#My Head Has a Bellyache

[kingsbridgelibraryteens]

Middle School Monday: My Head Has a Bellyache And More Nonsense For MIschievous Kids and Immature Grown-Ups by Chris Harris illustrated by Andrea Tsurumi 

This poetry collection contains a weird and hilarious selection of poems, including poems that can be read out loud by multiple voices, a haiku limerick, a limerick haiku, and even an awesome book-within-a-book. While the poems themselves are very entertaining, make sure to also check out the subject index at the end of the book. Subjects include larger categories like anger and fire, and sub-categories like Brothers (The kind that can be annoying sometimes) and Dancing (While trying to take off your pants).

Give this book to readers of ALL AGES who love laughing at the silliest things!

[moonstruckme]

my queen of comfort 🙇🏻‍♀️

can i pls request a marauders with reader who has seasonal depression and it gets bad especially during the winters??? thank u 🫶

Thanks for being patient with me lovely <3

cw: depression, no harmful thoughts but general apathy and lethargy

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 995 words

It’s warm in your bed. Almost too warm. The backs of your knees and the place where your arm is folded against your side feel uncomfortably heated. But Sirius kisses the back of your neck when he wakes, and you wouldn’t move for anything. 

“Let’s go to the farmer’s market today,” he says, voice sticky with sleep.

You look out the crack in the curtains covering your bedroom window. “It’s so cold out, though.” 

“So we’ll bundle up. You can put your hands in my pockets if you don’t feel like wearing your gloves.” His nose bumps your nape as he kisses you again. “It’ll be very romantic. The woman who sells the apple tarts said she’d be back this week, remember?” 

“Oh, yeah. I’m okay.” 

“You won’t let me get my girl a sweet? I thought you really liked those.” 

“I do, just.” Just. It feels like it’s all you say lately, like all you do is make excuses. Just, just, just. “It doesn’t seem worth it. It’s really gross outside.” 

Sirius’ arm comes around your waist. He doesn’t contradict you. It’s dreary and gray out your window, drizzling rain that bites like ice when it lands on your skin. You’d rather lose track of the day lying here with him, let it slip through your fingers and not think very hard about what it means that you have. Sirius’ fingers playing with yours make this all the more appealing. 

“What if we went to the cinema?” he asks. “That comedy film is showing this weekend.” 

“Didn’t James want to see that one?” 

“Think so, yeah.” 

“You should take him.” 

“I don’t want to take James.” Your joined hands press to your hip, a gentle request for you to turn around. But you don’t want to look at him, and Sirius doesn’t make you. He squeezes your fingers instead. “I want to take you.” 

That’s the important bit. Sirius doesn’t care about the farmer’s market, or even really about the film. You know he only wants you to get up, to go anywhere and do anything at all, and you feel like shit for resisting him. You shouldn’t, either. You know how sadness can sink its talons in the longer it holds you. 

“I’m sorry. Yeah, let’s go.” 

“Don’t be sorry, lovely girl,” he chides fondly. “We don’t have to go if you won’t enjoy it. What do you want to do?” 

You try to muster something for him, you really do, but after a handful of hapless moments you can only be honest. 

“I don’t think I want anything.” 

“That’s okay.” Sirius drops a kiss on your shoulder. “Hey, could you look at me? Please?” 

You roll over, miserable and made more miserable by the aching tenderness in your boyfriend’s expression. This new spot on the bed is colder than where you’d been, but Sirius’ knee bumps against yours, his palm slipping beneath your head on the pillow. He doesn’t hesitate to touch you. Doesn't treat you like you’re breakable or wrong or contagious. His hand flattens under your cheek and warms your skin like he can bleed goodness into you. 

“It’s okay,” he says again, softly. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Sirius tsks. “Now what for?” 

“Making things so hard,” you murmur. You’re trying not to disturb his palm with your mouth movements. 

“Sweetheart, nothing’s hard when I’m with you. I just want to be with you. We can just sit here and talk all day if you want.” 

“I don’t think I’m very nice to talk to right now.” 

“What does that matter? I know I’m awful to talk to half the time. We can be morbid bellyachers together.” 

With some effort, you lift one corner of your mouth. Sirius kisses it rewardingly. 

“You are a delight to talk to, by the way. Always.” 

“A delight?” you whisper. 

“Mhm.” 

There’s a piece of his hair that’s arching over his face, all sprightly and mussed about by the pillowcase. You’re close enough that it moves when you breathe. You blow, and it tickles Sirius’ nose. He smiles. 

“I don’t think I want to talk,” you admit. 

“That’s okay.” 

“I know I’m not fun to be around right now. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make everything miserable.” You look at the dip of his cupid’s bow rather than his eyes. “I love you.” 

It feels important to say. Even when you’re dropping it in his lap awkwardly, like a plea. 

Sirius tilts his head until his eyes meet yours. Dark lashes and silver pools, like moonlight glancing off water. “I love you,” he says, so sincere it burns. “I have another idea.” 

You hum. 

“We watch a film here instead. Or a show, whatever. But first, you tell me how to make french toast so we can have some for breakfast.” 

“You don’t want me to make it?” You don’t want to, but you’d try for him. 

“I want to do something for you.” He kisses you, soft and sweet. He tastes like sleep. “But you’re allowed to help if you like.” 

Allowed amuses you, though you don’t smile. Sirius’ eyes glint like he can tell just the same. 

“You do lots of things for me,” you say. 

“Good. I’d like to continue adding to the tally; it’s how I keep my edge.” 

You look at Sirius, thinking of how much you must love him for it to ache this deeply. Thinking of how he loves you, and how unfair it seems. He keeps doing it even when you give him every reason not to. 

Sirius can tell you’ve slipped away. He strokes his thumb over your cheek. “So, what do you say, gorgeous?” 

You don’t really want to eat french toast. You think you’d swallow battery acid if he made it for you, though. “It sounds nice.” 

“Yeah?” He grins. “Okay, let’s go then, yeah? I’m starving.” 

You give Sirius your hands when he reaches for them, and you let him pull you up.

[fangisms]

If you take requests can you write a fic about draco wanting the reader's attention all day but someone or something something always getting in the way ? Bonus if he gets a lil moody about it too

(Feel free to ignore if a bother tho ♡) :)

bellyaching

A/N: you GUYS i cranked this out in an afternoon, do u understand im OBSESSED with moody draco

Pairings: Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader

Summary: Draco is desperate for your attention, and desperate times call for desperate Slytherins. 1.1k words

Warnings: fluff, very very minor boy angst, slytherin behavior, moody/dramatic draco, established relationship

“Babe.”

It’s hushed, Draco doesn’t want to catch Flitwick’s attention while trying to grab yours. But it��s not easy when you’re seated in the row in front of him, and he’s desperately leaning over his workspace to reach you.

“Baby,” he mumbles, and you glance over your shoulder with a start. Then, smiling, you wave, and he’s soothed for just a moment. You turn back around and he’s practically pouting. He taps your shoulder with the paper rose he had so painstakingly folded for you. He’s got the paper cuts to prove it.

Draco taps your shoulder with the stem. You turn your head and hold one finger to your lips. You shushed him. You shushed him. He settles back in his seat, arms folded over his chest, wilted paper rose forgotten on his desk.

…

After class, you’re walking beside him, arm happily tucked within his as he escorts you to your Advanced Mythology lesson. Though he’s feeling a little deflated, having you near makes him feel better. And realizing that you’ve got a few minutes to spare before next class, he pulls you to the side of the hall, abandoning his friends to walk ahead.

Tucked beneath one of the awnings, he holds your books beneath his arm and pulls you closer.

“Draco!” you yelp, resisting his onslaught of hurried kisses, “We have class, remember? It’s that thing we are required to attend five days a week? We learn a lot of subjects? Sometimes they give us lunch hour—?”

“We’ll have plenty of time to get to class,” he huffs, pecking your bottom lip and the apple of your cheek.

“Draco, you’ve been late to nearly all of your classes because of—”

“Not because of you. I am solely responsible for my tardiness—ow!” You pinch his side and giggle when he slumps into your shoulder—“‘S not fair you’re so kissable.”

You roll your eyes and press your lips to the side of his sad face, “fine. You can have one kiss. Make it quick.”

At that, Draco perks up. You playfully pucker your lips, and as he leans in—You’ve got to be kidding.

“There you are! Come on, we’ve only got five minutes to get to class, and I’d rather not be forced to polish anymore silver!” Pansy grabs you by the crook of your elbow, dragging you out into hall. You wave at Draco and quickly catch up with Pansy.

For Merlin’s sake, is he not allowed one moment alone with his beloved.

…

The rest of the day goes just as smooth. As in not smooth at all. As in Draco’s day has been a complete shit show, and you’ve been otherwise occupied for just about every second of it.

First, he face plants during a scrimmage. Then, you tell him you’re using the afternoon to study with the girls in the library. You said he’s welcome to join but he knows that means he would be the only male attending and, therefore, it would be excruciatingly awkward.

Suffice to say, he’s spent the last few hours sulking and moaning to himself. Enzo thinks it’s hilarious.

When you finally sit next to him at dinner, he’s still stewing in his anger. Yes, it’s gotten to anger.

“Good evening, dear Draco!” you coo. And he’s clearly not having it, picking away at his food and only acknowledging you with a curt huff. You look to Theodore in shock, eyes wide when he shrugs.

“He’s been like this all day,” Mattheo says, “Think you could be a dear and fix him for us?”

You look over at Draco, who’s taken to scowling at the two boys. So you brush his hair out of his face and flatten his hood against his back.

“What’s wrong? I feel like I haven’t seen you all day?” you say, tilting your head. He huffs.

“I think you mean you’ve been ignoring me all day.”

“Draco!” you say, surprised by his sudden volume and honestly amused by his apparent lack of awareness. “What’s with the attitude?” He doesn’t respond, so you cross your arms over your chest. At this point, you’ve got the entire Great Hall’s attention. And winner for most dramatic couple goes to… “Come on, Draco, don’t just sit there and sulk, talk to me!”

“Oh, now you want to talk? Are you sure? Maybe you should go and study with your friends or read a book or do anything other than ask me how my day has been,” he whines. Enzo can’t help but snicker.

Your jaw drops, and you mumble, "Lower your voice, drama queen, I’m—"

“No, I’ve been trying to spend time with you all day, and you just shrug me off and find something better to do! What if I wanted to walk you to class and study with you?”

“We can still study together this week.”

“That’s not the point, babe. I wanted to spend time with you today,” he says, defeated and back to prodding at his meal tirelessly.

You sigh.

“I’m sorry, Draco. I had no idea”—you list his hand from the edge of the table and fit your fingers gently between his own—“I didn’t mean to starve you of attention. How careless of me.”

Draco presses his thumb against your hand, and he just barely turns his head to look at you.

“You’re teasing me,” he huffs. You look down at your hands and smile.

“A little,” you say, “But I am sorry. I should have listened to you. And asked you about your day. How was it by the way?”

“Ate complete shit out on the pitch. Found out I’m too needy for my girlfriend. Other than that, just peachy.”

“Draco,” you whine, pouting and cupping his face. “I’m sorry. And you’re not too needy for me, I’m just a bit daft.”

He shrugs, trying not to smile so wide and failing. Just happy to have you near him again.

“Oh, I have something for you”—he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the floppy rose—“Made it in charms.”

You hold its fragile, wrinkled frame in your cupped hands, frowning at it then at him.

“You made this for me?”

“Yeah. And it says ‘you look pretty’ on the inside, but I think if you try to unfold it, it’ll actually disintegrate,” he says.

You lean in swiftly for a kiss, but pause on the way.

“You two? Look away,” you grumble at Theo and Mattheo, snapping a spell against both of their cheeks. They wince and apologize, and Draco snickers.

He kisses you, tugging at your open robe and smiling against your lips when you reach for his other hand.

masterlist

[hauntedbydreams]

Ik im so late to the Xmas!Vi fics but I’ve had an insane holiday week and didn’t get to finish my Xmas headcanons, so here it is now… it’s kinda meh but I still had to post it cause come on! Xmas Vi is so cute.

Xmas!Vi Headcanons 🎄

Vi can’t wrap Xmas presents for shit, it’s kinda funny

But it’s your first Xmas together and she’s trying really hard but the paper keeps ripping and she’s got double sided sticky tape all over her hand bandages

You can’t help but giggle as she sighs frustrated laying her hands on the kitchen table, leaning on her arms and sulking.

Your hands wrap around her as you lay your head on her shoulder. “I got this honey, can you go get the Xmas decorations and grab the tree from the garage please?”

