#Songs with Word Ek

[girlivealwaysbean]

बहार बनके आऊँ कभी

तुम्हारी दुनिया में

गुजर न जाए यह दिन

कहीं इसी तमन्ना में

it looked horrible in english alphabets

एंथ् स्टैंडर्ड से हिंदी नहीं पढी हाय मेरा सर दुखा दिया तुमने

[innerfare]

Law Leaving - Part 1

Summary: Law is leaving for Punk Hazard/Dressrosa. Reader is a Heart Pirate and marine biologist. Features mutual pining and unrequited love. This thing I wrote here could be considered a prequel if you want to read it.

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x Gn!Reader

Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff

CW: SFW // None

Word Count: 978

———

You entered Law’s cabin and closed the door behind you, leaning up against the wall with your arms folded over your aching chest. You wore his hoodie, the yellow one with black sleeves, the smell of your captain lingering on the soft fabric the most comfort you could find as he packed his things for his trip. 

His clothes were folded meticulously, his blade in mint condition. He looked as prepared as ever, completely put together. And yet, he lingered, refolding the same few shirts several times over and inspecting his blade for flaws you both knew were not there. 

You knew to expect this sort of opaque communication with him. Everything with Law at the moment was a gray area, your relationship included. 

Were you captain and crew mate, operating on a strict hierarchy? Were you colleagues conducting research together in the laboratory aboard the Polar Tang? Were you friends brought together by a shared love of adventure? Were you victims of isolation and long nights alone, the few chaste kisses you’d shared in the shadows of the lab nothing more than a mistake, something you’d done because you were lonely and tired? Were you on your way to becoming lovers, with deeper kisses soon to come? Was there something more permanent, more serious, to be eked out, or was it purely physical? 

You made him snacks when you were up late working together, and he always brought you matcha without asking. He borrowed your books and returned them with an origami swan or flower in the pages, and you kept wearing the hoodie he’d given you when you got too cold one night. The two of you discussed what books and papers you’d been reading as of late, shared song recommendations, and even offered each other the parts of your meals you didn’t want. 

Whatever your relationship was, it was a relationship. 

And he was leaving. 

“It’s for your own good,” he said, pushing the last of his things into his bag and drawing it shut, an unreadable expression on his face. 

You swallowed your scoff but couldn’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes. “Bullshit.” You looked up from the floor and met his gaze head on. “What’s the point of having a crew if you can’t trust them to have your back?” 

“I do trust you. That’s why I’m leaving you in charge.” 

You rolled your eyes again. “I didn’t join your crew to babysit a bunch of nurses. Sure, I love them, but I joined for you, Law.” 

“I’m glad to hear it, y/n-ah. I really am.” He turned away from you. “We can talk about it more when I get back.” 

“I joined for you.” You pushed off the wall and took a step forward, clenching your jaw at the sight of his turned back. He couldn’t even look at you while he relegated you to the sidelines. “And now you’re leaving.” 

“I can’t lose you!” He snapped. When he turned around, there was a fire in his eyes you’d never seen before, a desperation that terrified you. He looked as if he was hanging off the side of a cliff, his fingers barely curled around the edge. He looked as if he was about to lose everything. But in typical Law fashion, he recovered quickly, guarded expression returning. “I can’t lose any of you.” He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but your face. “I won’t risk it.” 

You wanted to reach out and grab him. You weren’t sure what you would do after that, if you would pull him in for a hug and try to cradle him in your arms despite his superior size, or if you would place one of those chaste kisses on his lips, perhaps another on his cheek. Maybe you would run your fingers through his hair. But that uncertainty kept you from touching him at all. 

You stepped out of his way, wrapping your arms tighter around your body. You stared at the ground, eyes burning. You refused to shed any tears, though. You’d never been so angry at Law, and you didn’t want to let him see just how deep he’d cut you by not even asking for your help. And after all those times he’d told you he trusted you. 

Despite you no longer standing in his path, he didn’t leave. He remained glued to his spot by the bed, sword and bag in hand. 

���Tell me you’ll still be here when I get back,” he said without looking at you. “I need…�� When he trailed off, he seemed unusually vulnerable, and you thought he might offer you some kind words. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I need to know Bepo will be safe. He buckles under pressure.” 

You wanted to push him, to give him some sort of ultimatum, to force him to come clean and say what he meant rather than leaving you wondering, but you knew that was selfish considering the position he was in; he had more important things to deal with. 

So, you clenched your jaw and assured him, “Bepo will be safe.” Putting your feelings aside was worth it when you saw a little bit of tension leave his body. 

“Thank you, y/n-ah.” He brushed past you, and that should’ve been the end of it. 

But just as he reached the door, you whirled around and stated, “You’d better be safe too, Law. You have people waiting for you, people who care about you. You know that, don’t you? We all care about you.” Your voice cracked painfully toward the end. 

Law stopped in the doorway. Again, you couldn’t see his face, but you saw how he lowered his head, and you thought perhaps your words had landed. 

