spine and you pant, chest heaving, as you shuffle behind him; your cheeks burn as several of his soldiers sitting at the long wooden tables catcall as you stagger past them.

Finally, the two of you reach your shared chambers, that fact sending a little torrent of satisfaction through you even now. Unceremoniously, Ramsay all but tosses you inside and you whimper as your hip collides with an edge of the decorative table just inside the door, no doubt hard enough to bruise but at least it breaks your fall. 

“It’s quite unfortunate, normally find your impudence amusing,” he starts lowly, pressing the old wooden door closed with a thud before sliding the lock into place with a self-satisfied grin, “But I know you know better, don’t you, little one?” He asks as he stalks toward you.

Your breath catches in your throat as he stands before you, studying you silently for a second in the same calculated way he studies a deer through the sight of his bow. Not knowing what else to do, you silently nod your head as your eyes slip down to the floor, like a child being scolded. 

“You’ve been with me the longest now,” he murmurs as if you don’t know, one bloodstained hand grabbing at your waist as the other fits around the back of your neck, once again forcing your eyes to his face, “We grew up together, you and I. You know my ways, my rules, isn’t that right?”

Again, you nod your head, bottom lip trembling with the want to explain yourself, although you know that would only make things worse.

“That’s what makes your disobedience so frustrating,” his blue eyes bore into yours as he speaks, his lip sticking out in a mocking pout, “Because you do know better and yet you’re stupid enough to act out anyway, hm?” His tone is sharper now, dangerous like the pointed tip of an arrow.

“I wasn’t acting out!” The words claw themselves out of your throat before you can stop them and instantly you know you’ve made a mistake, but now you’re desperate to remedy it, “I wasn’t, really! I j-just misunderstood you, that’s –” 

Your pleas come to a screeching halt as his hand smacks across your face, the other grips at your jaw tightly, tight enough to make you whine softly in his grasp. Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, cheek stinging, before they open and lock with his again, wild and desperately. 

I wasn’t being insolent! You scream silently, hoping he can somehow hear you, that maybe all of your years with him would’ve granted that ability, I would never! I was doing as you said, like always! 

“I was wrong earlier, wasn’t I?” Ramsay mutters, so close to you that your foreheads nearly touch. Your eyes widen slightly at his words, heart thumping in a hopeful little staccato, though he wrenches that away quickly enough, “You’re not a dog at all, no, a dog would be obedient and docile.”

Your brows knit together with confusion at his words, biting so hard into your lower lip that you’re shocked you don’t taste blood. Although, you can’t help the surprised little gasp that leaves you when his hands begin quickly tugging at the laces of your bodice as your own remain in white-knuckled fists at your sides, the whole of you determined to stay still like a statue, a plaything. 

“No, you my sweet little pet,” he growls sarcastically, low voice morphing into a pleased chuckle as he tugs your bodice off; the shirt below it quickly follows and a small part of you blooms with pride at the happy little sigh he lets out at the sight of your breasts. 

“You’re just a dumb puppy, aren’t you?” He chuckles against your throat, nipping at your skin more so than kissing it, although you relish the feel of his lips on you all the same. “A dumb, defiant little puppy,” he continues, hastily pulling at the ties of your skirts and you whimper despite yourself when they finally fall to the floor, pooling at your feet, “That’s in desperate need of more training.” 

He stops, pausing for a mere second, and pulls back just enough to look at you, no doubt gaining satisfaction from the desperation written so plainly on your face. There’s a hunger in his cold eyes – a predator silently deciding to go for the jugular, nocking an arrow on his bow. 

You whine as he properly kisses at your throat now, his hands rough against your skin as he grabs at your hips. One skims higher to cup your breast, the unexpected gentleness of his touches causes you to shiver and whine in his grasp and into his mouth as he kisses you finally, his full lips moving steadily in time with yours. 

Harsh pants leave your lips as your heart pumps madly in your chest, his touches always work you up so quickly. The thought of him still being fully clothed as he left you bare and vulnerable made you hotter still; the feel of his warm leather tunic against your exposed skin, of his bloodied hands against your supple skin, drives you mad. 

Before you have time to second guess your movements, you begin blindly pulling at the strings on his leather tunic, desperate to feel him against you. Surprisingly, he lets you tug it off of him, granting you a last meal of sorts, and you can’t help but to smile into the kiss, gasping into his mouth as he unbuttons his jacket himself before quickly tossing it aside as well. He’s panting nearly as harshly as you are as the two of you part long enough for him to pull his shirt over his head, your hands immediately go to his chest the second it joins the ever-growing pile of clothes on the floor. 

Your eyes flicker over him as the two of you pause, the knot in your belly growing tighter at the sight of his taut stomach and chest, the low, warm glow of the many candles dotted throughout your chambers accentuating each muscular dip. Your fingers shake as they trail over him and you feel a sick sense of pride twist in your stomach at the fact that, unlike so many men, his skin isn’t mottled with years of scars and bruises. No, his is flawless, a pale, unmarred, ruthless canvas – a flawless killer. 

Of course, he can’t let you have this reprieve for long. A good trainer doesn’t spoil his pet. 

A soft, broken gasp leaves you as one hand wraps around your neck again, slotting perfectly against your throat like a collar, as he walks you a few paces further into the room, closer to the small hearth by the bed. “Kneel,” his command leaves no room for anything but obedience; you swallow thickly, nervously, and do as he says, lips parting ever so slightly when your knees rest on plush bear skin instead of hard stone. 

A kindness, even now. 

Ramsay’s lips twist into a proud grin as you stare up at him, legs folded beneath you with your hands poised perfectly on your thighs, a familiar stance he’d taught you years ago. “Good girl,” he mutters, fingers threading gently through your hair as you moan softly. 

“Thank y – Ah!”

“No,” he chides harshly, tugging your head back by the roots of your hair until your neck is bared to him, your back arched, “Puppies don’t talk, dumb little thing,” he growls, shifting more closely to you in order to gain a better hold on your hair, close enough that you whimper as your front is pressed firmly against the length of his leg, the thick fabric of his trousers rough against your skin as one of his feet slots between your thighs, “A well-trained pet certainly doesn’t.” 

The knot in your belly seizes at his words, aided by the laces of his leather boots brushing oh-so gently against your center, the knotted fabric sticking against the wetness already leaking from your clenching cunt. You whine, high-pitched and frantic when he clutches your hair tighter still, his fist white knuckled against the crown of your head. 

“A well-trained little pet would always obey their master, wouldn’t they?” You can’t miss the breathiness of his voice now, his tone lower and smoother than it normally is, and the sound makes your hips hump against his boot before you can stop yourself, your nipples stiff, nearly aching, as they rub against his trousers. 

A low, rumbled laugh echoes through your chambers when your arms wrap around his leg, fingers digging desperately into the firm muscle of his thigh. “Aww,” he coos mockingly, licking his lips as he watches you, his attention making blood rush to the apples of your cheeks, “Is my pretty little puppy getting off on this? Does your cunt drip when I tell you how stupid and worthless you are?”

The sound of your blood pumping furiously through your veins thuds in your ears, Pretty, pretty pretty!

You whine as you try to eagerly nod your head, his hold on your hair preventing you from moving much, though your hips rut steadily against his boot now – pressing tightly against the worn fabric, the knots from his laces rubbing perfectly over the throbbing little pearl at your center. 

“You look like you’re having fun,” he drawls, cold eyes shining as he studies you closely, chest heaving in time with yours as his cock hardens in his pants, “Are you having fun, little one?”

Again, you try to nod, keening brokenly as your eyes stay fixed on his. You pant harshly against his leg, breath fragmented as they’re punched out of your lungs, the knot in your belly growing tighter and tighter with each pass of your slick center over the laces of his boot. 

He knows, of course. As soon as he ordered you to stay in the kitchens with Reek this morning, he knew – knew you’d follow his orders to the letter, even if they contradicted his previous ones. He knew he’d find you there, knew he’d punish you for it, knew exactly how he wanted to break you down so that it could be him who built you back up. He’s known you the longest, you’d grown up together. He knows, of course he does. He’s nothing if not a thorough hunter. 

A loud, broken whine leaves you when he flexes his foot, pressing his boot harder against you still. You’re helpless to do much else aside from stare up at him, gasping, while your hips buck against him as quickly as your sore muscles will allow, your high barreling toward you at a breakneck pace. 

All of that comes to a sudden, screeching halt though when he moves again, shifting his weight until his boot is just out of reach. The sudden lack of stimulation makes your back arch further still, your muscles taut like a drawn bow. 

“Oh, poor little puppy,” he laughs, watching gleefully as you whine loudly, the peak that had been so close fading away, leaving you aching, “If you thought it was going to be that easy, you haven’t been paying attention.” He taunts, crouching until he’s eye-level with you, smirking as his movements cause his pull on your hair to become tighter, making you wince, though his hand thankfully releases its grasp once he settles.

“Mmm,” you mewl softly as he caresses your breasts again, jumping slightly when he thumbs over your nipple before softly pinching at it, giving the other one the same treatment. Your eyes flutter shut as you arch your back further still, pressing against the palm of his hand as he kneads at your chest, eager for any stimulation you can get.

“Myranda was never like this,” he says suddenly, his voice low, steady, calculated. He smiles cruelly when your eyes snap open at the sound of her name, the back of your throat tight as tears already blur your vision – just like he wanted. “No, Myranda always behaved perfectly, she always did exactly what I said.” 

He leans forward suddenly, the side of his face pressed firmly against yours so that when he speaks, you’re sure to hear every syllable, to feel them punctuated against the skin of your neck. “She was perfect. I never had to punish her for the same thing twice, you know. Not like I do with you.” 

You shudder as his lips press against your skin again, pressing eager kisses against the wet trail of tears running down your cheek. He admires the way your shoulders shake as you sob, the way the subtle movement makes your breasts bounce, the way your cheeks flush so prettily, how your eyes always shine so brightly with fresh tears in them. 

Ramsay loves breaking you – adores the moment when his arrow is finally launched free from his bow, adores the moment he sees it pierce your little heart. He loves you, in his way. 

Not that he’d tell you that.

He lets you sob for a moment longer, all the while pressing hot kisses against your cheeks, relishing the salty taste of your tears as the little droplets of blood still caked to his skin mar your pretty face, staining it with delicate streaks of red. His cock twitches at the sight, black pupils nearly drowning out the blue of his eyes – maybe one day he’d bring you hunting, what a sight you’d be covered in the bright blood of a fresh kill. 