She’s still sulky as she turns around in your arms and looks down at you. You grin up at her “I’m sure I saw some mistletoe in the decoration boxes…”

She’s smiling and is pulling on her boots before you can say anything. “Be right back” she winks at you.

She brings the tree and the ornaments and you can already see the knowing smirk on her face while you finish wrapping the gifts.

Decorating Xmas tree w Vi consists of her holding up mistletoe every 6 seconds and winking at you.

After the 3rd time you’re eye rolling so hard and about to snatch the mistletoe out of her hand when she pulls it higher out of your reach and grabs you toward her by the waist.

Your faces are so close now, you can practically taste the million candy canes she ate earlier (and then complained about a bellyache)and hot chocolate on her breath.

She’s still holding the mistletoe above you when she says “one last time? I promise” and then she hits you with the puppy dog eyes and you can’t help but crash into her lips.

30 minutes later and you’re almost done decorating the Xmas tree but you take a look at the side she was hanging ornaments on and your jaw drops.

“Violet! Are you kidding me?!? You can’t put two red baubles right next to each other and all the blue ones on the same tree branch!!!”

She knows you’re annoyed but she’s stressing cause it’s just a Christmas tree and why are you using her full name?!?

That’s only reserved for when you’re really mad. This can’t be that bad right?!? (I swear she panics anytime you call her Violet instead of Vi or any of the 60 pet names you guys have for each other)

“I’m sorry! I was just hanging them rando-“

“But this looks like a 6 year old decorated our tree! It’s our first xmas together Vi, it has to be perfect!”

You sigh when you see her all quiet and looking down at her feet. “I need this xmas together to be perfect”

“I know honey, but it’s just a few ornaments, plus I kinda think it gives the tree a chill look.” She’s grinning at you batting her lashes trying to get out of her lil fuck up.

“Really Violet? The tree’s got a chill look?” You snort “Who are you?!? Did Ekko and Jinx teach you that word?”

“What? No!” She protests getting all defensive “I’m chill! I can be chill!”

“Oh my god, please just stop saying ‘chill’, please.” You say as you snag a piece of mistletoe and raise it above her, moving in for a kiss to shut her up before she can say “chill” again.

She’s kissing you back eagerly in an instant and then she pulls away with that little sparkle in her eye “if mistletoe is how you shut me up when I fuck up the Xmas decorations, I might just have to make it into an Xmas tradition!” She’s laughing and kissing you again. You can’t help but roll your eyes and smile into the kiss.

Oh and then after everything’s done and the whole house is decorated you decide to pull out one last surprise…

It’s your early Xmas present to Vi

You quickly go change into a red pj set with white fur trim, cute lil shorts and a low cut top.

You decide to throw on a deer antler headband as well before strutting into the living room where Vi is still arranging the Xmas gifts under the tree that you had to redecorate to save it from her “chill” style.

She’s not really paying attention till you call her name in that bedroom voice she LOVES.

“Vi… baby can you tu-”

“Holy shit cupcake!” Her eyes are about to fall out of her skull and you’re pretty sure that’s a lil bit of drool on the corner of her lips.

“What’s this?” She’s up and walking toward you almost too scared to put her hands on you in case she’s just imagining things.

“It’s your early Xmas gift baby. You like?”

She looks you up and down, RAKING her eyes down your sides “Do I like it?!? I love it!”

Then she’s picking you up bridal style and carrying you towards the bedroom as you giggle.

“You know who might not love it tho? Santa. I bet you’re on his naughty list this year.”

You laugh at her tragic Xmas themed flirt attempt but can’t help and play along. “Oh yeah? What about your list?”

“Oh you’re the only thing on my naughty list this year pretty girl”

[thosegayoldmen]

10 Opening Lines

Rules: list the first line of the last ten (10) stories you published. Look to see any patterns you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any.

Thanks for the tags guys! @insomniaflarrow & @blackbirdofasgard I don't quite have 10 fics, but I'll post for all the ones I do have 😅 (Even though at least half of these are only drabble type things lol)

FOREWARNING, A COUPLE OF THESE START WITH STRAIGHT UP FILTH 😂 YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED 🌶️

Elevated Tensions

Mobius has been trying to say goodbye and leave for his apartment for at least the last thirty minutes now, but Loki keeps following him, rambling on about something or other, bellyaching and just being a general nuisance.

Through My Eyes

Mobius sits on the edge of the bed, right where Loki had left him not five minutes ago.

Good Things Come In Threes

“You really could stand to work on that, you know.”

Liquid Courage

Loki and Mobius sit together, giggling like children on Mobius’ sofa.

A Hot Shower

Hot water cascades over dark hair and down the length of Loki’s pale back, rivulets running over toned muscles as they tense.

Helpless

Loki smirks down at Mobius, captive beneath her as she rolls her hips down, that hot ridgid length sliding into her again and again with an obscene squelch.

Press

After much convincing, Loki eventually relents. Mobius groans happily as he finally pushes into him, the cold head of Loki’s large cock sinking ever deeper.

All Made Up

Mobius' head falls further back as long fingers tilt his chin up, a look of concentration on his partner's face as he sits straddled in his lap.

Ruined Work

Loki was right about the makeup.

Apparently I prefer to start with either Mobius' or Loki's names 😂 Can ya'll see any other similarities?

Sorry if you get tagged twice! Feel free to ignore 😁

@elodiah @kcscribbler @distracteddream @boredintjqueen @lokimobius

@devilbearingtrouuble @loki-is-my-kink-awakening @mobiusismycomfortcharacter @wolfpup026 @ghoulehhh

@kusakichan15 @impulsemuppet @mirilyawrites @scifikimmi @silentxsymphony

@ilaytrapsfortroubadours @rin-love-is-green @stillwanderingflame @andthekitchensinkao3 @insert-witty-user-name-here

@dreamycloud @mobius-m-mobius @dilfmobius @lgwilt @tealdropsworld @cha-melodius

[marsbutterfly]

(not a request) Mars I have this head cannon that Hanji loves spicy food. Or for those that don’t think that, Hanji fr would force herself to try to withstand the heat if her crush liked spicy food. Tears in her eyes like yeah this shit tasty. Thoughts? 😩😩😩

you said not a request but this came to me in 15 minutes, i couldn't help myself once i saw the vision safoapsofps

Bellyache

"There are tears in your eyes," you say, slurping up some of your noodles. Your face is somewhat serious, a bit concerned actually by how red their facial expression is, but Hanji refuses to back down. They continue to dip their food into the sauce, mouth wide open in an attempt to let out some steam.

"Nooooo, I'm fine," they respond, placing their silverware down and drinking some water, trying their best to hide the fact that they are dunking their tongue in the ice, "besides, I told you I could do this and I totally can."

"Hanji," you say in a somewhat laughing voice, trying your best to be supportive, "I know you like spicy food. I've had my mouth burned a fair share of times accidentally trying your food, you don't have to do this."

Their gaze lifts to meet yours, stubborn tears burning in their eyes but they shake their head, their grip on the glass tightening before they take another bite of their food, an intense and determined look taking over their features as a somewhat smug response exits their swollen lips, "this isn't about you."

You arch your eyebrows before placing your silverware down, using a napkin to wipe the corners of your mouth before leaning forward on the table, all ten of your fingers lacing together as you place your elbows on each side of your plate, chin propped up on the back of your hands as you respond in the same smug tone, "Oh, really? Then what's it about?"

They look up at the clock, then back at you, then back at the clock, then finally back at you. They don't respond and you are suddenly worried that they've lost the ability to speak due to the heat. That is until you realize what they were signaling to and your face falls flat, an almost angry twitch to your eye.

"You want your picture on the damn wall, don't you?" You say, trying your best to sound serious but the need to laugh is nearly overpowering your senses. With an embarrassed snort, Hanji nods and that response alone causes you to run your fingers through your hair, your palms resting above your face as they cover your eyes, "Hanji!"

"We come here too often!" They respond, taking yet another eager bite out of the food. At this point, they are nearly done with it, maybe less than a third left to go, there is no way in hell they are backing down. Once they swallow, they continue to speak, "besides, the meal will be free AND I get a t-shirt. Wouldn't it be so hot if you could tell people your partner beat this challenge?"

You sigh, leaning back on the chair with a defeated expression, "no, it would be hot to tell people my partner is still alive!" You don't expect them to back down, after all, they've come all this way. So you just reach in your purse, searching for your small medicine case where you keep everything you need: three different kinds of pain killers, nausea medicine, some back-up of your medicine and lastly the two you are looking for - gas pills and a lot of antacid.

By the time you look back up, Hanji has one minute left on the clock and just two more bites but you can see by the way they are sweating that they can barely handle it. You want desperately to say something along the lines of "I told you so", but you don't.

Instead, you decide to stand up and walk behind them, both of your hands on their shoulders as you squeeze the area gently. Your voice coming out in a soothing yet loud tone so they are able to hear you through the loud cheers that erupt across the restaurant, "YOU GOT THIS, SUNSHINE!"

That's all it takes. If you had blinked, you would have missed it. With just three seconds left, they shoved the last bite of food in their mouth and swallow it, taking a massive sip of water right after. The entire restaurant begins cheering like a player has just scored the final point in a decisive match.

You hug them from behind, burying your face on their neck as they lean back against you while still sitting down. You can't help but smile brightly, weirdly proud of their small accomplishment. Well, calling it "small" would be diminishing the hell they just went through.

"You did it!" You say in the most cheerful tone you can find, using a clean napkin to wipe away the mixture of the tears and sweat that falls down their face, "I am so impressed! Might have to show you how hot that was when we get home!"

They smirk for a second before reaching for the glass of milk that has been placed in front of them. They dip their tongue in the liquid, allowing it to soothe their burning pain while they keep their eyes closed for a moment, their body temperature so high that it fogs up their glasses to the point where you have to remove the item from their face.

It takes Hanji a few minutes to recover but, as promised, both of your meals were on the house and, with their new t-shirt on their body, Hanji finally got to have their picture taken and plastered on the wall of your favorite restaurant.

As the two of you begin making your way home, Hanji stays mostly quiet, allowing you to do the talking. It isn't like them to act this way but you just assume that they are too full to even begin talking, so you just continue to yap away - about what tv show you are watching when you get home, what kind of ice cream you are getting, if they want to stop and get something at the convenience store down the road.

But you stop your rambling when Hanji suddenly stops in their tracks. Their free arm wrapped around their stomach as they look at the floor for an instant.

"y/n?" They say in a timid voice, hand still connected to yours as the two of you find yourselves at the middle of the sidewalk, about to turn into your street. You turn around to face them, only to be received by the biggest puppy dog eyes you have ever, ever seen in your entire life.

"Yes?" You respond, biting back a laugh as you already know exactly where they are going with this. The small pouting of their lips giving their next words away.

"My tummy hurts."

[lincolndjarin]

Best Kept Secret

chapter three : the smitten paladin (RE-UPLOAD)

ao3 link ✿ series masterlist ✩ main masterlist ✧

pairing : bodyguard!Din Djarin x afab!princess!reader

rating : 18+ mdni

word count : 4.6k

summary : reader does some reading

warnings, etc. : language, sexual fantasy, masturbation

A/N : i had to change accounts so this is a re-upload of my ongoing fic bks!!

You’re starting to think the planet isn’t the reason you’re so hot all the time.

You had woken up this morning feeling a bit better than you thought you’d be, your stomach is full of butterflies but you're still standing and considering the night you had you’re gonna take that as a win. Elaine and Lysa both seemed to sense that you were back in slightly better spirits and Lysa doesn’t bother to ask as she fetches you a dress that isn’t blue. You want to protest when she emerges from the closet with a simple green gown but you bite your tongue. Maybe he’ll like it. 

You don’t care. Why should you care? Why the hell are you already sweating? Nothing has changed. He did one nice thing for you, so you forgive him. But you still don’t care. 

Well… you care enough to ask them to leave your hair down, which they do. And you care enough to ask them to leave your face alone. (Save for some thin golden eyeliner.) You dismiss the girls with a thank you and give yourself just a moment alone. 

You’re going to have a normal day. Not a great day, and not a good day. Just a normal day. You are going to go to the library today and you’re going to read. And you are going to talk to the Mandalorian. You are going to patch things up. Oh gods, what if he doesn’t want to patch things up? What if he thinks you’re just some unstable, bellyaching princess? Stop caring what he thinks. Normal day. Just go out there before he comes in here. 

You take the book he had given you and you tuck it under your arm as you go out to greet him. As expected, he is there, just outside the door, and as expected he doesn’t speak first, so you do it instead. 

“Good morning, Mando.” 

He takes his time, observing your mood, his visor trained on you. You suddenly feel feverish. 