“When I get back,” he promised once more, and with that, he was gone. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! Parts 1.5 and 2 will be up tomorrow and the next day! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[mariacallous]

If there’s one term that’s been used more than others when describing this year’s Spotify Wrapped, it’s this: flat. The New York Times said it. So did TikTokkers. Between its “Pink Pilates Princess Roller Skating Pop” phases and AI-generated mini-podcasts, lots of listeners took time away from the time-honored tradition of posting their cringiest Wrapped stats to say that this year’s offerings were milquetoast at best.

“Spotify Wrapped is a bit … underwhelming this year,” wrote one X user. “NOT worth the hype,” offered another. The annual tradition “lost what made it so dynamic in the first place,” wrote a third, citing things like location- and music-based Sound Towns that rolled out with Wrapped in previous years. “Which is to say that PEOPLE make things better. Those layoffs are showing.”

Quite a few frustrated Spotify users referenced layoffs at the company and questioned whether its shedding of key talent was to blame for Wrapped’s fizzle. The company let go of some 1,500 people, 17 percent of its workforce, this time last year, something CEO Daniel Ek later acknowledged “did disrupt our day-to-day operations more than we anticipated.”

Seemingly, Wrapped relied on AI more than ever this year, with AI podcasts to analyze your listening habits, an algorithmic playlist hosted by Spotify’s AI DJ, and bizarre, probably AI-generated genre descriptions.

Yet it seems unlikely the layoffs were the only thing that impacted the quality of Wrapped this year. It could be that the algorithms are just losing touch.

That’s not to say they’re not tracking stream numbers the way they used to—although there are conspiracy theories to that effect—but rather that everyone now knows they’re being tracked, and algorithms just aren’t able to pick up on organic trends the way they used to.

After years of embarrassingly finding out that they spent more time listening to My Chemical Romance breakup songs than they did listening to their friends’ advice, people are now self-conscious about what they play and in what volume. Just as much as everyone went into this year’s Wrapped season prepared to brag about their Brat Summer, they were just as worried about telling on their Sad Bastard autumn. Parents, once again, found that their Wrapped wasn’t about their own tastes, but their children’s.

Wrapped has ceased being about one person’s surprising listening habits and more about nebulous shifts in vibe. Yes, lots of people listened to Chappell Roan and Kendrick Lamar this year. Is anyone the least bit stunned?

But this isn’t even just a Spotify issue. Lots of platforms now offer year-in-review wrap-ups, and nearly all of them feel like a collective shrug. Over on TikTok, the company touted that its users were very interested in being demure, very into Moo Deng. Yeah, no kidding. These revelations are about as shocking as the fact that there were 1.2 million BookTok posts in the first 10 months of the year, something anyone who has ever opened the app could probably tell you is a big part of the platform.

Reading its annual report, I was reminded that, perhaps, TikTok’s algorithm has gotten too good at pointing people in the direction of sure-fire hits and less good at loading FYPs with videos people will find incredibly inventive or fascinating.

In other unsurprising news, horniness was big on Grindr this year. The hookup app’s Unwrapped report also named Charli XCX as Mother of the Year and found that the Sex Position of the Year was missionary. Actually, maybe that is surprising. For Grindr, at least.

My final thought, though, comes from a year-end mainstay that (I don’t think) is algorithmically based: Oxford University Press’ Word of the Year. Determined by popular vote, input from experts, and, as Oxford Languages president Casper Grathwohl told The New York Times, a little bit of “dark art,” this year’s word is �� drumroll … “brain rot.” Er, you know, the degeneration that comes from too much time looking at dumb stuff online.

First, yes, that’s two words. Second, other people also noticed this discrepancy, proving that maybe all of the internet’s beloved year-end traditions are feeling the heat of social media scrutiny this year. “Brain rot” also beat out “demure” and “romantasy,” the frequent BookTok topic. So, ultimately, maybe algorithms did impact this one, too, just not in the way you might expect. Maybe the real brain rot was all the decisions we made along the way.

[jeahreading]

tag game for the desiblr!

Dil ko yun behaal bana de Par deewane mane Na dekhi koi aisi girl (Na dekhi koi aisi girl) DEKHI LAKH LAKH PARDESI GIRL ! AIN'T NOBODY LIKE MAH DESI GIRL! Dekhi lakh lakh pardesi girl Sab toh soni saadi desi girl Who's the hottest girl in the world? My desi girl My desi girl!!!

Reblog this with a song which has the word "girl"!

@randomx123 @wulfricnavy @zeherili-ankhein @chichihuahua1413 @bookisposts

@telugu-girl-13 @shinchansbitch @tamanna-and-her-struggles @im-on-crack-send-help @ek-ajnabee-haseena

@no-idea-where-i-am-lost and all my desi moots!!!

I have a version for desi boyz as well! let's see kounsa better karega

[piningforstan]

Everybody Talks

Summary: Stan teaches you the three E’s about living in a small town like Gravity Falls

Pairings: Stanley Pines x Reader

Word Count: 484 words, it’s a short one

Warnings: age gap

A/N: another song inspired fic. Enjoy!

“What’s botherin’ you, kid?”

Stan was infuriatingly observant, even when you thought you did your best to disguise how you were feeling. Hair loose, feet on the dash, a breeze drifting through El Diablo to ward off the heat (and lack of air conditioning), you peer at him from the corner of your eyes.