“Myranda never needed training, puppy, not in the way you do,” he nearly whispers, the corners of his lips twitching up into a small smile as he leans back enough to grab at your chin, tilting your face up to his, “That’s what made her so boring.”

“Huh?” You breathe, sobs stalling for a second as you process what he’d just said, your obvious surprise making him laugh lowly again. 

“What? Does that shock you? That I found her boring?” He questions, eyebrow raised, “Why would perfection be interesting?” 

Your eyes search his face as he shifts, kneeling rather than crouching. A little glimmer of pride sparks to life within you as he kisses you again, your lips moving against his frantically, mewling when he pushes his tongue into your mouth and nips at your bottom lip. 

“I never got to train her,” he breathes against your lips, grunting at the way your hands skim over his chest and stomach, grabbing at him so frantically, “I hardly got to punish her; if I gave her an order, she would follow it blindly – it made her predictable, it made her boring.”

“N-Not like me?” You whisper hopefully, meeting his gaze through half-lidded eyes as you pant, your chest pressed tightly to his. 

“No, sweet pet, not like you,” Ramsay smiles, making your heart sing as it leaps beneath your ribs, “I get to train you, don’t I? And punish you when that little puppy brain can’t follow the simplest of orders.”

You should be offended, should feel mocked and belittled, but you don’t. Instead, you nod your head eagerly, preening like a proud little bird at his praise, because that’s what is, really. Ramsay will never be one to sing your praises softly like other men, but he admires you all the same. 

Before you have time to reply, he grabs at your waist and abruptly maneuvers you, manhandling you until you’re poised on your hands and knees, cheek pressed firmly against the fur rug beneath you. 

“I get to play with you, pet,” he drawls lowly, pressing a hand into the small of your back and grunting appreciatively when you arch down like he wants, licking his lips as your cunt finally comes into view, shining already in the low candlelight. He smirks at the way you moan when he presses his hard length against you, grinding against your slit, chest heaving at how warm you are even through his trousers, “Don’t I?”

“Yes!” You nod eagerly, pressing back against him like a wanton whore, nearly dizzy with need when his fingers bump against you as he quickly undoes the laces on his pants, “Yes, yes, yes, please!”

“Ohh, so you can be good, hm?” He teases, groaning in relief when he pushes his trousers down just enough to free his cock, too impatient to remove them entirely, “Seems my training’s working nicely.”

Mindlessly, you nod, willing to agree with whatever he says so long as he gets inside you.

Mercifully, you don’t have to wait long. A loud cry fills your chambers as he presses into you, the slight sting of his thick cock stretching you open making you shiver, a familiar sensation since he was rarely ever patient enough to work you open on his fingers. 

Immediately, he sets a brutal pace, his hips pressing against yours tightly each time he pushes forward, the head of his cock nearly kissing your cervix with each harsh thrust. Your cunt clenches at him greedily and your hands scramble against the rug beneath you, fingers tangling into the furs, desperate for something to anchor yourself. 

“Fuck, tight little cunt,” Ramsay grunts harshly above you, his hands gripping meanly at your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. 

“R-Ramsay, fuck… fuck,” you whimper beneath him, your eyes squeezed shut tightly as the knot in your belly threatens to unravel, your walls pulsing rhythmically around his length each time it spears into you.

He chuckles breathlessly at your little murmurs and runs a hand up the length of your back before grabbing at the hair at the nape of your neck, relishing the little cry you give as he pulls you up until your back is pressed firmly against his chest. “Are you close already?” He mocks smugly, his fingers untangling from your hair to wrap once more around your throat as his other paws at your breasts, his fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples. 

You swallow thickly, throat bobbing under his grip, and nod your head the best you can, grabbing at his thick forearm. 

“Do you think I’m going to let you?” He teases, biting harshly at your shoulder as his hips keep up a punishing rhythm.

You nearly sob at the question, so desperate, but still you shake your head, cunt pulsing around his length. “No, n-no���” You moan mournfully, voice hoarse from his hold. 

He chuckles behind you, his chest rumbling against your back as he kisses and bites at your earlobe, your shoulder, any part of your neck not covered by his hand, each touch driving you mad. “Finally, that little brain seems to be working,” he grunts, laughing lowly as he abandons your breasts long enough to slap your cheek, blessedly soft this time, “I’m having too much fun playing with you to let you go that easily,” He drawls, chuckling once more when you whine. 

“In fact,” he continues, reaching down and rubbing his fingers roughly against your aching bud, just enough to make you cry out before he suddenly pulls away again, tugging his length from you as he lets you flop to the floor with a little grunt, “I want to see you do a trick,” he whispers, rubbing over your ass before smack it roughly, making you jump, “Roll over.”

“Wha –” You start to question, only to be cut off with a loud cry as his hand spanks you once more.

“Be a good fucking puppy and roll over.”

His order leaves no room for questioning and obediently, you listen and roll over onto your back with a little whimper. You keep your legs bent up when you settle, keeping yourself on display for him, clenching around nothing as you eye his hard cock bobbing against his stomach, the tip red and leaking. 

“Good little pet,” he praises, his words going straight to your pearl as you shudder. Hastily, he pushes your legs up further, one hand holding you open as he presses his cock back into you, savoring your loud whine, the way your eyes roll to the back of your head.

He resumes his harsh pace, slamming into you as he chases his high now, blue eyes trailing appreciatively over your trembling body, watching as your breasts bounce with each unforgiving thrust he gives. 

“Please, please, Gods, please!” You whine frantically as he presses his hips against yours, grinding into you, the thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your bud perfectly, “Ramsay, p-please! I – fuck!”

He laughs breathlessly at your cries and leans down when you arch your back toward him, mouthing savagely at your chest, teeth nipping at the fat of your breasts before he licks over your nipples. He knows each touch is only driving you closer and closer to your release, yet he still doesn’t give you permission, a part of him meanly hopes you’ll slip over anyway and give him another reason to punish you, like he actually needs a reason. 

Still, you have been good today and he does love how willing and docile you become when you peak, so malleable – entirely submissive, entirely his. 

He bites and kisses his way up along your chest and neck before licking into your mouth for a moment, eagerly swallowing each desperate little cry before grabbing at your neck once more. Greedy, he turns your head to him, needing to see that empty-headed, hazy look in your eyes when he lets you finish.

His cock jerks at the sight of you, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you try desperately to hold off, cheeks flushed, reddened lips parted. He grunts, feeling his balls tighten, his thrusts beginning to lose their rhythm. 

“Cum, puppy,” he growls, forehead pressed against yours.

Your lips part in a silent curse as your high slams into you, each muscle in your body contracting at once. Your eyes bore into his wildly as your cunt spasms tightly around his cock, eyes rolling back as he fucks you through it.

“Fuck!” He grunts, growling lowly as his cock spasms within you, your walls all but milking his own high from him as well. His hips slam into you a few more times before he stills, gasping as he fills you with his spend. 

The two of you lay together for a moment, panting loudly against one another. Ramsay is the first to move, shushing you as he pulls his softening length from you, making you whine. 

Distantly, a part of you twists gleefully when you feel his seed drip from you, another thing he never dared do with her. 

“Here,” he says softly, offering you a hand, which you gladly take, letting him help you stand since you doubt you’d be able to on your own. Finally, you stand on your feet, albeit unsteadily, and grab onto the foot of the carved wooden bedframe to steady yourself. Strangely, he stays with you, neither of you saying anything as he holds you, blue eyes studying you as they gleam with some unknown emotion. 

After a moment, you try to pull away, meaning to leave as you always do, not one to wait around for his order anymore. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, only pulling away once you still, “Stay.” He orders, an unfamiliar softness to his voice. Your head reels, eyes staring unfocused as you try to make sense of… whatever this is, whatever his game may be now. 

He returns quickly enough, a damp cloth in his and from the small wash basin he keeps on the vanity. You reach out to grab it, to clean yourself off like you assume he wants, and yet he stops you, holding the cloth out of your grasp until you lower your hand again. 

“Obedient puppies get rewards,” he says softly, all of the harshness from before absent from his tone as he answers your silent questions. You nearly freeze when he presses one small, gentle kiss against your forehead. Finally, he makes quick work of wiping between your legs, taking care to wipe away any of his spend that leaked from you. 

“Thank you…” You nearly whisper, voice scratchy from his earlier treatment. That doesn’t feel like the right thing to say but if it isn’t, he doesn't say. 

Silently, he cups your chin, lifting it enough to give him room to check your neck, trailing his hand over it lightly until he must be satisfied that you’re okay, that he hadn’t treated you too badly. 

Kind, even still.

A few moments later, you recline in the plush bed, watching as he kicks off his boots before joining you, lying with you under the soft blankets. This part, at least, you’re used to – lying together like this but not touching, not cuddling, that’s too intimate, too close. 

He hadn’t said that, wouldn’t say that, but you knew. 

A surprised little gasp leaves you when he pulls you close, hands, clean now that he’d taken a moment to wash them, resting on you gently. One smoothes up and down your arm as he lets you lay against his chest, cheek pressed against his collarbone, his chin resting on your head; the other grabs at your thigh, pulling you to him until you’re tucked into his side, one leg propped over his hips. 

“You did well,” he says softly, chest vibrating under your cheek as he speaks, “With your training, I mean. You did well. I’m… proud of you.”

“Thank you.” 

The two of you are silent after that, neither of you knowing how to handle this new territory that you seem to be spilling into, but you don’t care, not with your heart pounding quickly in your chest. You’d think you were dying if it weren’t for the savage sense of victory threading through every inch of you. 

Proud, proud, proud! The word echoes in your head with each pump of blood through your heart. It was so small, the barest of compliments, but from Ramsay it meant the world. It was something he’d said to you, only you, never to her, not once. Never to anyone else. 

His chest rises and falls under your cheek, breath steady and even. He always falls asleep quickly, normally you do too. But not this time, not tonight, not wanting to let this moment fade just yet. 