“Morning, princess.” His voice is careful, almost like he’s testing the waters. You don’t know how to tell him you aren’t mad anymore, or that you’re okay now. You’re pretty sure both are true. So you just head towards the library.  

“Come on sparkles.” Is all you say as you start walking. The silence isn’t necessarily comfortable but at least it feels bearable. Once there you settle into your familiar positions, you, seated in the reading nook, him, pulling up a chair across from you. You hopelessly want to say something but you don’t want to come off as desperate, and honestly you’re so anxious at this point you’re worried you’ll throw up if you try to speak. So you take out the book, making sure he can see the cover. Hoping he takes it as a peace offering, you pick it up from chapter two, where you’d left off after last night. And that is how you stay for several hours.

You read, flipping through the chapters of what ends up being a pretty corny book. It’s a predictable tale of forbidden love, the daughter of a blacksmith falling in love with a knight, blah blah blah, a little dull but entertaining enough to keep your attention for the most part. So much so that you’re able to completely forget that your every move is being watched. 

Almost. 

Because you get to chapter six, and suddenly, the book is… raunchier than you expected it to be. 

And it’s sweltering in the library out of nowhere and you’re pretty sure you can’t blame Naboo this time. 

You’re hyper aware of him now. 

That he’s watching you. Well he’s always watching you, always has been, but now you can’t stop thinking about it because you’re sitting here, reading porn, and he’s sitting there, watching you. 

You should close the book, take a break, get some water. 

But you don’t. 

Because suddenly the book is kind of good. For some reason you’re suddenly engrossed by the story of Oskar and Dorthea. That’s what you tell yourself. That you are captivated by the storytelling, not the way Oskar’s large hands are currently clutching Dorthea’s heaving bosom. You wonder if Oskar is wearing gloves when he does it. You should stop reading. 

You can’t do this. 

But… you have been neglecting certain urges of yours since arriving on Naboo. And now it’s been over three weeks and to say that you’re pent up would be putting it lightly. 

So what’s the harm in reading something a little risqué? It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong, after all life as a newlywed wasn't exactly going the way you thought it would, so maybe this would help relieve a little bit of the stress that you’re very obviously suffering from at this point. So you allow yourself to read on, and everything is fine until she starts taking off his armor, because you can see a certain armor wearing nuisance sitting just over the top of your book. You start imagining it before you can stop yourself and the all too familiar heat washes over you.

This is the part where you remind yourself to stop.

Or… 

You could indulge, just this once. There’s nothing wrong with that, an innocent little fantasy. It will help you enjoy your book more if you imagine the characters more clearly. And it’s so easy after that, to imagine Oskar the paladin in Beskar, funnily enough he really does remind you of Mando. He’s sarcastic and he’s witty but he is also rather gentle with the blacksmith's daughter when he needs to be. 

He’s also quite rough with her when he needs to be. 

You can’t help but wonder if Mando is similar to Oskar in that regard as well. 

Okay you definitely can’t do this.

Unless of course you’re thinking about Oskar. There’s nothing wrong with that. He isn’t real. You can fantasize about him and it would be perfectly acceptable. You should do that instead. Fantasize about the not real character in your book and not on the very real Mandalorian sitting several feet away from you. 

Just for a minute. Just to help relieve some of the tension that has been building in your body for weeks now. This is the smart and healthy thing to do, lest it spiral completely out of control. This is a good thing, this will dissipate the fog that has been clouding your judgment. 

So you think about Oskar. Just Oskar. Stare at the pages of your book and think about Oskar. Tall, dark, and handsome Oskar.

He’s probably downright barbaric with it. Probably takes what he wants, he’s such a jackass. You bet he gives it just as hard as he takes it though, that overconfident prick probably loves it when you just fall to pieces for him. 

Not you.

Dorthea. 

Not him.

Oskar.

Think about Oskar. 

Is he vocal? He’s always so quiet but when he does talk it’s like he can’t shut up. You get the sense that he likes feeling smarter than you. Or whoever it is you’re imaging in this scenario. He’d probably be just as rude in the bedroom. Just absolutely wreck you and then call you sweet names and his words would be kind and warm but he would use that condescending tone he uses when he knows he’s winning, and he’s always winning. You hate that he’s always winning, maybe you should come up with some rehearsed comebacks. Or would that be lame? He’d probably see right through that.

Oskar. You’re thinking about Oskar. 

For Makers sake think about Oskar.

Oskar probably doesn’t have the patience to undo Dorthea’s complicated dresses. He probably just rips them right off of her, Oskar probably doesn’t even take the time to remove his helmet. For no reason in particular. He probably leaves it on, too consumed by his feral, untamed, need to ravage her. To devour her entirely with his hands, his stupid, pointlessly, gloved hands. He might lift the helmet enough just to bite the fingertips of the gloves to rip them off as swiftly as possible. Or maybe he’d let you- Dorthea , sink her teeth into them, make her remove them. 

It’s unbearably hot now, and people sweat when they get hot.

That’s what you tell yourself when you feel a wetness pooling in a place you cannot think about right now lest you tear your dress off right here in front of him in the library to deal with it. 

He could push you up against the shelves, no one ever comes in here. He could bend you over the reading nook you were currently sitting atop, or you could just join him in that chair, stare down into his visor and let him know who’s in charge. 

Because you hate him. Obviously.

You want to be in charge because you know he’d detest that. You want to watch him melt in your hands, beg you for more. That’s the only reason. To see him reduced to nothing but a man, not this statue of steel and wit that he is constantly portraying. Just a man, you want to be the one thing on this entire stupid planet that makes him nothing but a man.

You definitely aren’t thinking about Oskar right now. 

This doesn’t mean anything. 

Stars, what has gotten into you today? You need to get laid. That’s gotta be it. Back on Hoth you were a princess without a husband, it was easy to find boys in your colony who would happily bed you whenever you desired. But not here, here you have a husband who won’t bed you, (thank the gods.) and an unbearable bodyguard who you can’t even see the face of so Maker why can’t you stop thinking about him. You could go to the market in the city, probably find a vibrator or something pretty easily. But you’re the princess of a very respected royal family now, you can’t exactly go strolling into a sex shop in broad daylight. And then of course there’s the Mando of it all. You can’t help but wonder what his reaction to that would be, would he follow you into that kind of establishment? He’d have to, right? He’s followed you everywhere else. What would he think if he saw you buying yourself a toy to keep you company? He has to know at this point that Kodo isn’t exactly satisfying your needs. He has to understand that you have needs, most people have needs. Does Mando have needs?

Does he ever think about your needs when he’s satisfying his?

Don’t. 

You have to say it to yourself now. 

Your face is surely bright red at this point, you consider if that’s something he likes. Does he like how easily riled up you are? How flustered you get at just the thought of him? Okay you were certainly overindulging at this point. You had to stop, there has to be a line and that line certainly is imagining what he might find attractive.

“Why don’t you try sounding it out.” He catches you off guard, unmoving as he speaks. 

“What?” Maker, are you panting? Pull yourself together woman. 

“I assume you’re stuck on a word, you’ve been on that page for nearly 15 minutes. Try sounding it out.”

Usually this behavior from him is the perfect thing to stop any untoward thoughts. Why isn’t it working? Why do you suddenly wanna shut him up in a completely different way?

“You’re a funny guy, have you considered being a comedian or do you just really like being a glorified babysitter?” 

“I really like being a glorified babysitter.” He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. You loathe him. 

“Lucky you.” 

“Lucky me.” 

At least things are okay between you two. Things seem okay. This is normal. There’s a relief to be found in knowing that your relationship, (albeit antagonistic) seems to be repaired. That is until he of course has to ruin it by opening his mouth. 

“How’s the book?”

Great.

“It’s good. Thank you for returning it to me…” 

“Of course.” You hope he’ll drop it but it’s him so of course he doesn’t. “What’s it about?” You can hear the faux innocence practically dripping through the modulator. There’s no way he’s actually doing this. 

“I don’t think you’d like it.” 

“Why not? You have no idea what I like.”

Okay this has gone from inappropriate to downright intimate. What's his end goal here? You know that he can’t seriously be doing this. Maybe he’s playing some sort of game with you? Maybe he’s playing a game of chicken, if that’s the case then you certainly aren’t going to lose, and let him win? Hell no. 

“It might be a little too intense for you.” You raise a single eyebrow, his move.

“Oh really? How so?” He leans back in the chair now. For Makers sake does he have to spread his legs so obscenely wide. 

“Isn’t there some kind of Mandalorian vow of celibacy?” You have no idea but you plaster a naive look on your face. 

“Nothing in the creed about that, princess.” How does he make the word princess sound so vulgar? Why is there a rush of molten heat through your veins when you find out he isn’t celibate. 

This doesn’t mean anything. 

“Oh? But I thought you weren’t allowed to take the armor off?” This shouldn’t make you perspire as much as you are. You aren’t doing anything wrong, you’re having a conversation, it’s not like you’re cheating on your husband by having a conversation. 

“Just the helmet.” You knew that, of course, but it’s still a shame. You’d love to give his mouth something to do other than taunt you. 

You need to get out of this library. 

“Oh.” Great quick thinking. Real impressive comeback you moron. 

“So?”

“So…?” 

“The book, what’s it about?” 

Of course he isn’t going to drop this. You should lie, this conversation can escalate very quickly if you’re not careful and considering how close you are to sticking your hand up your dress right here in front of him, you better be careful. 

“It’s a cute little love story about a girl and a knight.” 

He hums softly like he’s considering something while you consider lobbing the book at his head. 

“Sounds charming.” Not a good sign that you can hear the derisive tone through the modulator already. “So what are you stuck on?”

Your eyes meet the page you’d left open while you were daydreaming, you manage to keep a straight face but you’re not exactly sure how you’re gonna ad-lib your way out of this seeing as Dorthea is currently bent over a hay bale in the stables and Oskar is currently “thrusting his pulsing member into her damp maidenhood.” Maker, this book is garbage. 

You know what, why not push back? He always manages to tease you into silence or reduce you to a stuttering blushing mess, so why not grab at this chance to get the upper hand? He’s not the only one who can catch people off guard. 

“I wasn’t really stuck on anything… I suppose I was just trying to figure out how he fits it all in there?” You hold out the book at arms length and turn it ninety degrees. It isn’t a picture book but you still think it’s a bit funny to furrow your brow and pretend. 

It works, he’s silent. Too silent, you worry you’ve gone too far again but after a few beats the modulator crackles to life once more.

“Didn’t realize the book had pictures, I must have missed them.” He crosses his arms and tilts his head ever so slightly. 

Dank farrik. Why couldn’t you go one conversation without him dropping some ridiculous bomb that makes you look like an idiot, it’s like he’s dedicating his days to outsmarting you rather than protecting you. More importantly, you need to address the bantha in the room.

“You read this?” You don’t bother hiding the disbelief on your face, he already knows he’s got you so what's the point. 

“You’re not the only one who’s bored, princess, when you’re alone, I’m alone with you. One of the many perks of silently standing behind you all the time. Someone had to go clean up the books you dropped, thought I’d give one of them a read.” You can’t believe this.

“So you’ve read The Smitten Paladin? ” The confusion muddling your brain right now is downright overwhelming, worst of all is now you can’t stop thinking about him reading the filth you’ve been enjoying. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell you how it ends.”

Maker, you want to chuck the book at him so bad right now, but you know it won’t stop his smug tone that fills the air between you. You need to get out, you need to be in your chambers and far, far away from the obnoxious, egotistical, self-righteous Mandalorian. So you stand up and close the book and start walking, of course he’s fluid in the way he matches you, almost like he anticipated your departure.

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to spoil the happy ending.” Is all you can mutter out as you make haste towards your chambers, refusing to look at him the entire way. 

This doesn’t mean anything. ✩

You cannot lock your door fast enough. You don’t bother turning on any lamps, you just collapse down on the edge of the bed and hike your dress up, no sense in wasting half an hour trying to get it off, not when there are far more important matters to attend to regarding getting off.  

You waste no time shoving your hand down the front of you underwear, you’ve never been so thankful for all of the layers in your gowns because you’re soaked through your panties, you’re fingers are small and nimble so you easily swipe two digits through your folds, scooping up a bit of your wetness, back already arching as you just say fuck it and bury both fingers into your cunt. 

The shaky sigh that leaves your lips is downright pornographic. Three weeks of pent up frustration all crashing down on you now as you bring your other hand up to cover your mouth, you start grinding against your palm, haphazardly doing everything in your power to put some friction against your swollen clit. Your hand can’t muffle your moans entirely as you curl your fingers against that spot that makes you sob into your wrist, you bite down onto the meat of your palm just below your thumb but you can’t stop the noises that slip from you as you curl your fingers a bit faster, thrusting them in and out of your drenched hole. 