“How do you know something’s wrong?” You ask.

Stan mimics your own stance, reclined back in his seat and arm hanging casually out the window. The forest whizzes past, bars of golden sunlight slanting through the gaps between trees.

“Cuz I know you,” he says back.

It’s enough explanation — you can’t hide anything from him. You sigh. Straightening in your seat, you eke out, “I heard people…talking.”

Stan’s brows knit together. “Yer gonna have to gimme more than that.”

“Talking…about us,” you say. You don’t know why you were avoiding telling him about the strange interaction while you were in town; perhaps, if you didn’t tell him, then the problem would disappear on its own.

You’ve got Stan’s attention now. “Who?”

“Stan, honey, please watch the road,” you interject, adding, “I didn’t recognize them. But they weren’t bothering to whisper.”

“Hm.” He taps his fingers on the wheel.

You search his profile for the reaction you expected, anger or disbelief, but he’s uncharacteristically calm. “Hm? That’s all?”

“Whaddya want? ‘Course they’re gonna talk about us.”

“It was about…” you gesture between the two of you, the words eluding you.

The corner of Stan’s lip twitches. “Let me tell you, somethin’ — you ever hear of the three E’s?”

“No. Should I have?”

“You’re from the city, I don’t s’pect you to,” he says, shooting you a mischievous look, “when you grow up in a small town, everybody knows everything about everyone.”

“The three E’s,” you repeat, muttering.

He snaps his fingers. “Bingo.”

“So you’re…not worried?”

“Me? Worried?” He lets out one of his deep, toe-curling belly laughs, prompting a smile from you. “We ain’t got nothin’ to worry ‘bout, doll. I don’t give a shit what they think and neither should you.”

“Okay,” you say. The tension leeches from your shoulders.

“You’re all that matters,” Stan says next, surprising you. The tips of his ears turn pink but he forges ahead anyways. “Do you care? ‘Bout us? Our ages?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then I’m all good.” Stan beams at you while clasping his large hand on your knee, giving it a squeeze.

Your heart swells with affection for him. Feeling your concern melt away, loosening the tightness in your chest, you elbow him. “I think you’re getting soft in your old age, Stan Pines.”

“Bah,” he replies flippantly. In the same breath he closes the space between you to press a kiss to the side of your head, drawing you into his side so that you spend the rest of the ride nestled against one another.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Golden Arches - A Hungover Joel Miller Drabble

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Pairing: No Outbreak Joel Miller x Female Reader Word Count: 700 Summary: After a night of stoned and drunken debauchery Joel surprises you with your favorite hangover cure. Warnings: No outbreak Joel, a dash of smut memories, domestic fluff, mainly Joel's POV until the end, McDonald's breakfast, Sarah and I have the same favorite drink, marijuana use, alcohol.

A/N: And yet another entry into the @ohheypedrito and I talk about something and then I make it into a story. It's cute, it's short, and it makes me really want a spicy Sprite.

Masterlist

🥞🥞🥞

He wakes up, head pounding with eyelids weighted by exhaustion. The beam of sunlight slicing in through the curtains fries his brain. He stretches and groans trying not to disturb you as he rolls out of bed, feet planting against the floor, broad naked body swaying back and forth finding his sleep drunk balance. He shuffles over to the chair in the corner and slides his flannel pajama pants on. 

Foggy memories of last night awaken him. Your bubbly laughter floating across his backyard as he sings along to the song in your ear. The ashtray sitting on his knee that you ash the joint into. The taste of whiskey and ginger on your tongue diving into his mouth. Your hands in his hair as he sank to his knees and ate you out as you swang on his porch swing. 

He grumbles out of the bedroom, wiping his large hand down his face, rubbing his sparse beard against the palm of his hand. His lungs deflate with a cavernous yawn. He’s so hungover, he can only imagine how badly you’ll suffer the wrath once you wake up. 

He picks up his shirt deposited on the kitchen counter top and pulls it on. His eyes adjust to the sun shining on the patio, he gently shakes his head when he spots your bra laying in the middle of the green grass, light blue satin fabric glistening with morning dew. 

Better pick that up before Sarah gets home. 

He wonders where your pretty dress ended up as he gulps down a drink of water and takes two Advil. 

The time on the microwave tells him he better hurry, breakfast will be over soon. He checks on you, smiling at the sight of your naked body all stretched out in your peaceful slumber.

Keys jangle in his hold as he stuffs his wallet into his pocket, puts his sunglasses on and slips his feets into his sneakers. 

The Texas heat is already stifling, sweat already gathers at the back of his neck as he climbs into his truck. The engine revs and he pulls away from the home he’s made with you. 

___

He parks in the driveway thanking his luck he made it right before the kitchen switched over. The truck smells of oily and sweet breakfast food, his mouth waters. 

He gathers the cup carrier and food, holding the brown paper bag in his mouth while unlocking the front door. The house is silent, you must still be asleep. 

He puts a cup filled with Hi-C Orange in the fridge for Sarah. Hoping the surprise of her favorite drink will calm her disappointment that she missed out on fast food breakfast while at her sleepover. 