He loves you, in his way.

tagged lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @wickedfrsgrl @echos-muses @iamawhorecrux @avidreader73 @marvelescape @rae-11 @ms-morningstaarr @chaotic-fangirl-blog @grsveeth0m @twglitching @hb8301 @delulumhaggy @burntliquorlips @simp-hub-bro @badxbabyyy @venchi-cremino @targaryenbarbie @fan-goddess

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

Again, not an exhaustive list but for anyone else in the UK, these are where riots are expected today:

Aldershot - Immigration Advisors at 40 Victoria Road GU11 1TH, starting at 19:30.

Bedford - Immigration INN (Inn?) on Ford End Road MK40 4JT, at 20:00.

Birmingham - Refugee and Migrant Centre on Frederick Street B1 3HN, beginning at 20:00.

Bishop Auckland - outside the Town Hall on Market Place DL14 7NP.

Blackburn - Rafiq Immigration Services on Whalley Road BB5 1AA, at 20:00.

Blackpool - Immigration Solicitors at the Enterprise Centre on Lytham Road FY1 1EW, starting at 20:00.

Bolton - Deane & Bolton Immigration Lawyers on Chorley New Road BL1 4QR, at 20:00.

Brentford - UK Immigration Help in The Mile on 1000 Great West Road TW8 9DW, starting around 19:00.

Brighton - Raj Rayan Immigration in Queensberry House at 106 Queens Road BN1 3XF, starting either at 19:30 or 20:00.

Bristol - Gya Williams Immigration on West Street BS2 OBL, at 20:00.

Burnley - at Thompson Park on 111 Ormerod Rioad BB11 3QWat, starting at 13:00.

Canterbury - UK Immigration Clinic in the Canterbury Innovation Centre CT2 7FG, at 20:00.

Chatham - Immigration Status UK on Maidstone Road ME5 9FD, at 20:00.

Cheadle - Intime Immigration Services on Brooks Drive SK8 3TD, at 20:00.

Chelmsford - UK Immigration Information Centre on Violet Close CM1 6XG, at 20:00.

Derby - Immigration Advisory Service, Normanton Road DE23 6US, at 20:00.

Dover - Kent Immigration and Visa Advice at 5A Castle Hill Road CT16 1QG, reportedly around 20:00.

Durham - in Crook at Market Place, at 18:00. (Unsure as to whether this is the same one as in Bishop Auckland as I know Crook is near there?)

Finchley - Immigration and Nationality Services within Foundation House at 4 Percy Road N128BU, around 19:00.

Harrow - Yes UK Immigration and North Harrow Community Library within the Business Centre at 429-433 Pinner Road HA1 4HN, in North Harrow, at 19:00.

Hastings - Black Rock Immigration at 37 Cambridge Gardens TN34 1EN, at 20:00.

Hull - Conroy Baker Immigration Lawyer in Norwich House, 1 Savile Street HU1 3ES, at 20:00.

Lewisham - the Clock Tower, SE13 5JH, 19:00.

Lincoln - Immigration Lawyer Services on Carlton Mews LN2 4FJ, at 20:00.

Liverpool - Merseyside Refugee Centre in St Anne's Centre on 7 Overbury Street L7 3HJ, at 20:00.

Liverpool - Sandpiper Hotel (might be on Ormskirk Old Road? if any scousers can clarify where that is, that'd be great) at 13:00.

Middlesbrough - Immigration Advice Centre which is the Co-Operative Buildings at 251 Linthorpe Road TS1 4AT, at 20:00.

Newcastle - United Immigration Services in Artisan Unit 3, The Beacon on Westgate Road NE4 9PQ, at 20:00.

Northampton - Zenith Immigration Lawyers at 2 Talbot Road NN1 4JB, starting at 20:00.

Nottingham - East Midlands Immigration Services at 15 Stonesbury Vale NG2 7UR, at 20:00.

Oldham - somewhere on Ellen Street 0L9 6QR, at 20:00

Oxford - Asylum Welcome in Unit 7 in Newtec Place on Magdelen Road OX4 1RE, around 19:00. [Updated as of 15:53]

Peterborough - Smart Immigration Services in Laxton House at 191 Lincoln Road PE1 2PN, at 20:00.

Plymouth - in a Morrisons car park, I don't know which but I saw Victory Parade associated with it? If anyone from Plymouth can clarify, please do. Not sure on time.

Portsmouth - UK Border Agency at Kettering Terrace PO2 8QN, at 20:00

Preston - Adriana Immigration Services at 109 Church Street PR1 3BS, at 19:00 or 20:00.

Rotherham - Parker Rhodes Hickmotts, The Point S60 1BP, at 20:00.

Sheffield - City Hall on Barker's Pool S1 2JA, at 13:00.

Sheffield - White Rose Visas at 101 Wilkinson Street S10 2GJ, at 20:00.

Southampton - Y-Axis Immigration Consultants, Cumberland Place on Grosvenor Square SO15 2BG, at 20:00.

Southend - MNS Immigration Solicitors on Ditton Court Road SS0 7HG, at 20:00.

Stoke-On-Trent - ZR Visas on Metcalfe Road ST6 7AZ, in Tunstall, at 20:00.

Sunderland - North of England Refugee Service which is in Suite 12 in the Eagle Building at 201 High Street East SR1 2AX, at 20:00.

Swindon - I have no details for this, just seen that something might be kicking off there.

Tamworth - Lawrencia & Co Immigration Solicitors within the Amber Business Village on Amber Close B77 4RP, no details on time unfortunately.

Walthamstow - Waltham Forest Immigration Bureau at 187 Hoe Street E17 3AP, at 20:00.

Wigan - Support for Wigan Arrivals Project, Penson Street WN1 2LP, at 20:00.

York - only detail I've got it is York Stay City Hotel.

[dipperscavern]

Dippy, I am currently staring at the full moon (which looks awfully large mind you) and though of Reader who practices witchcraft and does lil rituals on full moons. Wanted to see if you could write a little something like that? If not that's cool, not sure what your religion or practice follows and I know some people may be uncomfy writing that :)

If you do write it, could you maybe do it where Bolton!reader finds an old witchy book in the library of Winterfell and takes great interest of it and Jon catches her doing a silly little ritual to keep the North safe. I just thought that would be real cute lol

- Bolton anon <333

absoloutely!! thank u for requesting <3 (this is buns forgive me)

jon snow x bolton!reader

the air of winterfells halls is hazy with smoke.

sage burns, leaving a fiery smell in its wake. one that invades the sinuses; your brain signals its scent familiar. a faint memory, the draft of the kitchens ovens’ wafting through the castle on a late summers afternoon. tip-toeing to the door, trying to steal a peek of what’s prepared for supper — being thrown out before you’re able to grasp any traces of a hint.

some practice sage cleansing, others call it folly. you weren’t allowed freedom whilst you lived in the dreadfort under your fathers rule, and being forced to start your craft late, you oft don’t know the customs of those practicing long before you.

after you took winterfell from your half-brother, you felt as if you had a personal debt, one that could be paid only by personally restoring the castle to its former glory. sure, everyone was contributing in their own way, but for you this meant sage burning & candle lighting, some odd things put in some odd places (a line of salt on the windowsills). while your people have long since known what you practice, known and understood are two different melodies — but you’re grateful regardless the song is sung.

you had been searching for a different book when you found it.

in each library of all the great houses of westeros, a record is kept of all the maesters who’ve served & for how long. works can be dated back to the maester who wrote them, and maesters who lose their chains often have their works discredited.

some may call it a silly thing, but sansa wanted to know exactly when maester luwin had been killed. if she hadn’t vouched for you when she did, you would be in a very different position. you’re inclined to heed her every request, no matter how minuscule — and you have an inkling she needs the closure.

semantics regardless, that’s how you wound up scouring the many rows of winterfells library. it wasn’t your fault, really. records and restricted are kept much too closely together.

you reached for the book front and center under the restricted title, the record of maesters tucked tightly under your arm. flipping it over, the title is sufficient in its attention grabbing.

Words of the Accursed

your interest is easily peaked. your father had always said your curiosity would get you into trouble. he was right, of course, but it’s never held any relevance to you.

once you begin to turn the pages, you quickly see why it was labeled restricted. jinxes, rituals, hundreds of ingredients used for things unheard of. you look up, eyes scanning around to see if you’re truly alone. you want to sit down and flip every page, but you’ve far too many duties unable to be abandoned. sansa counts on you.

you bite your bottom lip, thinking, and you tuck the book under your arm along with the other. indulgence is sin, and you need absolution.

━━━━━━━━━━༺✰ ━━━━━━━━━━━

jon knows somethings up when he doesn’t see you try to climb the weirwoods.

you had always wanted to in your youth, but your fathers stern brow had always forbade it. you had promised it to be one of the first things on your schedule after your duties, but instead, he sees you moving to complete your tasks with unprecedented speed. what could have you skipping out on your fun and rushing through your work?

he finds out later that eve.

the sun sets, and you’ve been absent all day. you don’t gather for supper as the sky darkens, and jon worries until he sees a faint glow emit from the godswood. a candlelight glow.

why you waited until the absence of the sun to climb the weirwoods are beyond him, but as he notes ghosts absence, worry fades to the back of his mind & curiosity takes forefront. he’s able to slip away easily; once northmen get their first sips of ale in, drinking games begin and everything else fades from their view.

as jon traces the familiar path to the godswood, a burning question nags at him. if you’re only climbing, why is there candlelight? when it comes to climbing, even at night you and bran were unquestioned in your skill.

he approaches the entrance to find ghost laying dutifully in front of it. he stops, crouching to meet him. ghost raises his head, putting himself in reach of jon’s waiting hand. jon finds himself smiling at the direwolf.

“Is she here? Hm?” his habit of speaking to ghost shines through his brooding exterior. he isn’t offered answer — as is expected. the white wolf merely licks his chops, before moving out of reach of jon’s touch. ghost was always expressive.

jon takes the hint, sighing, and returning to his full height. he looks at ghost for a moment, for a split second wondering if he’d be allowed access to your sanctuary. it seems so, for ghost is watching the area in front of him; paying no mind to jon himself. jon steps inside.

the godswood is easily navigated when you’ve grown up playing beneath its leaves. regardless, the candlelight easily shows the way. as he gets closer, he recognizes the weirwood as the very tree his father befriended so heavily. to think, to pray, to clean his sword — lord eddard stark was known for his time spent with the gods.

but the weirwood isn’t all that’s seen, quite the opposite. you’re knelt in front of it, candles scattered around you. jon spots an unforeseen book on the bench his father used to warm, and he can’t deny the certain feeling that stirs in him at the sight. he doesn’t fully understand your practice, but you’ve always used it for good (to jon’s knowledge).

you seem to hear his footsteps, for your head turns slightly toward him. not fully, you’re entrapped with whatever you’re doing. but you still call out to him all the same.