You wish your fingers were thicker, there’s barely any stretch with how small yours are, you can hit all the spots you need to push yourself towards that delectable edge but you can’t help but crave a little more. You don’t even bother trying to stop the inevitable, you’re too far gone at this point. Might as well let your mind wander to what it needs to to finish the job.

After all, it doesn’t mean anything. 

How long does he wait outside your door before dismissing himself? With his helmet’s capabilities he could certainly hear what’s going on in here, is he out there right now? Eavesdropping as you fuck your own hand. Is he straining against his flight suit as he stands on the other side of that wall. Acting like he’s there to defend you when in reality he just wants to listen in, give himself to think about later. Or is he just palming himself through his trousers, not wanting to wait. 

Realistically he went back to his own chambers the moment you closed the door. 

You might be giving yourself a little too much credit but it’s your fantasy so you get to think whatever you need to get you there. Like why is the helmet kind of hot now? Was it always hot or are you just really horny right now? There’s just something so erotic about not being able to see his face, not being able to read his emotions behind the steel facade he puts up. He’s got so many utilities and attachments, it must be hard to get through all the layers. Might be nice if he left most of it on, took off just enough to get the job done. Does he have cuffs? If he’s an ex-bounty hunter he probably has cuffs. You know he has a blaster and a bunch of other weapons you don’t fully understand, you kind of wish someone would ambush you just so you could see him in action. Honestly he’s so terrifying to most people you’re pretty sure you might go your entire life without being attacked. He definitely has cuffs. He could storm in right now, cuff your hands above your head and finish what you started.

His fingers would probably work better than yours. You rock your hips down against your hand now as you can feel yourself slipping just the tiniest bit closer to that edge. You haven’t seen his hands but you can imagine. Even without the gloves just one of his fingers was probably as thick as the two you were working in and out of yourself currently. 

Maker, with the gloves on he would probably have to work to get just one finger inside you. 

You cum embarrassingly fast at the thought. It actually catches you off guard as you grind your palm against your clit just so and you’re seeing stars, soaking your already drenched panties as you withdraw your hand and collapse in a heap onto the bed, wiping your fingers off on the sheets. (You don’t sleep in this bed anyway so who cares.) 

You decide it’s best to ignore anything you thought about in your sex-crazed state. You can’t be held accountable for anything you think of to get yourself across the finish line, you aren’t yourself in those circumstances. 

It doesn’t mean anything.

It can’t mean anything. 

Minds wander, people think of all sorts of things when they’re blinded by lust. Hell, back home you’d once thought about a medical droid to get you there.

So it doesn’t matter.

And it certainly doesn’t mean anything, you were pent up, you see him all the time, now that you’ve taken care of it, it won’t happen again.

Now that you’ve taken care of that you’re sure you’ll be back to normal, no more day dreaming about unattainable men who you despise. You close your eyes for a few minutes. Chest heaving as you struggle to fully recover from your hasty orgasm. 

You give yourself some time to just lay like that, eyes closed, trying to steady your breath, you probably shouldn’t sleep, you haven’t gone to dinner yet but after such a shamefully swift and powerful climax you're positively drained. (Literally and figuratively.) So it won’t kill you to close your eyes for a few minutes. 

You don’t know how much time passes but before you even know what’s happening you're standing in front of the mirror, hair disheveled. 

You can’t get your dress off, can’t twist your arms behind you to reach the corset laces. You don’t want to wake Elaine or Lysa, you aren’t sure how late it is but you just can’t seem to unlace the bodice by yourself, you’re considering just sleeping in the infernal thing at this point. In your struggle you don’t hear the door open but you watch in the mirror as a familiar silver figure envelops you. How long had he been out there? What the hell was he doing here at this time of night?

“You look like you need a little help there princess.” The familiar crackle of the modulator consumes your senses, watching in the reflection of the mirror you can see the slow and deliberate removal of his gloves as he undoes your bodice, with a practiced agility. Everything is fuzzy. You want so badly to drink in every part of him that he is willing to give to you but it’s almost too much for your brain to comprehend right now. He takes his time with it, like he’s drawing it out. Tenderly pulling every string loose until you can slip out of the gown with ease. 

You let it fall to the ground. 

He stares at you in your reflection, his large bare hands wrap themselves around your exposed midriff as you’re left only in your undergarments for his eyes to devour. He’s so leisurely about it, not wanting to miss an inch. His fingertips dance across the bare skin of your stomach, it takes every ounce of restraint in you to not arch yourself back against him, you can’t stand the way he makes you want to throw your dignity to the wind. With the two of you facing the mirror like this you can see everything. His thumb begins to stroke the lace of your bra ever so slightly while his other hand skims against your sternum. His touches were so light that if you weren’t having a physical reaction to them you wouldn’t even be truly sure he was touching you at all. 

“Did you wear that pretty dress for me, princess?” Maker, you must have died and gone to heaven. His voice, his stupid voice. His stupid gravely voice that left you weak in the knees no matter how often you heard it. “You looked so good, I knew you’d wear green today, so eager to please me…” The baritone of it goes straight to your core, and speaking of straight to your core, his left hand is traveling downwards ever so gradually. “Tell me what it is you want.” 

You suppose this is it, moment of truth. He wants to hear what you have to say. You could tell him to fuck off, right here, right now. And honestly you’re positive he would leave if you told him to. You’re married, unhappily. But that doesn’t make this okay. Nothing could make this okay. Except for the way his hands clamp down on your waist just hard enough to make you whine but not hard enough to bruise. Well, that’s enough to cloud your judgment enough to make this okay. 

“Tell me.” His palms begin to knead the soft flesh of your abdomen and you swear the sensation of that alone has him groaning and rutting against you from behind. 

This view is obscene, watching him grope you. It’s a real spectacle he’s making, holding you up on your shaky knees in front of the floor length mirror so you can see everything he’s doing to your body. 

“Use your words, princess. Speak up.” You didn’t think his voice could get more husky; he's practically growling. It’s a good thing he’s supporting you slightly because his words make your knees buckle. 

Oh he loves this, loves having you so unraveled by him that you can’t even tell him what you so desperately need from him. You can feel just how much he loves this against your lower back right now.

“I want to hear you say it, sarad'ika. ” And that’s all it takes to break your resolve. Those two words you couldn’t remember no matter how hard you tried, trickling out of his modulator and you’re willing to surrender to the feelings you’ve been fighting for longer than you’d like to admit. So you say it, you admit it out loud for the first time. You admit it to yourself for the first time. 

“You. I want you. ”

And you wake up. Still in your dress, still laying on the edge of your bed, still alone. 

Fuck.

Well, that might mean something.

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[marleysfinest]

calibernus reader x ryomen sukuna (fem!reader) chapter: 2/? wc: 2880 cw: no explicit content.

also available on AO3

LORD SUKUNA

The Dowager Duchess has been insufferable since the crack of dawn. 

She began around the breakfast table with her bellyaching of there being no theme to speak of for the ball that evening, despite exhausting her resources in an effort to find out (just what these efforts were, you couldn’t say). There was a venom about her as she hissed her disappointment, the fear of either yourself or your sister in-law being off-theme apparently all-encompassing. But, to your marginal delight, she didn’t appear to have any information on just who the visitor that she was indirectly trying to impress is, and it gives you an odd boost to think that, just this once, you’re a step ahead of her. At least this way she has no choice but to leave you mostly to your own devices instead of thrusting comments and outfit opinions your way to tailor you to her desired suitor. 

After a light lunch, the preparations begin. You bathe and wash with your finest lavender soap, with your lady’s-maid twirling and fastening your wet hair as you soak in your bedroom. Thanks to the raging heat outside, you dry quickly after stepping out of the calming bath and you’re encouraged to sit beside your window so that your hair dries quicker and seals your glossy curls ready for styling, as your maid applies Milk of Roses to your body and face. There’s no denying that the process makes you feel delightful, expensive, certainly worthy of the attention of a royal guest. As your maid carefully removes the rollers from your hair, you receive word from your grandmother that you’re to wear your chiffon pink dress without question, and your shoulders sag in disappointment. The golden dress was looking far lovelier.

By the time you’re dressed and accessorised in delicate pearls, evening is fast approaching along with the time to leave. You’re ready early, and so opt to take some air in the garden, taking refuge beneath the shade of the apple tree at the edge of the lawn. 

“Exquisite, my lady,” a voice rings, “although I prefer the shirt and britches.” 

Eddie emerges from behind you covered head to toe in sweat and mud speckling his dungarees. He slips off his gardening gloves and wipes his brow with his forearm as he nods his head and comes to your side. 

“Funny,” you reply, “I prefer gentlemen who don’t resemble garden trolls.”

“Picky! I thought that kind of behaviour was off the cards for tonight.”

You’re a second away from playfully smacking Eddie across the arm when your grandmother’s shrill voice appears from the drawing room doors, calling your name to attention.

“Inside!” she demands, marching across the patio with the aid of her walking stick, “and you, boy, I will see you and your father dismissed. Learn your place.” 

The disgust in her voice is so palpable that it makes you wince, and you turn back to Eddie to offer a silent apology but see that he’s averted his gaze to bow his head low in your grandmother’s direction. 

“Apologies, my lady,” he offers, hastily backing away from the patio to return in the direction he’d emerged from. He doesn’t look back for you to even mouth a ‘sorry’. Your grandmother’s words are an empty threat - not to mention, neither Eddie nor his father are under her employment, but your father’s - which you and Eddie both know, but it doesn’t make her utterance any less painful. 

You convene with your family members in the foyer and silently remark how exquisite everyone looks, with your mother, grandmother, and sister in-law having opted for more muted colours in gold and ivory, and you realise that you stand out. Probably deliberately. Your mother hands you an extravagant white feather to place in your hair on arrival, and you read the uneasiness on her face as clear as day. 

“Best foot forward, dear,” she mutters, brushing a rogue hair from your cheek, “you must sparkle the brightest tonight. I’ve no doubt you’ll make us proud.” 

Nothing like a healthy dose of pressure. 

You feign a smile and follow your parents to the carriages, where a footman helps you inside. By the time everyone is secured, the carriage is stifling. En route to the palace there is no remarkable breeze flowing through the small windows, and so you resort to unleashing your fan in the cramped space. The tides of air are warm but welcome, and offer a moment of relief. 

“Absolutely not!” scolds your grandmother, “put that away this instant, lest you ruin your hair!”

Mercifully, the trek from Mayfair to the palace is short, and while you get stuck in a short queue of carriages depositing the fellow noble families of London, it’s soon your turn to free yourself from the oven on wheels. The second your feet find purchase on the lightly gravelled courtyard, your mother fastens the feather into your hair and gives you a final scrutinising glare before taking her position beside your father. You firmly brush your skirt to straighten out any creases from the journey, and it’s only then that you look up and see the splendour that has been put on for the ball. 

There’s a path carved into the gravel lined by paper lanterns glowing a brilliant orange in the fading evening light. As you follow it and walk through the stone archway leading to a large quad, you’re overwhelmed by the flowers on display. The grand stone staircase leading to the entrance is adorned by a flood of delicate lilac wisteria and rosy chrysanthemums, alongside striking pink camellias. You can’t recall ever having seen the palace decorated so beautifully, so extravagantly, and as you glance over to your grandmother you see that even she has been rendered speechless by the display. As you climb the steps, surrounded by the sweetest of smells, you hear the echo of a string quartet inviting guests inside accompanied by an unfamiliar instrument. It’s beautiful; the music is smooth and soothing, and as you venture further inside you see that the quartet is joined by a musician playing a strange flute playing in stunning synergy with the strings. You peer closer and can hear a hushed conversation.

“A shakuhachi,” an elderyly guest whispers, “it’s been some years since I’ve heard one of those.”A gaggle of guests surround the musicians to take in the bewitching music, and you would’ve done so too if not for your grandmother’s hand on your elbow guiding you further inside. 

The flood of florals spill into the ballroom, as the wisteria hang from the tall ceilings and the camellias overflow from grand vases placed. In adjoining rooms you see that there are tables stacked with the finest sweet treats; a decadent display of patisserie and sugared fruits decorated with delicate candied petals. The candelabras lighting each room have been polished to within an inch of their lives to highlight their golden splendour, and the towers of crystal champagne glasses twinkle in the candle light. It’s clear that no expense has been spared, even by the King’s standards. There’s a sudden nervousness in your stomach that you can’t quite explain; if this is simply the decor, what does it say about the guest? It’s abundantly clear that this is all in their honour, with the florals and music paying tribute to wherever it is they call home. But you’ve attended balls hosting foreign royalty before, and never have they been afforded a party quite like this.