He walks to the bedroom, excited to surprise you with your favorite hangover cure.

___

“Sweetheart,” he whispers against your forehead, placing a kiss against it.

You grumble, turning away from him. 

“Baby, it’s late.” 

Your grievance rumbles louder pulling a chuckle out of him. 

“Come on, I got you something,” he shakes the bag. “You gotta get up.”

Intrigued by what he surprised you with, you muster the strength to roll over, eyes lighting up at the sight of Sprite happily bubbling in all of its delicious effervescence. 

“Pancakes?” your ragged voice ekes out. 

He nods and stabs the straw in your Sprite before handing it to you. Sitting up, you wet your throat with the zesty carbonation.

“I’m sorry for this,” he apologizes before cracking the curtains open earning a hiss from you closing your eyes tight. 

You reach for the bottle of Advil on your bedside table chucking two in your mouth praying for a reprieve from the pain beating against your head. 

“Move up,” he grabs his coffee, and places a foot on the bed. You scoot forward, he sits behind, his back resting against the headboard. You settle your body against him. “Come on now, eat.” 

The smell of black coffee on his breath mixes with the maple syrup and buttery goodness of your pancakes, you feel golden just like the arches of your favorite hangover cure. 

[baronessvonglitter]

Cherry, Cherry 🍒 Chapter 15 🍒

"Shameless"

pre-outbreak! AU!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: 3,469

Summary: secrets are revealed at Sarah's birthday party

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, age gap (reader is 18, Joel is 35), takes place July 2003, (not-so) secret relationship, morning quickie, unprotected piv (reader is later mentioned to be on birth control), Joel being a grumpy protective dad, jealousy, oral (m receiving), someone walks in on you and Joel during an intimate moment, revelation of your relationship (at last!), no use of y/n. If I've left out any tags please let me know!

Author's Note: there was a lot I wanted to cram in here because the next chapter gets quite serious. Also, anyone interested in the "Shameless" song can find it here. Fun fact: it was written by Billy Joel about a decade before Garth Brooks covered it and quite honestly, Garth sings it better. I feel like it just perfectly captures Joel’s feelings about helplessly falling in love.

Series Masterlist

Your phone rings on your nightstand, the tinny Nokia ringtone interrupting your morning quickie with Joel.

"Don't answer it," he pants behind you, slamming into you as he grabs your hips.

"Wasn't going to," you gasp, closing your eyes when he leans down to kiss your neck.

The phone rings again.

"Who's calling at 5:30 in the morning?" he grumbles, lips grazing your ear, his breath hot on your skin. He pulls you upright, his movements slow and steady. He palms your breast in one hand and toys with your clit, enjoying your little cries of pleasure as you snake your arm around to bring him to you for a sloppy kiss.

It doesn't take long for you to come, Joel hitting that hidden spot inside you this way. He stills long enough to relish the sweet, strong pull of your walls seizing around him. "That's it, my beautiful darlin'," he whispers against your neck. The scent of your skin keeps him spellbound, your pulse pounding just beneath his lips. He's going to think about this moment all day at work.

The phone rings again and, frustrated, you reach out to shut off the noise. Joel doesn't part from you, flattening you to the bed as you scramble for the little silver phone. "Not gettin' away that easy," he grunts, his chest pressed to your back. You turn off the phone ringer, cutting the annoying ringtone in mid-play and toss it on the floor where your clothes from last night are discarded.

Joel sweeps your hair to the side, his thighs on either side of your legs as he pumps into you, hands on your waist. Trapped between his legs you feel him even more snugly inside you, the friction almost too much. "Joel!" you moan, half-muffled by the pillow against your cheek.

"That feel good? You gonna come on my cock again, babygirl?"

Just him mentioning it causes an automatic reaction, your body so acclimated to him by now that his pleasure is yours and vice versa. "Yes," you moan again, pushing yourself up slightly to be heard clearly. "Harder!" you eke out.

He rumbles low in his chest, pulse racing, heart feeling like it might just give out, but what a fucking wonderful way to go. Your pleas for more are answered as his thrusts become aggressive. "Fuck!" you whimper, your body on edge as he continues his hard work.

"I can feel ya grippin' me so tight, sweetheart.. Jesus, I never get tired of feelin' you this way."

"Joel.." you beg. "Don't stop, don't stop..."

He sustained his pace, beads of sweat starting to surface on his skin and yours, his hands on your shoulders for leverage. When you break apart, cunt throbbing, hips and ass arching up to get every inch of him soaked with your sweetness, he can't help but finally let go, slamming into you one final time as he spills every drop into you, staying still, keeping you at an angle so that you get all of it, all of him.

With Joel in the shower (it took a lot of willpower not to join him, but he was already late for work due to your morning fuckfest), you find your phone on the floor and see who called you.

Of course it was your mom.

Three calls, two voicemails, and plenty of texts.

Suppressing a groan, you dial her back, quickly wrapping a blanket around yourself and heading out to the hallway.

She answers with an annoyed tone. "What are you doing that's so important that you can't call back immediately?"

You roll your eyes. "Mom.. it's super early and it's my day off. Can't I sleep in?"