“Ghost is at the entrance,” you say. “I mustn’t be interrupted.”

your tone misses its usual cheer. there’s no malice in it, there never is; it’s only dampened with the heaviness of concentration. part of him is relieved you take your craft seriously, and another part aches for the bright, bubbly tone you often carry. he can’t see your face from his position, but he’s sure you’ve got your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. the way you always do when you focus. “He let me through.”

“Traitor.”

his lips quirk up in a smile. you always seem to do that to him. “Can I come closer?”

you reach for things around you that jon can’t see, fiddling with them in your lap. “Watch your step. And don’t pass the salt.”

his brow furrows at your salt mention — the same salt lining every windowsill he’s come across? he’s heard of it being used to ward off bad omens, but those are only septa’s tales. aren’t they?

you weren’t joking, jon sees as he approaches. you’re sat in a circle of salt, a small glass bottle in your hands. he couldn’t tell you what was in the bottle if his life depended on it. he’s caught you as you’re finishing, putting a cork in the top and reaching for the candle nearest to you. you tip it toward the bottle, and the candle wax drips on the cork.

jon is captured by how smoothly you work, as if it’s no big deal. if he was made to perform in front of the gods, he has no doubt his hands would shake.

yours don’t. as the wax engulfs the top of the bottle, a gust of wind blows out all the candles. all except for the one in your hand, of course.

jon turns around, looking for potential threats. he finds nothing, but feels a pair of eyes on his back. when he turns around, you’re still focused on your craft. strangely, his eyes find the own of weirwood tree. he hears a crow caw in the distance. “Does that always happen?”

“Sometimes. Maybe it’s the winds greeting.” you say, moving dirt aside. you reveal a small hole, dropping the bottle in, and covering it up just as quickly.

jon ventures to step closer, and once you’re done burying your secret, you stand up yourself. you begin to step out of the salt circle, and jon offers his hand. you don’t need it, but you take it anyways. you smile at him, reaching to press a kiss to his cheek. his lashes flutter shut at the feeling.

you depart from him much quicker than jon would like, but the candles must be picked up by someone; and your lips have just rendered jon useless.

“Shouldn’t we clean this up?” he asks, and you turn to see him gesturing to your salt. you shake your head, picking up the last candle. “The rain will.”

you turn away from him to retrieve your book, and jon feels pulled — stepping closer to the weirwood. how you can have a conversation with something without lips, jon’s unsure; but it speaks. he and the tree gaze at one another, silence unbroken except by your pretty voice calling his name.

“Jon?” he hums. “You’re stepping on my salt.”

[writingsofwesteros]

#princess of the dreadfort

You just know that Aemond would love the Bolton’s. Flaying is a big barbaric for his tastes, but he enjoys the power and reputation they have, even all the way down in Kings Landing. Aemond had adored his older half-sister as a boy, her often spending time with him in the library while the others rode dragons. He grew attached and had been so upset when she left to the North. Now she’s here, stuck to her husband’s side and she hasn’t even spoken to him yet. He wants to think that it’s just poor timing, but he isn’t blind to the way the Bolton lord steers her away from her brothers and sisters. She just smiles softly at him and brushes the hair on her son’s head. It boils his blood to see. How dare he take away his family from him - he’s a prince.

Aemond tries again at dinner, and yet he makes no further progress. The couple sit across from Daemon and Rhaenyra, the two sisters talking all night. The Bolton doesn’t say much, though his hand linked with hers resting on the table the entire night says enough. Aemond watches as she gasps at the sight of her father, only for her husband to soothe her. He hates this guy, especially as he wishes it was him. It all comes to a head when the pig is brought out, his toast silencing the room. He makes eye contact with the Bolton and grins before speaking once more,

“And to my sweet sister, the Lady Bolton. Now a mother. How much you’ve grown and changed since I saw you last… it seems being kept by the side of a northerner becomes you.”

His tone is edgy and others, including her husband, pick up on the veiled insult. And yet, Aemond watches as the princess smiles at him and moves around to hug her brother. She thanks him softly, wishing him well. Aemond smirks over her head as the Lord Bolton stands up angered and grins as the princess leaves the room shortly after. It is only then that the chaos of the night ensues, all having held their tongues for the sweet princess. Aemond goes to bed that night pleased with himself - he got a rise out of his nephews, the admiration of his uncle and affection from his sweet older sister.

(Aemond is a jealous little shit-stirrer)

(Aemond is a jealous little shit-stirrer)

AND WE LOVE HIM

The Princess is so like Helaena as she claps at Aemond's speeches ; not picking up on the slight tone and taunts he has.

He wraps his arm around her when she comes close and stays in her embrace a little too long. Aemond notices the Lord Bolton itching forward to collect his love

[e-b-reads]

25 in 2025

tagged by @agardenandlibrary! I like how we've just decided to keep adding one book every year. How long can we keep this up? Personally, I never plan my reading out super far in advance, so when making a list I always stall around 10 books and have to run around my house looking at stacks of books I have sitting out/scroll through my haphazard "to read" tag on here. But here's a rough idea of what I'll aim to read this year! (Color key below)

Conrad's Fate, Diana Wynne Jones

The Pinhoe Egg, Diana Wynne Jones

Deep Secret, DWJ (I'm already rereading this, but I didn't start until 2025!)

The Merlin Conspiracy, DWJ

Maiden's Trip, Emma Smith

At least one Ngaio Marsh or Dorothy Sayers book (I just know this will happen at some point)

Trashlands, Alison Stine

Where the Dark Stands Still, A.B. Poranek

Elatsoe, Darcie Little Badger

Survival of the Fritters, Ginger Bolton

The Alpine Zen, Mary Daheim

Strange Brew, Kathy Hogan Trochek (and probably the rest of this series, but feels like cheating to put all 3 as separate items!)

Swordspoint, Ellen Kushner

Graveyard Shift, M. L. Rio

The Examiner, Janice Hallett

Saving Susy Sweetchild, Barbara Hambly

A Sorceress Comes to Call, T. Kingfisher

Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer

Dread Journey, Dorothy B. Hughes

The Signal and the Noise, Nate Silver

River-Horse, William Least Heat-Moon

Caste, Isabel Wilkerson

The Odyssey, trans. Emily Wilson

Forthcoming Benjamin January series book, Barbara Hambly

Hopefully some weird fantasy/old mystery book I find in a used bookstore on an upcoming vacation

Planned rereads (of books I own), library books (already checked out, or planning to check out), owned books I need to read/finish for the first time, books I hope to own by the end of the year

The first four library books I have currently checked out and need to get to soon, the rest are just books I want to read but don't plan to purchase. The red owned books aren't books I'll necessarily keep (except Braiding Sweetgrass, which I just got for Christmas) but I got them somehow or other, from free libraries or friends/family passing them along, and now I need to read them and decide!

I promised to tag @bigcats-birds-and-books so here is that belated tag! and then some people who I don't think have done this yet? @tinynavajoreads, @therefugeofbooks @theinquisitxor and anyone else feeling the urge! (No pressure, as always!)

[xfancyuu]

~ hold your breath, love dive. [aemond targaryen]

this is my first fanfic!!! this fic is also a repost, originally posted on 16th october 2022 on a different blog however i want all my work to be on this blog. reader is afab with she/her pronouns and has no appearance indicators. this fic has also been reformatted and edited, reposted on 7th april 2023.

premise: reader meets vhagar (my queen) [2,945 words]

The betrothal between houses Targaryen and Bolton was a choice not many had seen coming. You especially, you had gone from a girl who was content with the fact your father would marry you off to some Lord, and you'd live a life, you weren't sure if it had been a happy one, but it would have certainly been a life. You knew Aemond Targaryen was unpredictable, unstable even. He chose to claim a dragon as a pre-teen, stable wasn't something you'd use to describe him. He was chaos personified, like waves in the sea, uncontrollable, and you weren't sure what your father thought he was getting out of the arrangement. (You knew what he was getting out of the arrangement: power and selling off his only daughter was clearly the only way he'd receive such notoriety.)

The arrangement wasn't as horrific as you originally thought it would be, Aemond had seemed pleasant company though you were always in public, always chaperoned, so the man could not spend time truly alone with you, while your father wanted to marry you did not have your own opinions or goals in life, he did not trust the man you were to marry fully. Nor did you. You knew the tales of the women his brother ruined the reputations of, while his dutiful wife had to put up with his antics. You never knew how a man behaved behind closed doors, your brothers were a prime example of this for you. A prince was just a man after all and men were much different to the ladies you had spent time around. Kings Landing was entirely different in general, the styles, the hair, the people even, it was far too busy and put you on edge far too much.

They were dragons, both in sigil and temperament, you had thought. Each member of the family was equally fiery and hard to read, comparing them to the creatures which set them apart so vastly was a correct comparison in your opinion. Being around them made you feel powerful, that nobody could cross you, but you knew much better that politics can change in an instant — Rhaenyra and Rhaenys were proof of that. It scared you, being in the dragons pit.

Your time is spent with Helaena, she is a few years older than you though you think she is wise beyond her years, often telling you about the things she dreams about and often times speaks in riddles though you find her company more entertaining than most people. She understands you on a level which others do not, and you think in another timeline you would not be marrying her brother and she would not be married to her own husband, you would still be friends or perhaps more.

She doesn't want you today though, she claims she's ill with a sickness which is contagious — you'd get sick to spend time with her, you consider her your only true friend in this place, though Helaena being the kind sweet soul she is would never allow you to give yourself a sickness on her behalf. Suddenly you're alone, the day grows boring, the library is unappealing, you can only walk around a garden — no matter the size of it, so many times without growing bored. Needlepoint is tedious, and you think you could not cope if your life was to be like this once you were married. The garden however is where you find him, alone. It's the first time you've spent time together alone, and your palms feel sticky, and your heart is beating out of your chest. You don't know how you'll survive within a marriage when you cannot speak to the man without wanting to run away due to shyness.

"You avoid me far too much," he's the first to speak, you doubt words could process from your brain to your mouth to do so, "Do I scare you that much?"