The extravagance of the night isn’t lost on a single guest. Everyone is paying hushed compliments to the decorators and artists as they sip their bubbles and indulge in sugar. Anyone who’s anyone has accepted the King’s invitation and has turned out in their finest; Prime Minister Jenkinson and his wife eagerly await their audience with His Majesty, the Cowpers, the Granvilles, even the ageing Lord Byron has made an appearance. You notice that, at the far end of the room, even the notoriously private Lord Kamo has arrived with several confidantes, one of whom you’ve yet to meet but have heard his name in passing (was it Zen’in?), courtesy of your father. The familiar realisation hits that you’ll not only be paraded for the King and his guest, but for everyone else, too. 

An hour quickly passes, spent at your mother’s side as she and your father take several turns about the room to greet the guests and make pleasant small talk about the decoration and the weather, as well as re-introducing you. It’s frightfully dull but you’ve no choice but to participate, although you’re about to make your excuses to take in some air when a fanfare ripples through the ballroom, calling the guests to attention. Instinctively the ballroom floor clears, a path appearing from the entrance up to the small stage at the far end of the room where the evening’s hosts will take up their positions. Butterflies begin to circulate in your stomach, but they’re partially eclipsed by something else. Something almost sinister, something…heavier? It’s as if there’s a shadow, a weight resting on your shoulders - no, all around you, as the doors swing open and you stand to attention. The very air itself feels darker despite the candles offering light that would rival that of the stars. A footman stands beside the doors with his chest puffed in front of him. 

“His Royal Highness King George III, Her Royal Highness Queen Charlotte, and Lord Ryomen Sukuna.”

Ryomen Sukuna.

A curious name. Before you have a chance to knit your brows together, you realise that your grandmother has turned absolutely rigid. She even seems to have paled; what has she seen? You stifle a jump as a glass shatters on the far side of the ballroom, and for a split second you feel the need to sprint out of the room, but to do so would be social suicide. As the trio enter the room, the crowd fall into deep bows and curtsies - some are even on the ground as if they’re praying - and you can’t help but…panic at how some people in the room have reacted. As you raise your head, you’re finally able to lay eyes on the man who has thrown the party into disarray. 

His appearance is even more curious than his name. His hair is short and slightly dishevelled, coloured a candy pink that you’ve never seen on anyone before. He sports a large eyepatch across his right eye (although it appears to cover a large portion of his actual face), and with his one good eye he observes the guests with a scrutinising gaze, enjoying the spectacle of so many notable figures with their heads so low. You can’t pull your attention away from him; he has sinister black markings across his face that travel down his neck before disappearing beneath an exquisite white robe you remember Lord Kamo calling a haori. He practically glides across the room - barefooted - with his arms neatly tucked into either sleeve which only fuels his regality, alongside his sheer size. He’s… enormous, in not just height but stature, with broad shoulders and muscles prominent enough to snap a tree in half. It’s as if you’re hardly looking at a man at all. As he takes his position beside the King and Queen at the head of the room, you can’t help but note how he’s enjoying the furor. There’s a smugness about him as he reclines and unfurls his hands from his sleeves to rest on the arms of his chair. If you were ever to receive such a reception there’s no denying the embarrassment and self-consciousness you’d feel, but Lord Sukuna is nonplussed. He’s revelling in it. 

With a firm clap, King George permits the party to continue, and the strings once again pierce the air and snap the ballroom back to reality, but the guests do not bounce back, with some resuming their conversations while others appear reluctant to even move. 

“Mama, what is going on?” you ask as you turn to your mother, before noticing that she, too, seems off-kilter. She swallows hard before gently fanning herself in an attempt at composure.  “I’m sure I don’t know,” she replies in a whisper, and turns away in an effort to distract herself by people-watching. Sensing that being touted once again is imminent, you quickly take advantage of your mother’s distraction and disappear to the crowds for another turn about the room. Gaggles of young women are swooning throughout the ballroom, batting their lashes at Lord Sukuna and being outwardly fascinated in his unusual appearance; if you think hard enough, you understand the attraction. He is striking, but the uneasiness is almost too great to ignore. The Kamo nobles are, in particular, in a state of clear distress, speaking to one another in a hushed but hurried manner with beads of sweat forming on their brows as they deliberate on whether to stay or make their excuses. A pang of irritation strikes your gut; you have never seen nor heard mention of this man in passing or in painting, why is such a fuss being made over him? You’re barely halfway across the room when you feel a presence at your side, and your father takes a gentle hold of your elbow. With a plummeting stomach you accept that you cannot run from the inevitable a moment longer, and dutifully follow in his footsteps. 

A swarm of proud parents with their debutante daughters have already made their way to the front, and are greeting the family with gracious smiles. As you make your approach, you register the thousand-yard stare of a few as they bow their heads deeply at His Majesty and his guest; your grandmother among them. Given her track record of throwing you at single men, her hesitancy is most unnerving, but she doesn’t attempt to slow your father. As the crowd clears in front of you, you lay eyes once more on Lord Sukuna who looks… bored. His posture has shifted; he’s no longer sitting upright with a hand resting on either arm of his seat, but instead he’s at a slight angle, with one hand balled into a fist as it supports his cheek. Your mouth falls open slightly at the outward rudeness and you lean in towards your father to comment on Lord Sukuna’s blase position, an action quickly chastised by your grandmother as she whips you across the ankle with her cane. 

“Mouth closed this instant, you petulant girl!”

You deliberately avert your gaze until it’s time for you to be presented lest your involuntary reactions get the best of you, and so when you finally do approach His Majesty, your eyes are lowered. Your father’s name and title are announced before the King, and you immediately fold into a deep curtsy. As you straighten your back and knees, you summon a deep breath and look up to meet the glare of those looking down on you. 

To your immediate surprise, you notice that Lord Sukuna has shifted his stance and is looking directly at you. No longer does he support himself by his fist, but instead his back has straightened and his attention is firmly on you. Once again unable to pull yourself away, you take a moment to really examine him, and battle against the desire to cower at the one eye he has on show being red. The noise of the ballroom is muffled the moment you lock eyes with him; you know that your father and the King are in polite conversation, but the words are incomprehensible behind Lord Sukuna’s oppressive glare. The way he looks at you like you’re a stuffed turkey is daunting but at the same time bewitching, and you watch in fixated horror as he takes a slow, deep breath. Is he smelling me? The room is suddenly a bit too hot. Your corset, a bit too tight. Every part of you battles to remain polite but you’re starting to feel suffocated, desperate to fill your lungs with fresh air and to be free from this man’s awful glare, and you feel yourself about to turn on your heels and feign sickness when there’s a thump on your back, as your father prompts you to engage. The sounds of music and conversation flood back into your ears as you’re snapped awake again, able to draw your attention away from Lord Sukuna to the King. 

Keen not to take too much of His Majesty’s time, your father politely excuses you both to return to the safety of the crowd. With every step you find it easier to breathe and your hearing is clearer, although you can still feel the eye of that man boring into you. Despite your annoyance at how he’d rattled the ton before so much as setting foot in front of any of them, you’re forced to admit to yourself that a morbid fascination has been planted now that you’ve seen him. Now that he’s seen me. You steal a glance behind you and feel the blood in your legs run cold as you see Lord Sukuna staring after you, committing you to memory, pinning you down as a fox would a rabbit.

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Masterlist

[bettysupremacy]

Hi! How are you? I hope everything is well :) I saw that your requests open and I wanted to request a James Potter fic where the reader is a bit insecure when it comes to romantic stuff because she has never dated anyone so when James and the reader start dating she gets really shy about everything and James helps her feel comfortable with all of it maybe? I hope you like the idea! Thanks in advance :)

hey babe! thank you for the request I hope you like how it turned out

James stands in the bathroom, sink running, caps clicking. The sight and sound is a kind of domestic you’ve never felt before. This freaks you out.

“You wanna pick a movie, dovey?” It’s warped and bubbly from a mouthful of toothpaste, but you understand.

When he’d asked you to spent the night you hadn’t realized the intense bellyache of anxiety you’d get sitting in his bed, in his shirt, in his socks, waiting for him to be finished in the bathroom. If you had, you would’ve backed out.

You’re fingers fumble through his dark blue comforter. His room is so him, it’s a little suffocating. The remotes not here. Blue comforter, tee shirt thrown over his bed, circle framed glasses on a nightstand. His bedside table catches your eye. It’s in there.

You simply cannot open that drawer. You’re already suffocating in the intimacy of his room, you can’t also fall into the depths of his most personal drawer. He notices, wiping his mouth and jogging to the bed.

“Sorry.” He swiftly opens the drawer and tosses you the remote. It lands in your lap with the cushion of his blanket. “You ok?”

“I’ve never done this before.” You frown embarrassed.

“Slept over at my flat?” He breathes out, suppressing a smile. ”God, I hope you haven’t done that. D’be a bit weird, bug.”

You breathe a laugh but it comes out wonky. He frowns. “What’re you worried about?”

“I don’t know.” You whisper. His hands grab yours, thumbs working into your skin.

“Y’don’t gotta be nervous.” He smiles. “We’re just watching a movie is all.”

“And sleeping.” You add. “In the same bed.”

“Sleeping is what you’re worried about?” He teases. “You’ll be unconscious, I think that’s the least of your worries.”

You smile, genuine smile, this makes james proud. “What if I hog the blanket?”

“As long as you’re warm.”

“Stop.”

“What!” He laughs. “As long as my baby’s warm I’m content.”

You shake your head. “What If get too close? I’ve never shared a bed.”

“Baby, if you think that’s a problem..”

“I’m serious.” You give weakly.

“I’m serious! If you mind your personal space I won’t mind mine.”

The stare is silent but the smile on his face has you fighting off your own. He takes his hands back, bringing them up to your face. Rubbing the rough surface of his rugby palms over your cheeks, you lean into the touch.

“Seriously, baby,” he murmurs, “don’t fret it.”

You nod. Letting him take in your face.

Slowly, very slowly, he pushes you back. You almost don’t notice but the way his hands come down to your shoulders brings nerves back into your belly.

“I like when you’re in my personal space.”

He lays on you like a weighted blanket. Though, you can’t feel a weighted blanket breathe. Head in the spongy pillows, your fingers come up and tangle in his curls.

“This is nice.” You mutter.

“See?” You can feel him sigh. “Don’t let anxiety eat you.”

“Okay.”

“There’s nothing to be anxious over, you’re safe.”

“I know.” You mumble again.

He looks up at you. “You getting tired? Should we skip the movie?”

“No, put it on.” Your head shakes as much as it Can laying down. “I won’t fall asleep.”

“You liar!” He affably laughs. He can feel your giggles against his chest. “Can I at least get a kiss before we start the movie and you don’t fall asleep?”

“Mhm.”

The kiss he plants to your lips is warm and sturdy. He sits there for a second, too long to be chaste, to quick to be deep. When he pulls back you’re smiling.

“Y’ready?” He pushes some hair from your face. “You pick a movie?”

“No.”

He groans loudly, dropping back down on you. “What would you do without me?”

[olderthannetfic]

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/781616764166504448/just-saw-a-post-about-how-the-fandom-took-allll

I mean, I'd need full context to know whether I thought the complaint had actual merit, but assuming it does--yeah, I'd consider it an example of misogyny in fandom to take traits specific to a female character and give them to a male character and treat that as if its canon characterization. I think this falls under the same umbrella as hating female characters for traits that they adore in their male faves, and it really shouldn't be news that, yeah, misogyny exists and it also exists in fandom spaces.

Yes, "they are different people" but then in that case, why would fandom need to be assigning traits to him to love/ship him that he doesn't have canonically, and why take them from this female character they otherwise would rather ignore? Again, that may not even truly be the case for whatever fandom you're talking about, but it is something I've seen happen in multiple fandoms before--just off the top of my head, there is a contingent of zukka shippers in the atla fandom who really want what zutara has but they really don't want to have to ship an m/f ship to get it, so they turn sokka into boy katara and then act like the zutara fandom is crazy for shipping zuko with an icky girl when her obviously superior brother is right there, so the only reason for zutara to be popular must be heteronormativity. And yeah, it gets aggravating!

Which, like, it's not the end of the world if someone would rather put their energy into a dude side character they find hot and wanna make him into a character they'd actually like more, it's whatever. But it's also fair to notice trends in fandom and get annoyed at them, though yes, the solution to that is to at least attempt to create in addition to the bitching, rather than bellyache about it and do nothing else.

Also, that's not what virtue signaling means. It's not virtue signaling to be pissed off that your favorite character is overlooked by people in fandom who are taking her most notable traits and giving them to a comparatively flat side-character to make him more interesting and to then talk about that. Sometimes people are actually genuine in their fandom wankage.