"You should start waking up early, go outside, get some exercise, it's good for you. Plus school is starting soon anyway. Don't you want to pursue good habits?"

"Yeah," you tell her, though it's honestly the last thing on your mind. This summer has distracted you from everything you hoped you'd do, and given you something even better, something you never thought you'd have.. love.. sex.. things most people took for granted but you'd been gifted with simply for being in the right place at the right time.

"Tell me why I have a bill from my insurance for a gynecologist visit."

A large lump forms in your throat, as if a natural instinct to block the truth from coming out. You'd rarely lied to your mom simply because she was good at hounding the truth from you.

"I had a UTI. Sofia recommended a good doctor." In truth you'd gone to get on the pill, a decision you'd been proud of, taking care of your sexual health. Not to mention it made Joel more excitable than ever, and almost every night had been spent with him filling you up.

"Okay.." your mom doesn't sound completely satisfied with that answer, but she lets it go. You talk a little about your summer so far, talk about her boyfriend and the road trips they take. You pray she never makes the trip out here to ruin the peacefulness of the newfound independence you've forged for yourself.

"What're you doin' out here?" Joel asks, finding you leaning against the wall. He's freshly showered, dark hair slick, skin scented with Irish Spring soap. His dark red tee clings to every muscle, even the little belly you're so fond of that he sometimes feels insecure about.

"I had to make a call," you tell him, exhaling sharply as he removes the blanket hiding your body.

"Come on, lemme see."

Your heart thuds in your ears as you open your legs, the remnants of his cum leaving a sticky trail on your skin.

"God damn.. I never get tired of that sight.. gonna fill ya up again soon, babygirl. And don't forget about tomorrow."

Tomorrow.. Sarah's birthday barbecue..

"Sure thing, darlin'. Oh by the way, I put some air in your tire, it was lookin' a little flat. Don't want you runnin' off the road and gettin' hurt," he says.

"Thanks," you're genuinely touched by his gesture.

"Next weekend I'll change the oil," he says, putting the blanket back on you. "But only if you bring me some lemonade while wearin' a cute little skirt." He narrowly evades a swat from your hand as he ducks, laughing. "All right, all right, I'm goin'. Love you." He kisses your lips softly.

About to head out to the mall to get a birthday present for Sarah, you spot a CD on the console of your car. It's Garth Brooks' Ropin' the Wind. The blue-eyed country singer poses on the cover, clad in a black and blue dress shirt against a blue sky background. You had this poster when you were a kid. It's probably still in your room if your mom hasn't redecorated.

On the back of the CD there's a sticky note: play #6

You smile, seeing what track that is, and as you make yourself comfortable in the car, starting it and letting the AC cool your heated skin, you listen to 'Shameless'. The lyrics feel like they come from Joel himself, the passion and devotion, how you've transformed him, stripped away the person he used to be for someone better, happier.

A teardrop splashes onto your lap before you realize you're crying. No one has ever shown you this kind of love, this much love before. If Joel was here now you'd kiss him.

You put the song on repeat, the anthem of your love, the anthem of your last innocent summer.

"Ice cream cake? In this heat?"

"Do you have any extra towels? And sunscreen? I forgot mine."

"I think we're gonna need some more aluminum foil."

Your house is bustling with guests, mostly friends of the Millers, other people you know, and kids Sarah hangs out with. Not one for attention, she's still enjoying celebrating her day, even more so because Joel allowed (hesitantly at first) for her to invite boys.

"One boy," he said at first.

"A boy with a bunch of girls? At that age? He'll be scared shitless," you told him.

"Good. Then he'll leave early."

You and Sarah managed to sweet talk him into agreeing on inviting two boys.

Right now they're both in the water with Sarah and her friends, splashing, being kids.

"How's it feel to have a fourteen-year-old?" you ask him as he prepares the meat to put on the grill. The air is scented with seasoning as he expertly adds it to the chicken and ribs. Tommy's at the other counter making a margarita.

He shrugs a little, glances outside at the pool where the teens are shouting and diving. "Makes me feel old."

"You're not." You rest your head on his shoulder, and hear Tommy behind you saying, "Aww. When's the weddin'?"

"What?" you force a little laugh as you turn around, watching him watching you and Joel. Joel ignores him, face turning red as he prepares the food.

"I'm just sayin'.. y'all are cute together."

"I--" there's no other reaction you can think of on the fly except to act dumb, as you're woefully unprepared for his remark in the first place.

"Let her be," Joel grunts. "Babygirl, can you open the sliding door for me?"

Following you, Joel gives Tommy a look.

Hailey from the cafe shows up, bringing some Smirnoff Ice. You sit in the shade, sipping your drinks as you surreptitiously eye Joel at the grill, listening halfheartedly as she talks about the latest guy she dated, what a disaster he was in bed. Little could she possibly know the fun you've been getting into with your own man.

"He's so hot," she says suddenly.

"Yeah," you agree, still in your own daydreams. "Who?" you ask, alert.

"Joel Miller," she answers, eyes looking past you and at your boyfriend, at the grill, laughing at something Tommy's saying.

"Oh.. yeah.." Her assessment comes so suddenly that you aren't sure how to answer. What feels like jealousy starts to bubble in the pit of your stomach.