You do not want to answer at first — perhaps he's talking about his presence or rather the scars he could not help, but you're strong, you're from the North and Northern girls aren't typically timid nor shy, "Why would I do that my Prince?" you can see how it would consider it mocking, but the playful tone in your voice indicates your intent. "Am I too fast for you to catch?"

You doubt you've thrown him off guard, though maybe that's why he had chosen you, "Do you think you are fast enough to outrun a dragon?" he asks.

"I do not know, you see I've never met a dragon nor seen one to know how fast they can be... though I have no doubt I can outrun one" you're being cocky, or perhaps you're flirting, you do not know which one would be better though you seem to amuse the price in question.

"Would you like to see one?" you don't know if it's a euphemism or if he's being serious, perhaps he does have a sense of humour after all.

"Hmm... I'm not too sure they would take kindly to those who aren't of Valyrian blood, what if one tries to eat me... I've heard the tales of the dragon who resides on Dragonstone who eats its own kind and humans alike." you're teasing him, who wouldn't want to see a dragon? You'd encounter them eventually, you surmised, it was hard to live in a family with such beasts without doing so.

"You know of the Cannibal?" his interest had piqued at that, your time with his sister had clearly come with advantages, learning more about the Targaryen family, the dragons owned (and not) by his family had interested him, next you'd surprise him by speaking Valyrian.

"Only what her grace, your sister, had told me about it, that apparently the dragon is older than Balerion the black dread — though it seems unrealistic and hearsay, your father rode him once did he not? Balerion I mean, —" your sentence was cut short by the prince, who was seemingly not paying attention to you, it was awkward for a few seconds before he excused himself.

Aemond had seemingly looked off to the side, as if being summoned though you didn't pay it much mind, the two of you were having an enjoyable conversation (well in your personal opinion, the prince may have just been conversing due to the fact his family didn't want the arrangement to sour due to his or your behaviours). Though, he had pulled away at seemingly the last second, muttering an apology and leaving you in the garden alone.

As fast as he'd disturbed your peace, he disappears almost as abruptly, almost making you wonder if you'd spoken out of turn and offended him somehow. And you could not help but notice how much lonelier you had become without his presence.

Some days had passed and the interaction with Aemond had lived within your head, when you weren't needed or doing something you'd thought back to the conversation, he was a seemingly lovely match and paid attention to you. Not that you could say the same for your parents, they hadn't known where you were or what you were doing most of the time, they only lectured you into behaving around the royal family, ladies do not laugh loudly, ladies do not spend more time daydreaming than needlepoint and ladies certainly do not frolic around the gardens unchaperoned. Helaena hadn't miraculously recovered, which meant your family continued to lecture you. Perhaps they were more irritated about the fact you weren't strengthening the bond of both families to ensure the marriage, as your mother had kindly put it. You were aware your family wanted more power, but the possibility of you getting sick while they were heightening their station could not have occurred to them.

Your days continued to be as boring as ever without Helaena's company you were beyond restless, your parents had told you to behave far too many times, so much you could recite their speeches. Though it didn't stop you from wandering alone — again. You wouldn't be shocked if it got back to them — again. However, just as the last time you were alone, Aemond Targaryen once again approaches you. Cockily as ever, though being a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and having the largest dragon could perhaps have that effect on one's self-confidence.

"Lady Bolton, you are the exact person I was looking for," he once again spoke, he often left you speechless, from his undeniable beauty to the confidence he exuded — you had found out he wasn't always this way, gaining Vhagar had changed him, and you surmised it was most likely for the better. "If you can recall we spoke about dragons and I have reconsidered the terms of our arrangement."

This made your blood go cold, you were certain you had not offended the Prince, though with the way he'd looked at you during meal times you could see how speaking about the dragons which were an extension of his family could offend him. "Have you spoken to my father about this?" He wouldn't be happy, you knew him well enough to know that.

"You misunderstand me, my Lady," you were sure your heart would have stopped if it was not for the words he spoke, "I cannot marry you without being certain."

It was not a good conversation to be had, and you were almost panicking, and you were certain you saw a taunting glint within his eye, "I can assure you, our union would be fruitful, and you would be happy." You've been taught what it takes to be a wife from your mother, but she had never explained what it truly entailed, your words feel rehearsed and panicked and came out of your mouth far too fast.

"I cannot be happy without being certain that you could handle this life," you're not sure what he's talking about, you've handled court well, made friends, were well liked by most people, and before your mind drifted somewhere else to think of every single misdeed you'd done, he spoke again, "The dragons are loyal, they want to protect their riders, Vhagar especially so," there was something in his tone which told you, you were missing the context of this statement, "I would like you to meet her, hopefully she won't harm you."

You weren't sure what to think, on one hand seeing the marvellous and beautiful beast that she was, was a once in a lifetime opportunity, on the other hand you could be hurt, or worse. It was seemingly a deal breaker to Aemond, if you chose to say no he could easily break off the engagement without remorse, he's a man, they never face the repercussions of their own actions.

"When do you wish to plan this meeting?" you asked, you didn't fear much, and if a dragon harms you, burns you or eats you, you supposed there were worse, less dignified ways to have your life ended.

"I was heading there now and while you are unoccupied I had asked your father's permission," he can't say no to a prince, out of fear of offending, you knew that much.

"With the way some at court speak of you Aemond, I'm surprised you asked for permission," the playful tone in your voice was evident that you truly did not believe court gossip. "How could I ever say no to meeting the eldest dragon known to man? If she eats me it would be a happy day for me."

He finds you amusing, you can tell, he's poker-faced, but you can always tell by the subtle way his body moved closer to yours, "I hope she chooses not to, it would be a sad day. I'm afraid I would not know what to say to your father about the occasion, his only daughter, eaten by a dragon, how would he recover?"

"You don't know my father like I do, he'd spin some tale that I was courageous and chose to fight a dragon and paid for it with my life." You're divulging far too much about your personal family life now, you're giving him too much insight and unnecessary information which could be used against you in a moment's notice. "However, I am not going to let a dragon eat me today, my outfit simply will not allow it."

The journey to the largest dragon currently roaming freely was not as daunting as you'd originally thought, the nervousness you were feeling in your stomach hadn't subsided. Though, you could almost feel the anticipation radiating off of Aemond. Perhaps he wanted a show, perhaps he wanted to see how you'd react to such a magnificent creature, or perhaps he wanted to see Vhagar burn you alive.

She was there, laying and looking lethargic, or maybe she was simply not wanting to live life any more, she was beyond the size you had imagined, though something about her looked gentle. She hadn't harmed Aemond when she was a child and this made you feel safer, along with her rider being there, maybe he'd calm her with his presence. "Are you bonded to her?"

"In what way?" Aemond asks, keeping you behind him while he spoke in Valyrian — words you couldn't understand but if you were to have children in the future you should take note to learn.

"Can you feel what she feels, can she always feel your presence? Does she know when you're in trouble?" The questions come from your mouth before you can stop them, "You're speaking to her right now, are you not? Are you telling her to be on her best behaviour?"

"Did you not know we're always on our best behaviour." His response had made you laugh, you couldn't help it, if it had came from any other person you would have believed it. "Do I amuse you?"

"Yes very much so," Vhagar is stirring now, being so big she looks heavy to even move her head properly, you'd fear her moving her body without injuring anybody within the surrounding area. "It's a good sign she hasn't eaten me yet, isn't it."

"Don't be fooled by her, she's cunning, but she favours the brave." he spoke.

"Would she consider me brave if I were to touch her?" You ask, already moving forward however Aemond hadn't chose to stop you, perhaps he thought you too foolish for your own good.

"Isn't that what we're here for? You're to meet her and she chooses if we marry." Now you knew the motive. There was so much more than what met the eye with Aemond and you'd do well to remember that.

Taking slow and steady steps towards Vhagar was the easy part, she had emitted heat, much like the dogs your father chose to keep around in the Dreadfort. It was hard to stay away from her, she was utterly captivating, and it did not stop you from placing a hand on her. You don't doubt that you looked like an ant to her, tiny and easy to destroy with one singular movement. However, she stayed in place, letting out what sounded like a sigh. It was a good sign for you to continue touching her, it's not at all what you had expected her to feel like, she had felt warm and inviting despite her intimidating appearance. She was like her rider in more ways than he'd ever let the world know.

"You weren't serious about her eating you, were you?" Aemond asks, while you're completely mesmerised by how big and docile she was, your hand still holding the dragon's warm scales while Aemond's presence was felt closely behind you.

"Seeing her up close, I fear I misjudged her," and you goes unsaid. "She seems lonely and I wish she had more company, do you keep her company often? When you're not at court?"

"I suppose I too would be lonely if I lost Balerion and Meraxes." He confesses, "But she is well taken care of, I can assure you."

"There are tales of you claiming her, that you were a child and the only one brave enough to go near her," the stories are fabricated most of the time, "That you lost the eye for the dragon, was it worth it?" you hadn't approached the topic of his long gone eye, though you fear you may have offended him when he does not speak straight away.

"A dragon is a great price for something so small as losing an eye" he spoke though you can tell there's melancholy within his tone, you were so close now, incredibly so, never had you been so close to a man. "It does not frighten you does it?"

"You lost an eye for a dragon, why would that frighten me, my prince?" it's a question he can't answer because he's the one who's finally speechless. "Are you fulfilled in the answer you so desperately sought from this encounter?"

"I think I have all the answers I need," he had pulled you away from Vhagar ever so gently, it was the softest you had ever felt the man, "I shall tell your father we shall be married as soon or as late as you wish to do so."

"When we are married will you let me fly with you?" the answer was unspoken, he'd take you to the ends of beyond the wall if you so much as wished it. Perhaps the marriage was the perfect match despite being arranged, he'd found somebody as equally obsessed with dragons as he'd once been.

as stated before, this is a repost and not entirely a rewrite, just an edited version of mistakes i realised i made months ago. i hope y'all still enjoyed this. crossposted on ao3 under the name hedonism.