--

[bl00dlight]

A Song of Shadow & Flame

CANON Dark! Aemond Targaryen x OC niece Targaryen. | SERIES

Warnings - Mentions of SA, child on child violence, graphic description, fatherlessness, Aemond gets fucked up, morally grey slay, questionable fathering, where are their parents?

Author's note ● Well, this is it. This is the last 124 AC chapter before we pick up six years later. Thank god, lets get to the SMASHING already!!! I just want to also state, that yes Visenya has raging father issues and yes that absolutely is going to evolve into something more disturbing, this may turn into a dead dove fic, purely because of the psychological fuckery I am about to pull. But hey, that's canon for ya. My girl has major problems. She IS going to make Aemond worse. Oh and this isn't edited, sorry for typos. I'll get to it later.

Word Count ~ 3.5k+

Index

i ● ii ● iii ● iv ● v ● vi ● vii ● viii ●ix ● x ● xi ● xii ● xiii ● xiv ● xv

vi ~ 'An Eye'

123 AC

They charged through the rock pools, making their way to the alcove which contained the lower passage into High Tide. Visenya had let go of his hand by now, she hadn’t muttered a word, too fuelled by adrenaline and disgust, but mainly shame. Shame for what Aegon did to her, shame she was too fearful to stop him.

As they came to the darkened impasse, Aemond’s hand reached to grasp her wrist, and Visenya’s eyes widened as she felt the warmth of his hand coil gently, a poor attempt at affection. She looked to him, her gaze one of shock… her heart swelled at the action, a glimmer of vulnerability in her eyes, though his beamed with uncertainty.

Aemond's gazed sternly at the Princess, her silver hair glimmering under the torch light. No one had ever retaliated against Aegon, especially not for him...no one had ever bothered – not even his father. Aemond’s gaze softened as he glared at her, he felt shame rear its biting head in him as he recalled how little he had done to do the same for her. His grip upon her wrist slid down slightly, until his hand met the palm of hers, enclosing like a shell, as if done in thanks. Though Aemond did not know how to say such things, how to express it. Even this felt terribly odd, his brow furrowed.

Stillness settled, and the two young Targaryen’s stood face to face, their hands intertwined. The princess was in shock, her eyes gleamed with a slight affection for a moment – something warm tugging at her chest before she met the hard and dour gaze of his. She felt herself grow disturbed by the action, suddenly snapping out of the moment and ripping her hand away.

“What do you think you are doing?” She whispered intensely, her expression darkening before she could gauge why. Visenya wasn’t even sure why she pulled away.

Aemond looked down at his empty hand and then, met her gaze, “You defended me.” His voice plain, clinical.

“No one will believe you.” She gritted her teeth, her eyes beaming with tears as she went to turn. Fear and guilt overcame her, she couldn’t let him see how such affection warmed her heart for she could barely admit it herself.

The young prince scoffed, “I did not intend to speak of it.”

Suddenly Visenya whipped around fiercely, her gaze mad, as though his actions upon her were cruel. Aemond grew confused as she stepped towards him once more.

“Do not do that again!” Her voice a harsh whisper.

“What?” The boy shook his head, watching as she narrowed her eyes.

“Did you think we were friends? I took pity upon you! Pity, because you are but a dragonless bellyacher who was made to fuck an old whore.”  The words fell from her mouth before she could stop herself. She was livid and terrified of herself, she felt like a dragon gnawing at old bones. Visenya turned again as silence dropped quickly between the two.

As the princess turned, Aemond felt his heart shatter. He wasn’t sure what he felt for Visenya, what spurred him on to hold her hand, but her words confirmed everything he had already thought. Vain, spoiled, evil little… “Bastard.” He spat.

Visenya took a breath as the word rang, her heart felt like it had been ripped from her chest, as she turned her head to gaze upon his stiff and arrogant expression, “What did you say?”

“You are a bastard-“ Aemond’s brow flickered, tilting his head in a smug, flat gaze.

Visenya felt her rage pierce through her, her hands suddenly meeting his chest as she shoved him straight to the floor. Her gaze unrelenting, brutal as he looked up to her with a wrath so apparent his very face heated. Aemond rose to his feet, fists clenched as he grasped her arm with all his might, The Princess winced, his grip tight and unyielding.

Aemond felt something beyond his understanding burn through him, his gaze no longer cold, but heated by years of pent up fury, his words like knives as he twisted her wrist, “You and your pitiful brothers may shove or taunt me all you like. It changes nothing, Visenya! You are bastards born of your mother’s whoring.”

Visenya winced again, finding the strength in her to rip herself away as angry tears fell. She clutched the tender flesh of her wrist before her words came out with a desperate intent to hurt him, “And you are a dragonless, second son, who despite being a boy grown likely still wishes he could suck at his mother’s tit!”

“I care not for what the likes of a spineless slut calls me.” His voice cold as his demeanour was composed rapidly.

“Slut? You… did you just?” The princess coughed out, stuttering in disbelief as she clambered back.

“Indeed. Your behaviour is far suited to Flea Bottom than the Red Keep. You did not protest my brother’s leering upon you until he acted upon it. You weeped out of fear, once his attentions transcended your liking. However, any honourable woman would have refuted his comments in the beginning. Not you though, for you are vain and indulgent, so it is no wonder Aegon took a liking to you, he only pursues those who he knows shan’t say no.”  Aemond’s voice matter-of-factly.

She nearly jumped upon him again, though his words made her ache beyond what she had ever felt. Shame beckoning through her like dragonfire, “You blame me?”

“Yes.” The prince nodded.

Visenya roared, lunched forward as she raised her voice, though Aemond did not flinch, “Your brother is a rotten degenerate, would you say the same if it were to happen to Helaena?”

The prince gave her a judgement look before speaking with arrogant clarity again, “It would not. My sister would not engage with such attention.  Perhaps you should take after her beh- “

“Your sister is a witless doll!” She raged forward, tears streaming as she clenched her fist.

Aemond’s expression flickered with anger once again at her cruel words of his sister, his tone warning, “Do not speak against her.” 

The young princess scoffed and laughed harshly, her tone outraged and contrasting his cool composure, “You have spoken far worse about my brothers and my mother! In fact, there are many things I might say, Uncle. Your brother is a lecherous craven, your grandfather a scheming traitor and your mother is a treacherous…. viperous cunt!”

Aemond felt his cheeks burn brighter, he wished to strike her… no to grab her by her hair and smash her pretty face against the rocks, watch it splatter upon the rocks. She was nothing, a bastard. A cruel girl with a wicked tongue; a whorish mother and a lech for a father. Before he knew what had happened he felt the harsh sting of his hand after it made contact with her damp cheek.

Visenya’s face turned, her hand clutching her cheek as tears fell. The Princess winced, his hand had whipped across her face so swiftly, leaving her no time to react. Slowly, her eyes met his and a long, bitter silence was exchanged before a familiar dark voice rang.

“Visenya?” Prince Daemon stood, cooly observing the two young Targaryen’s, his eyes glazing with a slight rage as it was clear he had seen the tail end of the events unfold. In fact, he had heard the bitter words of his daughter and nephew echoing throughout the impasse. His face stern as he looked upon his Visenya, then flickering to Aemond with a cold, warning glare. The young Prince took a step back, his eyes coming to the ground as he felt his uncle’s glare bore into him. Not him. Aemond thought.

Her eyes widened upon seeing Prince Daemon, his demeanour calm, unaffected as he extended a hand. “Come. Your mother sends for you, Princess.” Daemon’s voice carried softly throughout the cove, and Visenya said not another word before walking to him, gripping his hand as he led her away.

He brought her through the door leading into High Tide, she looked up, terrified. His gaze seemed familiarly dark as he dragged her along. Visenya whimpered, begging for him to look down upon her, to soothe her as tears fell, her heart filled with dread before she pleaded, “Please, do not tell mother… I.”

With a sudden grunt Daemon turned and forced them both into a shadowy nook within the hall, his hands forcing her shoulders into the wall as he looked down, he muttered lowly, “I care not for your murmuring Visenya. Not today. You swore you would cease this endless trouble making, and now I come to witness the Hightower boy provoked to the point of putting his hand upon you!”

Visenya shook her head, disarmed by him once again, “He-“

Daemon grabbed her chin, shaking his head as his words grew firmer, “Enough! Do you understand the difficulty that comes with me refraining from intervening? Nyke care daor qilōni fucking rhēdan ziry, nyke care bona ziry keliton lēda zȳhon ondos striking ñuha tala's laehurlion!” I care not who fucking started, I care that it ended with his hand striking my daughter’s face!

As he looked upon her frightened gaze, how the tears fell down his daughter’s sweet face, the grip upon her chin loosened as it came to cupping her cheek gently. Visenya continued to look up at him with simpering eyes, she understood her father’s wrath. This was his wife’s funeral after all, and here she was again causing more trouble than need be. Making matters worse within their House.

Daemon’s tone softened further, he sighed and regained a sense of authority, “So yes, I shall tell your mother, and yes you shall deal with the consequences, as shall the Hightower boy. I want justice and if I cannot seek it, Rhaneyra shall.”

The princess merely nodded at her father’s words, she watched his expression unfolded before her, feeling the warmth of his hands wipe her tears from her cheek. Daemon gripped her chin again, forcing her head to side so the light would catch upon her face, revealing what that little Hightower swine had done. He stroked the tender flesh as whispered cooingly, noticing reddening bloom upon her pale skin.

“Issi ao ōdrikagon?” Are you hurt?  He crooned gently, still examining her face before pulling it to centre.

Visenya shook her head, her gaze and tone fierce, “Daor” No.

A wry smile came to the Rouge Prince’s face before he chuckled lowly, amused by his daughter’s stern front, “Nēdenka zaldrītsos.” Brave little dragon.

His gaze lowered again as he spoke more sternly, rage coiling within him as he thought to what his nephew had done to her, Daemon’s eyes met hers, “Se hembar jēda ziry raises iā ondos naejot ao, kessa sagon se mōrī ēza ondos.” The next time he raises a hand to you, shall be the last he has hands.

Visenya shook her head, a need to admit the truth of it; that it was she who incited the fight once again, “Nyke inditan zirȳla, kepa.” I pushed him, Father.

Daemon’s brow flickered in surprise, not of his daughter initiating the trouble – but for the odd look of shame within her eyes about it. He grunted lowly and scoffed before speaking, “I’d imagine he deserved it, dōna riña” Sweet girl.

Her gaze weakened, she knew the truth of it, and this time; no, Aemond didn’t deserve it. She was the one who was cruel to him. He had tried to reach out, tried to find some sense to her actions, letting himself display the faintest hint of vulnerability and she punished him for it. If Daemon knew… knew that she had let Aemond’s hand linger upon hers, felt such warmth in her chest, such overwhelming affection– he would surely look at her with disgrace.

Visenya leaned in as her father’s hand brushed against her face softly, before pulling her in to a swift embrace. The small affection he could only give to her when none other might be watching. She let him believe her to be innocent, to have been justified in her actions against Aemond. Just for the simple fact, it would keep this brief moment of shared love going. Just so she would not have to watch as his doting eyes hardened. Yet, there was a dull ache that settled in her chest, a pulling familiar to her. Guilt.

How could she admit that her own pride, was wounded so easily that she was able to use her tongue as though it were a blade. That she was able to shove him without remorse. Visenya locked away those threads of thought, locked them away so she did not have to face the truth. It was her who ached, not him. Not Aemond. No, she only meant to inflict her own pain back upon him, and did so, so that she might close her eyes at night peacefully.

●

Upon that very night, in the early hours of the mourn, Visenya laid in her chamber, sleeping soundly. She felt soft hands gripping her arm shaking her to wake. The muffled whispers, like gossamer in the air as the Princess groaned softly. Her eyes opening dazedly, seeing a glimpse of moonlight locks atop a small frame. Baela.

“Sister… sister wake up…” Her light voice fluttered as she shook Visenya further.

The elder princess stirred properly, slowly sitting up, “Baela…?” She yawned lazily and leaned back, noticing her youngest sister, Rhaena standing aside – the young girls expression frazzled.

Visenya felt herself shift upwards at her sister’s worried look, concern coiled as she whispered, “Sisters, has something happened?”

Baela nodded, “You must come… somebody stole Vhagar!” She exclaimed softly.

Before Visenya knew what had happened, she had haphazardly thrown on her night robe as her siblings dragged her out from her chamber. Her eyes widened further as the sight of her two brothers, stood in the hall.

“Jace? Luke? What are you-“The princess furrowed her brows, panic ensuing within her as her eyes flickered between the dark haired boys. The halls of High Tide were deathly quiet, with only the sound of the low rumbling tide to cover their whispers.