Hailey's eyes don't leave him, and it starts to irk you. You feel a smidgen of what Joel must have felt when that idiot at the saloon had his hands on you without your permission.

"I'm fucking him."

The look on her face is priceless. "What? You're kidding.. I thought you were a virgin!"

"Was," you say with some smugness.

"Damn, girl!" Hailey looks impressed. "Is that why you asked me about what it's like with older guys?"

"Sort of. Well, yeah."

"What's he like?" she asks in a whisper.

Now this is the part you want to keep to yourself. Let the world know this man is yours, but you won't give any more details than that. It's private, it's sacred. But now Hailey thinks it's just physical.

"I'm not wearin' that," Joel chuckles at Tommy, averting his eyes from the navy blue apron his brother has produced from a shopping bag.

"At least try it on."

Sighing deeply, Joel removes his old, faded black apron and puts on the new one, unable to take himself seriously.

It reads, EAT MY MEAT on the front, with a picture of a perfectly placed hot dog.

"I ain't wearin' this," Joel repeats.

"You don't gotta. It was just a joke. That's supposed to be your birthday present by the way, so happy early birthday."

"Thanks." Joel rolls his eyes, stuffing the apron back into the bag and tending to the barbecue.

"So.." Tommy sips the margarita in his hand. "How'd an old sourpuss like you land a college girl?" He motions to you, walking back towards the house. "And don't tell me 'nothing' because that ain't true. She was leavin' your house that one mornin', you brought her home the other night, carryin' her though the front door like it was your honeymoon. You're with her all the time."

Joel shakes his head, purses his lips as he ignores his brother's look. He's tempted to say, 'She's just a cute, feisty eighteen-year-old who takes care of my daughter and gives great head.' But he doesn't have it in him to denigrate you to his own kin.

"Keep this between us," Joel warns him. Tommy nods. "But yeah, we've been seein' each other."

A little smile forms on his little brother's face. "I knew it! Sofia owes me twenty bucks."

"Don't tell her. Not yet."

Tommy nods. "Okay.. but you might not wanna wait too long, brother. Makes you look guilty."

"Sometimes I feel guilty," he mutters. "I'm twice her age. What's she doin' with someone like me?"

"I'm askin' myself the same thing," Tommy laughs. "You deserve to be happy," he adds.

"I appreciate that," Joel says warmly. "And she does.. she makes me happy."

Coming back outside from taking a break in the AC, the first thing you zone in on is Joel. And Hailey is next to him, flipping her blonde hair. Touching his shoulder. They're laughing together.

Jealousy is not an attractive trait in a woman, you can almost hear your mother say, but for the first time in your life you feel it, like a cold spike in your belly, altering your brain chemistry, blinding you to everything except them.

Before you realize what you're doing, you're marching over to them, looping your arm through Joel's, telling Hailey that you need to talk to him.

You're on autopilot, your brain screaming at you to be normal, to stop while you still can, but the green-eyed monster has taken over, and it's this monster that brings you to your room, closing the door behind you as you tear his stupid apron off him and unbutton his cargo shorts.

"Babygirl, what--"

"Why were you talking to her?" you ask, relieved that he's not hard because of Hailey and disappointed that he's not hard because he's alone with you.

"She was askin' me when the food was gonna be ready," he replies, a little exhalation of surprise when you get down on your knees before him and stroke him. "What's this about, baby? Are you.. are you jealous?"

"Of course not." You seem offended he would even suggest it, but there's a desperation to the way you're handling his cock, as if you're afraid if you stop touching it it'll go into someone else.

"Baby, it's okay. I don't like her. Don't even know 'er."

There's silence, a small grunt as you get him worked up for you, finally hard and pulsing in your hand.

"She knows." you tell him, licking the salty precum off his tip. "I told her."

His dark eyes narrow a moment before going wide as he thrusts against your touch, needing friction, either the softness of your hands or the wetness of your mouth. "I told Tommy," he admits.

There's a brief moment where the air is filled with a sense of harmony. It's a relief to you both.

With a heart full of warm, fuzzy feelings, you bring him to your mouth, cupping his ass with your hands.

"I want to do the cake!" Sarah announces, emerging from the pool and wrapping herself in a towel. Her friends follow suit, still kids at heart despite the fact that they're about to go into high school. Sofia brings out the ice cream cake, perfectly thawed out, and Tommy places the candles on - trick ones that don't extinguish - as everyone begins to gather around.

"Wait, where's Dad?" Sarah asks. "Wait, let me go find him."

The house is calm and cool inside, chilling her still-damp skin. Joel's nowhere to be seen, so she searches deeper into the house.

Getting closer to your bedroom, she hears something, a soft sound, a sigh or a moan. She doesn't think about what it could be, only who.

Your bedroom door swings open silently, and it's a long moment before Sarah can grasp what she sees: you, on the floor in front of her dad, the soft sighs coming from both of you.

It's just a second but it feels like an hour goes by as she leaves, closing the door behind her louder than she intends, walking back out to the party, a thousand-yard stare on her face.