[xhxhxhx]

Caughey, 50 Am. Hist. Rev. 461, 462 (1945):

[In 1859, San Francisco publisher Hubert Howe Bancroft] had begun to collect Californiana. Gradually his search widened to a world-wide canvass for materials on the western half of North America from Panama to Alaska. In this search he had the good fortune to be first in the field. Yet the real basis of his success lay in his philosophy of collecting. He believed in collecting for content rather than for externals of format. He believed in sweeping in every item that seemed to have even slight bearing on his subject. He had high regard for newspapers, and this before most historians had discovered them. He went after manuscripts, preferring the originals but if necessary resorting to copies and abstracts. He created historical materials by taking dictations from hundreds of pioneers and old-timers. He argued, oftentimes successfully, that it was a patriotic service to put materials in his collection. He was a sturdy beggar and a good borrower, but he drew heavily on his financial resources to buy from dealers, out of catalogues, and at auctions. At the time of its sale to the University of California, Reuben Gold Thwaites appraised the collection at more than $300,000. It has since [as of 1945] appreciated in value at least tenfold; and Director Herbert E. Bolton has said that with $10,000,000 and twenty years in which to spend it the collection could not be duplicated or satisfactorily replaced.

As his library grew, Bancroft felt repeated urges to make some use of it. He considered publishing selected original narratives. . . . Fortunately his decision took another direction. In his words, “I would strike at once for the highest, brightest mark before me. . . . History-writing I conceived to be among the highest of human occupations, and this should be my choice.”

He was never in doubt about what history to undertake. It would be that of his field of collecting, the Pacific states, a modest one twelfth of the earth’s land surface. He proposed, furthermore, a straightforward, frontal, factual attack upon this vast subject matter. He would attempt comprehensive and exhaustive treatment and leave philosophical theorizing to others.

Barnes, 15 Hist. & Theory 212, 212 (1976):

By 1871 Hubert Howe Bancroft had personally collected nearly twenty thousand items on western Americana, but had reluctantly concluded that, at the rate of eight hours a day, it would take him four hundred years to read and annotate it all. If anything was ever to be done with these rare books, pamphlets, newspapers, and chronicles, it was painfully clear that additional help must be forthcoming.

Caughey, 50 Am. Hist. Rev. 461, 463 (1945):

From the outset [Bancroft] realized that he was undertaking more than any one man could do. In businesslike fashion he therefore hired assistants, employing first and last some six hundred persons to help in the production of his works. After much experimenting and at an outlay of $35,000 he devised a subject index to his entire collection. More than twice this amount went into abstracting and note-taking. Going still further, he set some of his men to writing first drafts, and the less revision required, the better he liked it.

Theoretically he made himself responsible for all that went finally into print, and in practice he did this sufficiently so that his 30,000-page, 12,000,000-word opus has unity of design and method and character. Oftentimes his personal contact was slight, for example with the chapters he read on the cable car between his library and his printery, yet the thirty-nine volumes are an integrated whole.

Barnes, 15 Hist. & Theory 212, 213 (1976):

By the early 1890s Bancroft could look back with an almost unalloyed sense of accomplishment. The Works of Hubert Howe Bancroft stretched before him on seven and a half feet of linear shelf, subdivided into thirty-nine stout volumes of approximately eight hundred pages each. In sheer bulk and detail there was nothing in any language which could rival this monumental survey of western North America. Eleven of the volumes were wholly or partly devoted to the history of California alone, comprising 8,800 pages with an estimated 4,500,000 words. Another nine volumes dealt with the states, provinces, and territories east and north of California, including British Columbia and Alaska. There were six volumes on Mexico, three on Central America, and two on northern Mexico and Texas. In some respects nothing quite like it has ever been done before or since.

Hubert Howe Bancroft, generative intelligence power user.

[leupagus]

Really enjoying writing Book 2/Season 6 of this monstrosity, where instead of having Sansa and Jon fighting to regain Winterfell and all that nonsense with the "Battle of the Bastards," it's gonna be like 10K of Sansa being the Warden of the North equivalent of that mom who just needs FIVE MINUTES OF PEACE AND QUIET YOU GODDAMN KIDS

To the Lord Robin Arryn, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East, and my Dear Cousin,

I write to you from Wint

"Sansa — sorry, Lady Sansa, you'll never believe—"

"Jeyne, you don't have to call me 'Lady Sansa,'" Sansa said as she looked up from her parchment. "You're the steward of Winterfell now."

Jeyne Poole, hanging onto the handle of the door and swinging it absently back and forth like she'd done back when they were ten years old, frowned. "My da always said the Lord and Lady of Winterfell were worthy of respect."

Sansa leaned back in her chair. Father had dealt with the business of the holdfast in the Library Tower, so he could wrestle with the accounts without being interrupted every twenty minutes. Sansa had always thought that a bit unfair, since it meant you had to climb all those stairs just to find him, but now she was wondering if she could perhaps build the tower twenty or thirty feet higher. The exercise would probably do her good. "Your father always called mine 'oi, you,' if I recall correctly."

The look Jeyne gave her was deeply unimpressed. "Aye, and you always complained about it. Do you want to hear about the cow loose in the guest house or not?"

erfell at last, which was the dearest wish of your beloved goodfather Petyr. His dying words were to express the hope that both his goodson and his niece be safe and secure in their homes, and I am glad to say tha

"Lady Sansa, Master Mikken has refused another dozen apprentices. He said they're all 'knuckleheaded clods who wouldn't know a round ball fuller from a chisel punch." This time it was her master-at-arms, who'd been Rodrick Cassel's round-faced child named Beth when Sansa had left. Now he went by Cass and looked like he could wrestle a (very short) bear if needs be.

"I don't know a round ball fuller from a chisel punch," Sansa replied, frowning.

Cass shrugged. "Well, and nor do I. But that's near fifty lads he's turned away. We need someone helping with the forges. We've been making do with the army smiths that Prince Stannis let us—"

"Prince Stannis?" He was going to hate that.

Another shrug. "We've got to call him something, milady. You won't call him 'king,' nor will any of your bannermen, but his soldiers give us no end of trouble when we call him 'lord.' So 'prince' it is. And he is one, too, ain't he? King Robert's brother. That'd make him a prince, right?"

Sansa answered with a shrug of her own. By the time Stannis and his companies returned from the Dreadfort, everyone in the North would likely have settled on Prince Stannis, which would lead to a great deal of shouting and probably threats of lighting people on fire, but she had at least a fortnight to think of something.

"As I was saying, we can't use the Baratheon smiths forever, and the ones from our bannermen have all gone home with their bannermen. Mikken needs apprentices, and we need our forge at full strength."

"All right, let's go speak with him," Sansa sighed.

t through the goodness of Stannis, of House Baratheon, and his masterful command of the armies of the North and the Stormlands, I am now secure as Warden of the North.

Not only that, but your dear cousin, my brother Rickon has somehow survived all the danger that the North has presented, while it was under the thrall of the Ironborn and House Bolton. He is now safe and I will reu

"My lady?" Maester Wolkan peered his head into the room.

[oldiesstationlover11607]

…..hi. My name is [💛] (idk if this reference will land)

Anyways. It’s me 💛. Your favorite anonymous requester. First of all, I wanted to ask how you were doing. I realize that I never really ask about you when I write these requests. Hope all is well and good. Second of all, OMG I love the one shot with Josh trying to explain lore! Between the forest fic reference and Tyler coming through with the survival kit, it was so good!

So, I don’t know if I made another request prior to this one (if I did I am so so sorry. I like to space these out so you’re not just inundated with my requests before being finished with the other one first), but I can’t get it out of my head so I figured might as well put it to paper. Could you do a super fluffy one shot of Josh being the readers first kiss? They’re like, nervous and stuff about it because they’ve been dating for a while and she doesn’t want him to leave, but also doesn’t want to embarrass herself. I just have a soft spot for first kiss stories.

Only if you want to. No pressure.

First Kiss - Josh Dun x Reader

Relationship: Josh Dun × Reader

Warnings: Couple swears

Word Count: 1692

A/N: I’m so glad you liked the lore fic 🙌 I appreciate you asking how I am. I only have a few months left of high school before going to university/college. There’s a lot on my plate right now with finishing high school and doing extra curricular activities which is making me exhausted if I’m being honest but writing everyday makes me feel so much better. It’s like that little burst of happiness at the end of my days! How are you doing 💛?

When I was 17 all I ever looked forward to was my English class. It was the only class I had with Josh at school and we always sat next to each other at the back. On the first day of junior year we were paired up for class speeches due to both of us having crippling anxiety. We were told to each write a speech, do it in front of the other, and record it for the teacher. It was senior year and Josh and I had been in a relationship for 6 months. Josh was my first boyfriend but I definitely wasn’t his—not that he was popular or a ladies man but he’d been in a relationship before. Despite being together for six months, all we’d ever done was cuddle and hold hands in public. We’d never kissed. I’d never been kissed by him. I’d never been kissed at all and Josh had no idea. It was Friday afternoon and I was sitting in study with Tyler, Josh’s best friend and the school’s star basketball player. He was like a real-life Troy Bolton. Senior students at our school were assigned a couple study periods a week, giving us time to complete all of our work—or gossip with each other. 

“Josh said you’re going over to his place tonight,” he whispered, trying to avoid the librarian from telling him to shut up. I nodded in response, wondering when Josh had the time to tell him. While Tyler and Josh were best friends, Tyler had been my childhood best friend. Our moms brought us up together and he lived a couple houses down from me, meaning we spent a lot of time together as kids. “Are you finally gonna muster up the guts to kiss him?”

“Shhh!!” I jumped, looking around the library to see if anyone had heard. “Tyler we are literally in public I do not need you blasting to the entire school that I’ve never kissed my boyfriend,” I groaned. Tyler tried to hold back his laughter which earned him an annoyed look from the librarian, with whom he had a complicated relationship. 

“Oh come on Y/N, just kiss the boy. He obviously wants to if that’s what you’re worried about,” he nagged. I wasn’t worried about whether or not Josh wanted to, I was worried about whether I’d mess it up. I’d kiss him, we’d pull apart, and he’d yell at me about how awful it was and how we should break up immediately. Either that was going to happen or he’d break up with me because it’s been six months and we’d never kissed. 

“Yeah, yeah ok. If it happens it happens,” I sighed.

“It’s going to happen,” he pushed, earning him a shush from the librarian. 

We sat in the rest of our study period working on our assignments before the bell rang for us to go home. I packed up my stuff and waited for Tyler to follow me out the door. “Thanks Mrs Jordan!” he shouted at the librarian who shushed him again before rolling her eyes and getting back to work. Tyler left the library in a fit of laughter, his favorite pastime seemed to be pissing off the librarian–something I took much joy in watching.