“Come sister, we must go! Somebody has- “Jace whispered softly in the darkened hall, before he could continue, Visenya stepped forward and shook her head.

“Yes I know, somebody stole Vhagar. I suggest we all go inform the Sea Snake.” Her voice firm as she looked upon her array of siblings. Their faces coiling in protest.

Jace gritted his teeth, challenging her, “No! We shall go ourselves.”

The princess swiftly leaned forward, gripping her young brother’s arm, she felt frustration burn through her, “I am in enough trouble as is, if something happens it shall be who is blamed for not putting a stop to this!”

Jace, with all his strength pushed at Visenya’s chest, forcing her away from him. The two exchanged a startled look before he cleared his throat and spoke again, “We are going sister. Come or don’t.”

Visenya simply stood in the hall as she watched her siblings disappear into the night, her gaze wide, shocked by Jace’s actions against her. Fine, if he were to treat her in such a way, let them go get themselves harmed! She thought, though as more time passed she could not help but feel that familiar pull of regret stirring. No, she couldn’t let them go by their lonesome.

Without another thought, she ran after them, looking around to see where they may had gone too. The Princess crept around the main halls of High Tide, peering to try and find her siblings. Logically, they likely went the route of the alcove leading out to the shore, she crept down the passages, hearing familiar voices echo.

“It’s him.” Rhaena proclaimed.

“It’s me.” A deeper one responded; the haughty spite rife on their tongue.

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!” She retorted back.

Her heart thundered as saw the warm glow of the opened door to the alcove, she knew it was her siblings in there, and the other voice, well, how could she not recognise his… Aemond.

“Your mother’s dead, and Vhagar has a new rider now…” Aemond beckoned.

Rhaena’s tone fierce, “She was mine to claim.”

As Visenya approached the door, her wide eyes were met with the scene. Her four siblings all opposed a smug Aemond, she peered through, wanting desperately to join in the confrontation, though she knew she couldn’t. Not with what had already happened today, not with her mother’s reputation already waning.

The silver haired prince raised his brow smugly, and sneered as he stepped forward, “Then you should’ve claimed her! Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you.”

Just as the words left his lips, Visenya’s eyes met his and for a brief moment she saw the anger increase tenfold as he noticed her gaze, so much so in the split second he had been distracted, Rhaena charged, growling at Aemond, instantly being thrown to the floor by him. Baela charged, punching him squarely across his pale face and he fell to the sand a low grunt leaving him.

Just as he had fallen he rose, with swiftly precision striking Baela, knocking her to the ground leaving her wincing. Aemond snarled, leaning over the young girl as she clutched her cheek, shuffling away from his hammering voice, “Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!”

In response, Jace charged but Aemond evaded his throws before the silver haired boy threw Jace to the ground – a sudden cry of Luke rang in Visenya’s ears as she watched with horror as her small brother lunged upon Aemond and his fist ram straight into Luke’s small face, forcing him too, to the ground.  Luke’s cry filled the alcove before Aemond looked up again, scoffing as he saw Visenya peering once more. Suddenly, Jace lunched once more, pushing Aemond to the floor and one by one her siblings descended upon him.

She didn’t know what to do, nor why she couldn’t move or speak. It was like one of those horrid nightmares where she found herself unable to scream or unable to run – just awaiting doom to befall her. Her eyes locked on the sight, her four siblings kicked and punching at Aemond as he writhed upon the ground whining. Baela’s fist repeatedly struck him in the chest over and over again until Aemond managed to shove Jacaerys to the floor, then Baela.

As Luke raised his fist in anger, Visenya all but gasped as Aemond gripped her younger brother’s small neck she nearly stumbled down as she saw Aemond’s blooded face sneer.

His hand rising up with a large rock gripped, ready to strike Lucerys head. “You will die screaming in flames just as your father did!” Aemond proclaimed, his voice gritted and wrathful before he looked up once more, the word practically spat from his mouth, “Bastards.”

Lucerys weeped, struggling against his much older Uncle as he choked for the slightest full breath, his voice simpering “My father’s still alive.”

Just like that, a wry haughty expression came upon Aemond’s face, as he looked to Jace letting his hand fall to his side, “He doesn’t know, does he, Lord Strong?” The silver haired boy flashed a satisfied scoff before the sharp sound of an unsheathed dagger rang.

Visenya’s heart nearly dropped as she found herself finally able to move, her feet forcing her down the few steps as she looked upon the sight of her brother pointing a dagger to Aemond, she cried, “Jace!” Her feet soon reached the sand as she stopped herself, Baela and Rhaena looking over their shoulder in fear, cowering backwards as Visenya reached for them, swiftly forcing them away. The boys began fighting once more and Jace was back upon the sand whimpering when she turned her head.

As she did so, the princess stepped in front of her half-sisters and slowly moved towards Jace as he clambered on the floor. Aemond stumbled back for a moment, regaining his footing before raising the rock up over Jace, Visenya’s eyes widened in fear as she froze, unsure of what to do.

Her gaze came to Aemond’s pleading for him to stop and as he looked at her, her chest nearly caved in upon itself as nothing, but a breathy snicker left his mouth. He was taunting her, enjoying the look of fear and helplessness upon her face as he dangled the rock over Jacaerys’ head.

Neither he nor Visenya noticed as Luke picked up Jace’s dagger and suddenly a throw of sand made its way into Aemond’s eyes causing him to break the contact with Visenya and wince in pain. As he looked back, there Luke was her small, harmless little brother clutching the blade, standing before Aemond and with a fierce pained cry, Luke slashed the blade across Aemond’s face.

It happened in seconds, before she could even register the violence before her, she only saw how Aemond had toppled to the ground, the blood splattering upon Luke’s face. Their Uncle’s unfamiliar cries of pain filling the space as he clutched his face. She hadn’t seen what was truly done, but she did see the blood pool from beneath him, tainting the white sand below.

As the Ser Harold came thundering in, she felt the small body of Luke lunge into hers, his arms wrapped around her tightly, the stench of Aemond’s blood now staining her nightrobe. She slowly embraced her little brother, pulling him tightly against her, tucking him away as she watched the writhing Aemond.

For a brief moment the silver haired boy’s wide eye met hers and princess turned away from him, shielding Lucerys from the mess he had made.

○vii○

[gattoleone]

Here's a repost of the comics I made about my Skyrim characters and Jesper the Guard (from his mod) goofing around! I put them on Bluesky first, but that site hates pictures, unfortunately.

That was the first attempt at drawing in years, don't judge it too harshly ^^;

This, like the next ones, was made in-game with the mods:

Photo mode, RaceMenu, ENB, High Poly Head, Skyland and Skoglendi.

With this one having the extra: Better Normals for Vanilla Creatures.

This one also has: Better Argonian Horns, Nordic Snow, and BellyAches HD Dragon Replacer.

This one, at last, has: JK's Skyrim, Tempered Skins (fem), SkySight Skins, Vanilla hair remake, Rustic Clothing, and Particle Patch.

(Some links have NSFW stuff, beware!)

[xheykyjx]

hot sick band bois <3

tw for pretty graphic depictions of puking ahead!! 🫶

“Shit, babe,” Cole hears Jasper mutter, and he turns around just in time to watch Oli vomit over the Target bag clenched in his hands. Cole winces sympathetically, reaching back to squeeze the top of Oli’s head in spite of the awkward angle. He feels bad that his boyfriend is feeling so shitty, but he’s also secretly glad that he called shotgun, even if it means he has to drive next. He deals with vomit just fine, but he’d also rather not end up with his own head out a window just because of the smell. 

“Do you think it was something you ate?” Jasper asks once Oli seems to be finished. He’s got one hand tucked up beneath Oli’s t-shirt, rubbing rhythmically at his spine. Oli spits into the bag, face as pale as a sheet, before he sits up enough to lean his head on Jasper’s shoulder. “I d’no,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. Cole, meanwhile, eyes the bag in his boyfriend’s hands warily. This is only the second time it’s been used, but if it breaks or overflows, Cole thinks he might throw himself out of the vehicle, so he turns around to look up the nearest gas station on his phone.

They pull over at the next stop, and it takes both Jasper and Cole to carefully maneuver their boyfriend out of the vehicle. Oli sits on the curb while Jasper disposes of the Target bag and disappears inside to grab a few things, and Cole sits up close next to his ailing boyfriend, rubbing his back and shoulders. 

Oli hiccups and burps, and Cole snorts. “Good one,” he jokes, and Oli attempts a laugh that sounds more like a grunt. “My stomach hurts.” At this, Cole turns his head enough to get a good look at his boyfriend’s face. He’s still incredibly pale, his eyes half-lidded and his arms curled over his middle. When he notices Cole staring at him, he lifts his head up enough to turn and face him fully. “Am I still pretty?” he asks, and Cole huffs a laugh in spite of the concern steadily growing within him. He’s seen Oli hungover, and motion sick, and after an adrenaline crash, and yet he’s still never looked so… so awful. Cole reaches up to push some of his hair out of his face, and Oli blinks sleepily at him. 

“Yeah,” Cole murmurs, tugging him back into his side and letting his head drop onto his shoulder. “You’re still pretty.” They sit like that for another minute or so until Jasper returns, toting another plastic bag. 

“I got some extra bags,” he says, shaking a fistful of thin plastic. “And I got you some stuff for your tummy, babe.” He crouches down, rifling through the bag, and a flutter of something warm and light sparks to life in Cole's stomach. There’s something so undeniably hot and adorable about Jasper taking care of Oli. It’s just another thing that Cole loves about him. 

Jasper pulls out a bottle of Pepto Bismol and pops open the cap. He offers the entire bottle to Oli, who makes a face but obediently takes it and swallows a generous sip. Cole could swear that his face somehow grows another shade paler, and he snakes a hand down to rest his palm on the warm expanse of Oli’s stomach over his shirt. 

“You’re okay, baby,” he soothes, rubbing little circles into Oli’s upset belly until the nauseated expression on his face finally disappears, leaving him just as exhausted-looking as before. Cole is beyond grateful that Oli is keeping the medicine down, even if it’s just for now. He’s hoping that even just a little bit in his system will help. 

“Ready to go?” Jasper asks, and Cole nods where Oli just offers a meek thumbs-up. 

---

By the time they’re finally rolling into LA, Oli is curled up across the backseat with his head in Cole's lap. Cole has a hand up against his boyfriend’s waist, laid flat against the feverish, gurgling side of Oli’s stomach. He was supposed to be on driving duty next, but after a while Oli began to tearfully complain that his bellyache wasn’t going away and Cole and Jasper unanimously decided that it was Cole's turn to caretake. 

Oli’s stomach grumbles beneath his hand and Cole purses his lips sympathetically, eyeing Oli carefully. He appears to be asleep still, face hidden in Cole's stomach, but he's starting to get the foreboding feeling that something not-so-pleasant is about to happen.

[balioc]

I've said it before, I'm just repeating myself at this point, but my cries have been swallowed by the winds of discourse and so I feel compelled to try once more --

The tests that get used in the US to measure "student achievement," and thereby "school effectiveness," are close to 100% worthless for the purpose.

I say this as someone who is

(a) very much in favor of using other tests to measure student achievement and thereby school effectiveness, and also

(b) very much in favor of using those tests for other purposes.

Close to 100% of the big-stakes tests, across the country, from kindergarten up through the end of high school, are either timed reading-comprehension exercises or timed basic math exercises. Which is to say: they are barely-disguised IQ tests. They do not demand any particular corpus of knowledge, or for that matter any kind of cultivated skill, beyond the absolute baseline universal standards of "can read and understand written English" and "can execute the most fundamental algebraic and geometric operations." They give points for being quick and accurate, and sometimes for being able to see through simple tricks. You do well on those tests by having a fast, agile, precise, unclouded mind and a capacious working memory.

That is not a thing that any teacher can teach.

It's an important thing. There are all sorts of circumstances where it really matters whether you have a fast, agile, precise, unclouded mind and a capacious working memory. But measuring that, and then using the results to determine whether or not a school has done its job, is pants-on-head insane.

...the trick, of course, is that -- for all the bellyaching and caterwauling about intelligence measurement -- we can all pretty much agree that, wherever they come from, reading comprehension and basic math skills are things that matter. In order to have a sane measurement system for schools, we'd have to come to a similar agreement about anything that a school could reasonably be expected to teach.

This is one reason, of many, that it is good to have an acknowledged cultural canon. But we could at least start with dropping the reading and math, and testing basic scientific and historical knowledge instead.