She walked in on an intimate moment between you and her dad, and though she'd teased you about it, even predicted that something like this would happen, seeing it was very different. If she's walked in on you kissing it would've been different, but it's as if you've ruined her hopes, as if you've skipped the fairytale ending and shown a cruder, lewd side of being an adult.

When she returns, brushing the tears from her eyes, she simply says that she doesn't feel well, they can skip the birthday song, please serve her friends first, she's going home next door to lay down.

Joel's a little disappointed when he learns Sarah left early, attributing it to her burgeoning teenage attitude, which he'd rather not deal with at the moment.

Selfishly, you're more preoccupied with whoever it was who closed the door on you and Joel earlier. Obviously someone had seen you, accidentally, and left quickly. It could be anyone at this party. Walking back after your hookup feels like going in front of a firing squad. A glance from this person means one thing, a word from another person means something else.

As the day grows late you keep at Joel's side. He doesn't try to push you away. You make yourself comfortable, sitting next to him as you eat, letting your thigh brush his. You even lightly brush an imaginary piece of lint off his shirt, your hand lingering on his shoulder as you talk with the other guests.

You forget who's idea it is to tie knots into cherry stems. You've never heard of the challenge, and when a bowl of leftover cherries from the cocktails made earlier that day is brought to the table, you bite the sweet bulb of red fruit and easily tie a knot on one with your fingers. Joel teases you, telling you, "No, babygirl, with your tongue."

A little moment passes between you, a shared look that is not lost on the others. You take another cherry and he bites off the fruit while you take the stem and place it in your mouth.

It's a hidden talent, one that impresses the table when you effortlessly tie a knot into the stem using only your mouth.

And that's how you get the nickname Cherry.

"You know what this is s'posed to imply, right, darlin'?" Joel rasps, twirling your tongue-tied knot in his thick fingers.

"No idea," you smile, lost in his eyes.

"It means you're good with your tongue," he murmurs.

It happens so quickly, so naturally that you don't realize it until it's happening. Your lips are on his cheek, loving the feel of his stubble against your soft skin, and everyone else is looking at you.

"What?" Joel asks, addressing the table, pink showing up on his cheeks. "My girlfriend can't give me a lil' kiss?"

Cleaning up the kitchen later on, Sofia comes next to you, busying herself with packaging leftovers and rinsing off dirty dishes. You can feel the tension between you.

"I don't approve," she says sternly, not looking at you.

"Of what?" you try to sound innocent, but you know she can see right through you, that it's pointless to lie.

"Of you and Mr. Miller," she says, using the formal surname you should have been using all along.

"You don't have to approve," you say, scrubbing particularly hard at a stubborn spot on the stove.

"He's twice your age, cousin," she says with concern. "I'm supposed to be looking out for you while you're staying with me. How's it gonna look, me letting you date someone older?"

"That's all you care about? How it's affecting you?" you shoot back. "Please. You sound like my mom."

Sofia sighs. "This kind of relationship can't be healthy. He's done more, he knows more.."

"I know."

"Please don't tell me you've-"

"We have." There's no pleasure in telling her this, but it's a massive relief to tell someone.

"God damn it," she mutters. "Are you at least being careful?"

"Of course!"

Sofia's at a loss, unsure of what to say, the warnings countless on her tongue, but unwilling to part from her lips.

"I love him," you tell her. It's whispered confession, as if your own truest feelings carry the worst sin of your life.

Another author's note: just wanted to clarify that Sarah didn't see anything too inappropriate, but she definitely understood what was going on.

<- prev chapter

next chapter ->

dividers by @saradika-graphics 👑

[onskepa]

Hiii! Would you like to make the sully family and tonowary family react to the first season of the tv show vikings? I think they would be intrigued by the human culture and life back then.

Hellooooooooooo~!! As a fellow Viking fan, I am so happy this was requested! Enjoy!

P.S: the winner of the polls of which style the theme is!

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

If I had a heart

“If I had a heart, I could love you

If I had a voice, I would sing

After the night when I wake up

I'll see what tomorrow brings…” 

Slukx was singing as she made a bracelet with a braid-like style. Enjoying the beautiful weather. Which was cloudy, gray skies and a high chance of rain. The perfect weather in her eyes. Singing the theme song of her beloved show. 

“Dangling feet from window frame

Will they ever ever reach the floor?” 

The thump of her heart beat being the beat to the song. Her voice is soothing and calm. Very beautiful to hear. 

“You sing pretty”

“AH! Dang it, you scared me!” 

“What was that song you were singing?” kiri asks. Hearing the lyrics made her curious about its meaning. Nothing like the human music she heard before. 

“Just a song from a show” slukx said casually. The girls were collecting some herbs that the tsahik needed. 

“Can you teach me…?” kiri asks a bit shyly. Slukx happily nodded. 

“Sure, there is actually two version, the english version and the norse version” 

Kiri’s ears twitch in interest. 

“Really? I want to learn both of them” 

“Þetta mun aldri enda því at ek vil meirr

Meirr, gef mér meirr, gef mér meirr

Þetta mun aldri enda því at ek vil meirr

Meirr, gef mér meirr, gef mér meirr” 

Mo’at and neytiri were looking at kiri very curiously as she began to sing in a language they had never heard of. It sounded oddly soothing, like the soft echoes in a cave. Or raining hitting the ground. Hauntingly beautiful. 