“You know one day she’s going to ban you from the library,” I chuckled, walking into the parking lot and seeing Josh leaning against his car. 

“I look forward to it.” Tyler smiled, waving me goodbye. I turned around and walked towards Josh, who smiled at me lovingly. 

“How was study?” he asked, opening the passenger side door for me. 

“Good, same old stuff with Tyler and Mrs Jordan though,” I explained. Josh had study with us last year, we were the perfect trio, until this year when all of our schedules changed again, leaving just Tyler and I to have it at the same time. We drove out of the parking lot passing Tyler, who smirked at me before wrapping his arms around himself and pretending he was making out with some invisible force. I wanted to jump out of the car and tackle him to the ground. This was not funny. Josh looked out the window to see Tyler making a fool of himself and chuckled under his breath. We turned the corner and parked in front of Josh’s house. His family were away on a ski trip meaning he had the house to himself and that I could stay the night. I leaned my bag up against the couch and went to grab a snack from the kitchen. Josh had gone back to his room to get changed into something more comfortable which looked like a pair of sweatpants and a gray t-shirt. It had been relatively warm and humid that day so neither of us needed a jersey or hoodie. I sat on the couch scrolling through social media and waiting for him to come out, which only took about 2 minutes. I could tell he was rushing considering he was still putting on his shirt when he fell back on the couch. 

“What are we gonna watch?” he asked, grabbing the television remote and flicking through Netflix. 

“Have you ever seen To All the Boys I've Loved Before?” 

He shook his head and pressed play without asking any questions. We sat through the movie watching Lara Jean and Peter slowly fall in love through their ‘fake’ relationship. I loved this movie, especially how Peter put his hand in the back pocket of Lara Jean’s pants–it was adorable. Throughout the movie Josh and I slowly got closer and closer until we were practically on top of each other. We got to the point in the film where Lara Jean describes her first kiss with Peter and how it was during a spin the bottle game. Josh pulled me in close, his arms wrapped around me. “My first kiss was like that. 12 years old and some stupid dare,” he laughed. I wanted to crawl inside a hole and escape this conversation. “It was with Mary Ross.”

“Josh, can we not talk about first kisses? Please?”  

He sat up and looked at me, his eyes meeting mine and pushing me towards the edge. 

“Why? Do you have some horror story about your first?” he asked. I really didn’t want to explain it to him. Tyler was the only one who really knew and I’d sworn him to secrecy. I stayed silent, knowing that if I said anything I’d have to tell the truth. Unfortunately, silence said more than I thought it would. “No way,” Josh muttered. “But–”

“But nothing Josh, let’s just move on,” I interrupted. 

“No, let’s not move on. You’ve never been kissed have you?” He continued to push my boundaries. I wished Tyler was there to tell him to back off, that it was a sensitive topic and when I said I didn’t want to talk about it, I meant it. I shook my head, confirming what he was saying. He cupped my face and smiled down at me. “If you’ve never been kissed then it’s my job to make sure your first is special,” he breathed, leaning in. 

“Wait,” I pressed a hand against his chest and he immediately stopped. He looked worried, as if he’d done something wrong. 

“What? What’s wrong?” He pulled back slightly. 

“I’m–I’m scared Josh, I just–I’ve never done this before so it’s scary,” I explained. Josh let out a sigh of relief and leaned back in towards me. 

“It’s okay Y/N. I’ve got you,” he whispered. I noticed the little hole at the bottom of his lower lip where he used to have a piercing. It had barely closed, but there was no way a stud or ring would fit unless it was repierced. I remember Tyler complaining about how bad it looked one day and the next it had disappeared, never to be seen again. “Am I good to–?” Josh asked, his eyes falling to my lips. I nodded before closing my eyes and  letting him press his lips against mine. They were soft and warm like butter, pulling out every inch of myself. My stomach felt full of butterflies, both nervous and excited energy flowed through my veins, making me feel like I was flying. It took me a second to register what was happening before I started to kiss back, moving my lips against his like I’d seen in every rom-com I’d ever watched. I realized that I had no idea what to do with my hands and as Josh’s shirt brushed against me I decided to tangle my fingers through the fabric. It was soft and warm, like him. I pulled back, my eyes still closed and a breath of air escaped my lips. 

“Good?”

“Better than good.” 

Josh smiled his classic golden boy smile, flashing his perfect teeth. Interrupting the silence, my phone starts ringing. 

“Tyler Joseph,” Siri's voice called out. Perfect. Great timing. Josh chuckled. 

“You should probably answer that,” he passed me the phone and I pressed the green accept button and put it on speaker phone. There was silence on the line. At least until a loud screeching noise passed through the speakers. 

“Did you kiss him yet?” I rushed to turn the volume down or anything to stop Tyler from continuing what he was about to do. 

“Tyler, you're on speaker phone,” Josh said. 

“Oh crap, sorry Y/N!” Tyler apologized but I could tell he wasn’t sorry, he was enjoying this. “But did you?”

“Tyler!” I yelped, wanting nothing more than for him to shut up. 

“Answer the question!” he cackled. 

“She did,” Josh bragged, before picking up the phone and bringing it to his mouth. “Now that you’ve got what you called for I’m hanging up.” He hovered his finger on the red ‘end call’ button. 

“Wait! Wait!” Tyler pleaded but it was too late, Josh and I were alone again. We sat there looking into each others’ eyes and my mind wondered what we would do next. Where Josh and I were supposed to go from here.

“So… where were we?” 

//

Can't wait for the next request!

[vlyrn]

c.ai bots masterlist

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Game of Thrones

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Ser Bronn:

In the Solar

Cersei Lannister:

The Lioness’s Chambers

Gendry Waters / Gendry Baratheon:

Riverlands

Jaime Lannister:

Harrenhal

Lion among Wolves

Jon Snow:

The Woman on the Wall

Castle Library

Ramsay Bolton / Snow:

Bloodied and Dirtied

Robb Stark

Battle Weary King

Sansa Stark:

A Friendly Face?

Stannis Baratheon:

Sunset

Theon Greyjoy:

Reek

Open Scars

After Battle

Tyrion Lannister:

To Volantis

An Evening Visitor

Duty, Duty, Duty

Tywin Lannister:

The Hand’s Tower

Yara Greyjoy:

On the Black Wind

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House of the Dragon

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Aemond Targaryen:

Aching Nights

Throne Room

Alicent Hightower:

Lonesome Queen

Baela Targaryen:

Of Fire and Blood

Cregan Stark:

Welcome to Winterfell

Daemon Targaryen:

Throne Room

Jacaerys Velaryon:

Home Again

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[robotbulls]

Revolutionizing Risk Management with AI and Big Data: The Emergence of Advanced Analytics in Tech and Finance Industries

The rapid and continuous evolution of artificial intelligence (AI) and big data has brought forth significant advancements in various industries, including tech and finance. One area where AI and big data have made a significant impact is risk management. This article aims to discuss some of the uncommon tips and content related to the revolutionary role of advanced analytics in risk management in tech and finance industries.

1. Using Python Libraries for Advanced Risk Analysis

Python is a popular programming language widely used in various industries, thanks to its extensive standard library. However, there are several lesser-known essential Python libraries that can be used for advanced risk analysis in the tech and finance industries. Some of these libraries include:

Boltons: A set of general-purpose utilities that are missing from the standard library. This library can be used for data validation, fuzzy string comparison, and data manipulation.

More-Itertools: A library that provides additional itertools for advanced data processing.

SH: A subprocess module replacement that simplifies the orchestration of other processes in Python.

Validators: A small library that allows for the validation of common patterns, such as emails, IP addresses, or credit cards.

TheFuzz (previously FuzzyWuzzy): A library for fuzzy string comparison that provides improved string similarity scoring.

Using these libraries can help perform advanced risk analysis, particularly in the finance industry, where data validation and string comparison play crucial roles in assessing risk factors.

2. Enhanced Debugging Techniques for Risk Management

To ensure accurate and efficient risk management, it is essential to have advanced debugging techniques. Some helpful debugging libraries and techniques that can be used to troubleshoot issues during the implementation of risk management models include:

Stackprinter: A library that provides more helpful versions of Python's built-in exception messages. It can help developers quickly identify issues in their risk management models.

Icecream: A library that provides an improved print function for easier debugging of code. It can be particularly useful for debugging complex risk management models.

Pyperclip: A library that allows for copying and pasting to and from the clipboard. This can be useful for debugging purposes, particularly for copying variable values or error messages.

3. Leveraging AI and Machine Learning for Intelligent Risk Management

AI and machine learning technologies have made it possible to develop intelligent risk management systems that can process large volumes of data and identify patterns in real-time. Some applications of AI and machine learning in risk management include:

Fraud detection: AI-powered algorithms can analyze transactional data in real-time and identify potential fraud by detecting unusual patterns.

Credit scoring: Machine learning models can analyze a wide range of variables to assess an individual's creditworthiness more accurately than traditional methods.

Market risk analysis: AI algorithms can process vast amounts of market data and identify potential risks or investment opportunities.

These applications of AI and machine learning are revolutionizing risk management in the finance industry, enabling organizations to make more informed decisions and mitigate potential risks more effectively.

4. Harnessing the Power of Big Data for Risk Management

Big data technologies have enabled organizations to gather, store, and analyze massive volumes of structured and unstructured data. This data can be harnessed for various risk management purposes, such as:

Real-time monitoring and analysis of financial transactions and market trends.

Generating detailed risk profiles for individual customers or investment portfolios.

Identifying potential areas of vulnerability and implementing proactive risk mitigation measures.

By leveraging big data technologies, organizations can develop more comprehensive and accurate risk management strategies that help them safeguard their assets and maintain a competitive edge in the market.

Conclusion

The emergence of advanced analytics, powered by AI and big data, has revolutionized risk management in tech and finance industries. By harnessing the power of advanced Python libraries, improved debugging techniques, and AI and machine learning technologies, organizations can develop intelligent risk management systems that enable them to make informed decisions and mitigate potential risks more effectively. As technology continues to advance, we can expect even more sophisticated risk management solutions to emerge, shaping the future of the tech and finance industries.