[protrudingbelly420]

You're so hot, I agree with the bellyache videos anon: it would be great if you'd do more of such content! I'd love to see you moaning and groaning about your bursting belly, stuffing it to the brim and asking for encouragement to fill it more even if it hurts

Im pretty ugly even ik that for sure🫠

I can definitely consider and try it like i said but i dont think i can do the encouragement part..

For two reasons, im honestly gonna forget about that part and tbh im saying it in my head some lines and idk kinda sounds like begging which makes me uncomfortable to do so since im sure its all for entertainment here otherwise ppl will hate me even more for it. Lol

Hitting that dab gets me all zoned out and even more so once i start playing with my belly🤤

All soft its all loose like playdough but all stuffed full and bloated it so much to poke and watch it struggle to jiggle🥵🥵🫦

But i can definitely say ill make more of an attempt to add more “noise” to my videos🫡

Not sure if im actually growing but i kinda feel it sitting on my lap more than it has before😮‍💨

(Currently a bit stuffed rn)

(Taken at the time of this post)

[myreia]

Familiar Shores

Characters: Tansui, Rasho, Meryta Khatin (WoL) Pairings: Tansui x Meryta Summary: The day is bright and warm as Tansui distracts himself, wondering when his lover will return. When will she come back to him? Rating: Teen Notes: For @thevikingwoman. Happy belated birthday, Viking! Mwha! 💕💋 2,456 words Read on AO3

Simple tasks and simple chores may not be the most exciting part of his life, but it’s on days like these that Tansui is grateful for the work.

The sun beats down from an azure sky, baking the shores of Onokoro they may as well simmer like the coast of Hells’ Lid. The kind of sun that leads to slow, languid days. Their people have scattered, seeking relief on the seas or under shade. Some of the young Confederates took off this morning to fish and relax. With a pang, he wishes he had joined them, but the youth deserve time to explore and discover away from the watchful eye of their elders. The past few weeks have given little time for rest and relaxation; with more Garleans in the Ruby Seas and a malfunction in the Onokoro aetheryte, the Confederacy has been busier than usual.  

And so, he has found himself, as he often does, busied on the dock, making minor repairs to his boat. The vessel is small, little more than a two-person sailing dinghy used for servicing large ships or sailing around the bay. Though the keel is worn and the sides scarred from years of use, she still makes for a serviceable boat if you don’t mind her bellyaching. She’s been all but marooned for the past three moons.

His fault, running her aground. He knows these seas, he should have known better. Then again, it was a bit difficult to pay attention, given where Meryta decided to put her hands.  

Tansui sighs and stretches, wiping sweat from his brow. Water laps around his legs, tugging and pulling as the waves flow in and out. The memory, though distant, is a good one, still capable of bringing a rosy flush to his cheeks that has nothing to do with sunburn. It was his idea to escape that night to sail below the moon and the stars. Just the two of them in such close quarters with calm waters all around…  

She brings out something of a romantic in him. A romantic more fitting of a younger man, and yet here he is, finding convoluted and ill-advised ways to give her the world when she’s here and thinking about it when she isn’t.

He wets his lips—the dry, salty taste sharp on his tongue—and tilts his head back, enjoying the briny wind and spray of mist on his face. A smile spreads from ear to ear. Meryta. Soaring in and out of his life just as the birds migrate. Here one moment and gone the next, as variable as the changing tides. She never stays long, though sometimes he senses she would like otherwise. He does not mind. He can wait for her and wait some more.

There is no doubt in his heart she will find her way back to him.

His smile fades. Every time she returns, little pieces of her have changed. A shift in her demeanour, a change in her speech. Consequences, however small, of a time spent in places he does not know or understand. Sometimes he thinks the call of the Warrior of Light is too great a burden for any one person to carry. But what does he know of the fate of gods and primals and other worlds?

He is simply a pirate.

“Tansui!” A gruff hand claps him across the back and Rasho throws an arm around his shoulders, pulling him away from the boat. “Brilliant day for a nameday, eh?”

Tansui chortles and twists around, water sloshing around his knees. “And here I’d just about forgotten,” he returns, ducking out from his grip. “Namedays come and go, this one is no more remarkable than the last.”

Rasho chuckles. “Aye, perhaps it is, perhaps tis not,” he replies with an irritatingly knowing smirk on his face. What does he know that Tansui doesn’t? “Take a moment to enjoy yourself, my friend. You should be playing dice or drinking or napping on a day like today.”

“I’m in the water, that’s all I need. Besides, someone has to look after her.” He shrugs in the direction of his boat. “Fix her up and she’ll be good as new.”

Rasho’s smirk widens. By the kami, what has gotten into him? “Very well, very well,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “But don’t work yourself to the bone, you hear? Have it on good authority you’ll want to be around for tonight.”

He snorts with laughter. Whatever his friend is implying, he’ll know in due course. “Understood, captain.”

“Oh, and Tansui… Keep an eye out for interlopers. On the sea and in the skies. Don’t want anyone slipping by on our watch. Not with Garleans on our doorstep.”

“Perhaps we should raise the tithe, given the trouble.”

The smirk is back. “I will leave that decision in your capable hands,” he says. “Do let me know what you decide to raise it to. And for whom.”

Tansui frowns.

Rasho raises his head. “Ah. Look’s like she’s getting away from you.”

Tansui curses and spins around just in time to see his boat pull free of her ropes and float away from the dock. Inhaling a deep breath, he ignores Rasho’s booming laugh and plunges beneath the waves. He swims swiftly, his haori dragging behind him, and catches the boat’s bowline. Grunting, he treads water and wraps the rope around his arm, then begins to haul his escapee back to shore.

Minutes pass, water rushing in his ears, foam spraying in his face. Still, he cannot help but laugh at his foolish error. The sea is warm, the sun is bright, a stray cloud passes overheard. There are worse things in the world. 

At last, he reaches the end of the dock, panting and spitting salt water from his mouth. He goes under again, testing the depths, searching for the bottom with the tips of his toes. When the water closes over his head, he shoots back up and surfaces, hair loosened from its braid and flying into his eyes. He could round the dock and return to where he was, but this will do. Perhaps Rasho is right. He’s struggled enough with the boat for today.

He raises an arm, preparing to heave the rope up and tie it properly to the post.   

A shadow falls across him and, for the briefest of moments, his heart stops.

A Xaela warrior stands above him on the edge of the dock. She is wrapped in a heavy blue coat that leaves her upper arms bare, a sheathed katana at her side. Cropped green hair frames her face and horns, and her vibrant purple eyes observe him with calm certainty. Her tail flicks back and forth, the end curling and uncurling as those familiar eyes look him up and down, lingering on his bare chest beneath his open haori. She is aglow, the light illuminating her so perfectly from behind that he could be staring into the sun.

No wonder some call her the Warrior of Light.   

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. There are countless things he could say to her—things he has dreamed of, things he has played over again and again during restless hours at night—and yet all thought is driven from his mind.

A wave smacks him in the face, brine splashing into his mouth. He splutters, coughing, and the next moment he finds her unbuckling her katana and setting it aside. She kneels on the dock, hand outstretched, and grasps his hand with hers. His thumb presses against her wrist, brushing past sensitive scales to where her pulse beats, strong and firm.

“Meryta,” he breathes. “You’re back.”

A smile spreads across her face, bright as the rising sun. “Would you like some help?” she asks.

He stares at her like a fool. “You’re back.”

“You’re in the water.”

“I was fixing my boat. She escaped. I was fetching her.” He swallows, the taste of salt fresh on his tongue. “You’re back.”

She meets his eyes. “That’s the third time you’ve said that.” Her voice is soft and full of wonder, as if she can’t quite believe she is here either. Her grip tightens, fingertips pressing into the back of his hand. Locked. As if the tides themselves could not pull them apart. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

He returns her gaze. “I can do you one more,” he replies, shooting her a roguish grin. “You’re back.”

And he pulls her into the sea.

She yelps as she goes under, plunging into the depths in a rush of bubbles. He chases, sinking below, joy beating frenetically in his heart. When he opens his eyes, all is turquoise and green and blue and purple, watery light spiralling in from above, white bubbles spinning all around. He catches her in his arms and crushes his mouth to hers.

Warmth floods him. Her lips are soft and inviting and wondrous as she kisses him back, delightful and delectable and filled with such sweet promises. She clings to him, enveloping herself around him with her hands cradled at the base of his neck and her tail wrapped around his leg. This moment below the waves cannot last—he does not have the Kojin’s gift the way she does—but here in this watery domain there is nothing but them. Nothing but time. Nothing but peace.

They surface together, locked in a kiss, his hair tangled about his face, hers plastered across her forehead. Then finally they part, foreheads pressed together, legs and tail entwined, and bob in the gentle waves, catching their breath. They drift slowly away from the dock, their sodden clothes fanning about them.

“Ass,” Meryta says.

“Pirate,” Tansui replies with a wink.

She giggles and splashes water at him. “Is this what counts as a nice greeting? After how long I’ve been away?”

“Any greeting where I get to kiss you is nice, no?”

She sighs happily and clutches him, her legs floating up behind her as she rests her head in the crook of his neck, mindful of her horns. “I tried to teleport here, but it wouldn’t work,” she murmurs. “And then I thought… The worst came to mind. I’ve been occupied elsewhere and the Alliance is not always as complete with its intelligence as I would like.”

“We’re fine. An ordinary malfunction, as far as I know.” He pauses, threading his fingers through her wet hair, admiring its shine. “How did you get here? No ships have docked today.”

“I flew. I didn’t want to miss your nameday.” His heart swells. She knows. She remembers. He does not recall telling her. With a shrug, she kicks her feet, splashing the water, and propels them further from the dock. Back on shore, a yellow chocobo pokes curiously at the beach, nosing a large shell with its beak. “When there’s no aetheryte, Lucida takes me where I need to go.”

“You crossed the seas by air.” Fucking Rasho, that is what he meant, wasn’t it? He must have heard she was in the area, making her way back. He leans back, hair floating in the water, and stares at the cloudless sky, laughter rumbling in his chest. “Imagine that. Perhaps I should demand a new tithe for that.”

Warm fingers loop around his neck, tilting him up. “I’ve already paid your Ruby Tithe,” she reminds him huskily, kissing him. “I suppose we can strike a bargain as to what this new one will look like.”

“Consider me listening.”

“Are you accepting suggestions?”

“Consider me open.”

She drags a hand down his neck and across his collarbone, splaying her fingers across his broad chest. “Let’s get out of the water,” she murmurs. “Maybe then we can find a way to bargain in earnest.”

“You have no idea how dearly I would like to.” He kisses her again, hands threaded in her hair, savouring her lips, her cheeks, her jaw, her everything. By the kami, it has been too long. He has told himself again and again that he is a patient man—at least where she is concerned—but if you asked him to describe himself now, that patience is nowhere to be found. “You know the way.”

“I do.”

“We should get to shore.”

“We should.”

“Put some other clothes on. Preferably something not wet.”

She whines, the smallest of sounds humming on her lips. “Must we?”

“I—ah, fuck.” He pulls away, still clinging onto her as he stares ahead at the small boat rolling away on the cresting waves as if she has a mind of her own. “My boat…”

Meryta squirms, twisting around. “Your boat?”

“That one there.”

“The one where we—”

“Aye, yes, that’s the one.” Tansui sighs. “Too late to retrieve her now, the tides have taken her. By the time we seek her out, she will have run aground on a reef.”

A gentle smile tugs at her lips. “Can you get another one?”

“Aye, but tis not that one.” He sighs again, cursing his foolish mistake. Boats come and go, this he knows, and yet this one was special. She made it special. “We should return to shore.”

Judging from the furrow in her brow, she is still lost in thought. “Can you build another boat?” she asks, staring at his vessel as she crests another wave. Gone, gone, and out of sight. “Certainly the Confederacy has a shipwright, or do you steal all your ships from your neighbours?”

He snorts. “There is one, yes, Meryta, thank you, but I would not trouble him for this.”

“If I were to supply the resources, would he be willing to teach me?”

“What are you saying? That you will build me another boat?”

She turns his face towards hers and grins. “There’s more in my kit than a katana and a bow, you know,” she says. “I have a saw and a few other tools. I’ve never made a boat before, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn. Perhaps I can contact Gridania and ask Beatin if he has any advice.” Her eyes brighten, limbal rings glowing, enthralled by the idea. “Race you to shore?”

He blinks, still stuck on the part where she said she would build him a boat, and nods. With a whoop, she dashes ahead, swimming freely beneath the waves. He gives chase, splashing after her until his feet touch ground. Then he breaks into a run, sloshing through the water until he has caught her again. She laughs, giggling madly as he lifts her into the air, kissing her again as they spin about on the white hot sands.

Namedays come and go, and this one he will remember.