[novembermorgon]

Discovered your blog/oc tag recently and I’m super obsessed with the outfits in your art (esp the bolton siblings bc idk that’s the goth in me), was curious if you have a good source for looking at accurate historical clothing references at all?

hehe thank you anon!! i loveeee making little outfits... it's hard to recommend one specific site because i do pull from a lot of different fashion eras and inspirations and my stuff definitely isn't super historically accurate - at this point i've just curated my pinterest enough to where i get a lot of inspiration basically spoonfed to me LOL but sometimes i use this site:

which is basically just a compilation of items (paintings, clothing, etc) from different historical periods :-) with the right filters theres a lot of cool stuff in there. i also love looking at opera costume design for inspiration, which isn't really historically accurate 99% of the time but very beautiful. if the accuracy is important i'd recommend looking into groups online who do historical reenactment/recreate historical clothing as well as looking in your local library if you have a section for clothing & historical fashions!!

[changingplumbob]

Come meet the neighbours!

Keira and Marta have moved to San Sequoia, and live in a residential rental. There are six units so I thought I would introduce who lives where. Keep in mind, the Romero household is the only one I will be actively playing. I'll reblog this when I end up playing them this rotation but wanted to share what I've been working on the past few days.

I'm only showing the living spaces for all of them but they have 1 to 3 bedrooms and 1 to 2 bathrooms.

1 Dockyard Way Units - The Hanks Unit

Dr Xander Hanks and fiance Marissa Montgomery

Guess who? I finally got around to putting Dr Hanks in the world. I gave him a fiance who is as profession focused as him. She's in the business career so will be Eliza's coworker. They are engaged but not in a rush to marry, and don't plan on kids anytime soon. Good thing to as the unit is a 1 bedroom.

2 Dockyard Way Units - The Romero Household

Keira Foster and Marta Romero

Here are my happily engaged girlies. No interior shots until their rotation though because spoilers. If you are unaware Keira is moving here to work at the Marine Life Institute as a marine biologist. Marta is a part time barista and is working on planning their wedding.

3 Dockyard Way Units - The Staples' Unit

Stefan and Margarita Staples with their twin boys Oli and Vernon

Oh look it's my For Rent testing family! I missed y'all, couldn't leave you behind! Have fun in the background my darlings. Stefan is a gym trainer while Margarita works from home as an accounting assistant. The infants are of course infants.

4 Dockyard Way Units - The Wiley Unit

Wyatt Wiley and his wife Tianna

Two sims uploaded to the gallery by SimzZilla, aged up to elders. Wyatt and Tianna have been married for so long that they don't bother wearing their rings anymore. Deciding not to have kids the couple spent their life between work and travel. Now retired they are ready to forge some connections.

5 Dockyard Way Units - The Bolton's Unit

Marjorie Bolton with her husbands Sergio and Joaquin, and their cat Ginger

Yes you did read that right, it was not a typo. These sims were part of my rotations at the start, way before I even dreamed of posting the story anywhere, but I was finding the guys careers boring so moved them to the back benches. Marjorie is a 2 star techie, in the same career path as Joey. She fell for both Joaquin and Sergio and luckily for her, the men ended up falling for each other along the way. Joaquin is a 3 star celeb DJ while Sergio is a style influencer. Ginger the cat is basically their child but with a 3 bedroom unit they're not opposed to expanding their family with either humans or more cats.

6 Dockyard Way Units - The Ali's Unit

Harper and Lawrence Ali with son Roger, daughter Paola and cats Rudy and Minnie

I had these sims for testing... well I've tested a bunch of stuff with them. The blurb below them says MagicBlueDragon but I'm looking through my library and can't see them individually. We'll just say Harper and Lawrence were originally made by MagicBlueDragon to be safe.

Haven't set up too much here but I will say Kelly will find an enemy in Roger despite him not appearing on screen for this chapter. You'll read why tomorrow, or your today depending on timezones.

[speyeralling-down-thy-majesty]

(@bolton-buried)

Desmond pokes his head into the library at the Magnus Institute, looking for a familiar smile and head of curls. He doesn’t see anyone off the bat, so he calls out.

“Cheshire? Y’in here?”

Amelie pretty much appears out nowhere, looking at Dez with a blank expression. They tilt its head,and their curls fall away from their face,revealing a bandaid on the cheek.

"Yes¿? Need a book or trying to pry information for some reason¿?"

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Andrew Doyle

Published: Dec 12, 2023

Towards the end of Christopher Marlowe’s play Tamburlaine Part Two, our marauding anti-hero burns a copy of the Quran, along with other Islamic books, as a kind of audacious test. “Now, Mahomet,” he cries, “if thou have any power, come down thyself and work a miracle.” Two scenes later, he is dead.

We might see this as a cautionary tale for our times. After all, it isn’t only Turco-Mongol conquerors who find themselves punished for Quran-burning. Last week, the Danish parliament voted to ban the desecration of all religious texts following a spate of protests in which copies of the Qur’an had been destroyed. Inevitably, the new law has been couched as a safety measure. This burning of the book, claims justice minister Peter Hummelgaard, “harms Denmark and Danish interests, and risks harming the security of Danes abroad and here at home”.

He has a point. Even unconfirmed accusations of Quran-burning can be sufficient to prompt extremist violence. In 2015, being accused of defiling the holy book, Farkhunda Malikzada was beaten to death by a ferocious mob in Afghanistan while bystanders, including police officers, did nothing to intervene. Many filmed the brutal murder on their phones and the footage was widely shared on social media. In 2022, a mentally unstable man called Mushtaq Rajput was similarly accused and tied to a tree and stoned to death in Pakistan. Earlier this year in Iran, it was reported that Javad Rouhi was tortured so severely that he could no longer speak or walk. He was sentenced to death for apostasy and later died in prison under suspicious circumstances.

But while we might anticipate that the desecration of the Quran would be proscribed in Islamic theocracies, it is troubling to see similar laws being passed in secular nations such as Denmark. The government had not been so faint-hearted when faced with similar problems in 2005. After cartoons of the Prophet Mohammed were published in Jyllands-Posten, a global campaign from Indonesia to Bosnia demanded that the Danish authorities take action. The government stood firm and the judicial complaint against the newspaper was dismissed.

In a free society this is the only justifiable response, albeit one that takes considerable courage. And the climate of intimidation that has descended since is a product of our collective failure to defend freedom of speech against the demands of militants. When the Ayatollah Khomeini pronounced his fatwa on Salman Rushdie for his novel The Satanic Verses, one would have hoped for a unified front on behalf of one of our finest writers. Instead, much of the literary and political establishment abandoned or even censured him. In the Australian television show Hypotheticals, the singer Yusuf Islam, formerly known as Cat Stevens, implied that he would have no objections to Rushdie being burned alive.

That a work of fiction such as The Satanic Verses could not even be published today gives us some indication of the extent to which we have forsaken the principle of free speech. If we are so squeamish about the burning of Qurans, why were so many of us indifferent to the burning of Rushdie’s book on the streets of Bolton and Bradford? Yusuf Islam’s remark about the author’s immolation might have been flippant but, as Heinrich Heine famously wrote: “Where they burn books, they will in the end burn people too.”

The ceremonial burning of books in Germany and Austria in the Thirties has ensured that the act will always have a unique charge, and a disquieting, visceral effect. It is why, for instance, the most memorable scene in Mervyn Peake’s Titus Groan is when the villain Steerpike sets fire to his master’s library. It is a gesture designed to repudiate the very heights of human achievement, to hurl his victim into a spiral of despair. When Rushdie saw his own novel publicly incinerated, he confessed to feeling that “now the victory of the Enlightenment was looking temporary, reversible”.

The burning of the Quran leaves many of us similarly troubled. We do not need to approve of the contents to sense that the destruction of a book is symbolic of a desire to limit the scope of human thought. When activists post footage of themselves gleefully setting fire to copies of Harry Potter, one cannot shake the similar suspicion that they would happily substitute the books with the author herself.

But while many of us find the burning of books instinctively rebarbative, to outlaw this form of protest is essentially authoritarian. And to reinstate blasphemy laws by specifying that only religious books are to be protected is fundamentally retrograde. Of course, such laws already exist in most Western countries in an unwritten form. In March, a 14-year-old autistic boy was suspended from his school in Wakefield, reported to the police, and received death threats after he accidentally dropped a copy of the Quran on the floor, causing some of the pages to be scuffed. He may not have committed a crime, but many people behaved as though he had.

And the same unwritten laws are in force in the fact that few would be brave enough to publish cartoons of the Prophet Mohammed after the massacre at the offices of French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo in 2015. Five years later, the schoolteacher Samuel Paty was beheaded on the streets of Paris simply for showing the offending images during a lesson on free speech. Closer to home, a teacher at Batley Grammar School in West Yorkshire is still in hiding after showing the images to his pupils and stirring the ire of a righteous mob.

The failure of the school’s headmaster, as well as the teaching unions, to support this man against the demands of religious fundamentalists is revealing. Why must those who claim to be defending the dignity of Muslims treat them as irascible children? At the same time, as Sam Harris recently pointed out, there is an oddity in the fact that so many Muslims do not appear to be alarmed that “their community is so uniquely combustible”.

The bitter reality is that terrorism works, particularly when so many governments across the Western world are seemingly willing to fritter away our bedrock of liberal values. This has been actuated, in part, by an alliance of two very different forms of authoritarianism: ultra-conservative Islamic dogma and the safetyist ideology of “wokeness”. The latter has always claimed that causing offence is a form of violence, and the former has been quick to adopt the same tactics. This is why protesters outside Batley Grammar School asserted that the display of offensive cartoons was a “safeguarding” issue, and the Muslim Council of Britain criticised the school for not maintaining an “inclusive space”. The same censorious instincts have been updated, and are now cloaked in a more modish language.

In a civilised and pluralistic society, the burning of a holy book might provoke a variety of responses — anger, disbelief, or just a shrug of the shoulders — but it should never lead to violence. Back when The Onion still had some bite, the website satirised this “unique combustibility” through the depiction of a graphic sexual foursome between Moses, Jesus, Ganesha and Buddha. The headline said it all: “No One Murdered Because Of This Image”.

Freedom of speech and expression still matters, and if that means a few hotheads and mini-Tamburlaines might burn their copies of the Quran then so be it. It is unfortunate that we have reached the point where Islam must be ring-fenced from ridicule or criticism, whether due to fear of violent repercussions or a misguided and patronising effort to promote social justice. But for this state of affairs we ultimately have only ourselves to blame, and in particular our tendency to capitulate to religious zealots when they seek exemption from the liberal consensus.

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