“Ma’ite, what is it you are singing?” Neytiri asks. Kiri stops and looks over at her mother and grandmother. 

“Oh, its a song slukx taught me. She was singing it herself when I heard it. It was so beautiful I asked her to teach me, "Kiri replies honestly. Kiri liked the sound of the other language. Somehow managed to pick it up better than her siblings. 

“I never heard those words before, is it even english?” mo’at asks. 

Kiri shakes her head, “no, it is another human language. Norse language, slukx taught me” 

Mo’at and neytiri look at each other before looking back at kiri, “can you take us to her?”

“Vikings” slukx said simply. 

“They were real people, their history is still shrouded in mystery but historians did their best to connect the dots in how they lived and their culture. Norse was their main language spoken, while only a few areas still speak it, the norse language is slowly dying. I'm sorry if you felt uncomfortable with me teaching Kiri the language.” 

Mo’at, neytiri, jake and their fellow metkayina brothers and sisters all heard slukx’s explanation. 

“The song, is the song part of the culture?” ronal asks. 

Kiri and her siblings looked slightly embarrassed, slukx having to explain herself as to not get them in trouble. 

“Not exactly, it is a song from a show called ‘Vikings’. Loosely based around the historical figures and the era it took place in. But the song does reflect the people and their ideals” slukx explained further. 

Mentioning the word ‘show’ was enough to peak everyone’s interest. 

“This show…….can we watch it?” tonowari asks. 

Slukx was ready to answer yes until she saw tuk. And so many intimate scenes appeared in her mind. 

“Ummmmm….sure, let me just……review it first” she hesitantly replied.

The scene opens to that of bloodshed and violence. One man stood tall as he was surrounded by his fellow brethren and fallen enemies. Crows surrounded the dark scene, all eyes on anything worth feasting. Death heavy as those who still fight, fight to their last breath. 

The man looked around, not uttering a word, his piercing blue eyes out shining the blood smearing on his face and body. He looks at another man, fighting the remaining enemy, slicing away until the opponent had fallen. 

“Oh boy…” tsireya mutters, slightly cringing and a bit disturbed at the very first scene of a new show. Blood isn't something she is afraid of, is it the cause of bleeding that scares her. 

“Even in the long past they fought?” Rotxo quietly asks slukx, she nods as she shares her popcorn with him. 

“Yes, however, this fight isn't about survival, it was about conquering” she replies smoothly. 

Everyone’s eyes glued at the screen as the opening began to start 

“If I had a heart,  I could love you…”

“Ragnar lothbrok…such an odd name” ronal mutters. 

“It almost sounds like Ragnarok,” slukx replies. All na’vi heads turned. 

“What is ragnarok?” tonowari asks. 

“You will know later” the girl says, gesturing everyone to focus on the screen to which they did. 

Ragnar was leaving his small farming village with his son Bjorn, as his wife Lagartha stayed behind with their oldest daughter, Gyda. Showing he is a family man who cares for his own. They make their journey to the main city, which looks more of a village. Many people wore interesting clothing, far different than the humans that wore today. 

And a lot of facial hair from men. 

By instinct, neytiri touched jake’s chin, enjoying his smooth skin under her finger tips. 

“No hair, perfect” neytiri says, jake grins at her, “would I look good with a beard?” he asks. 

Neytiri’s eyes widened slightly as she imagined her darling man with a big beard, worse if braided. Shaking her head, she kissed his jawline, “no, perfect as you are”. Jake chuckles and holds her even closer, enjoying it. 

The show goes on, showing Bjorn and Ragnar meeting Ragnar's older brother, rollo. Taller and having a much more relaxed personality. The three eat in what looks like a tavern. After some time bjorn was gone to do something else leaving the brothers to have a serious talk. 

“I believe there is a way, to go west” ragnar begins to say. A smile growing on his lips. 

“I have something that will change everything” 

Wrapped in cloth, ragnar reveals a wooden item. 

It was round with a pointed tip at the top, and a base at the bottom to balance it. Inside was rings. 

“It is a sun board,” he begins to explain. 

Rollo scoffs, already not believing in his younger brother. 

So, they get a bucket full of water, ragnar places the sun board on the surface while holding a candle. He explains how it works. By using the light from the candle, the pointed top’s shadow moves. 

Rollo follows but then pinches out the fire, “what if there is no sun?” he asks. 

Ragnar came prepared as he shows rollo a sun stone, holding it up on a cloudy day, with the stone you will find the sun. 

Rollo felt encouraged and inspired. His belief now is on his brother. A new land, and perhaps new treasures. 

“Why would this ‘west’ land be a myth? Surely they must know of other humans near them” ronal wonders. 

“In the old world, humans, wherever they are, believed they were alone in the world. Communication was nearly not common. Contacting other lands, especially across the seas. So many took risks in search and finding other lands with other people, "Slukx explains. 

“That is one of the main concepts of vikings before they expanded. To explore what more was out there. The need to find new places and what it could offer. Humans get bored” she went on. 

Neytiri rolled her eyes. “Boredom never leaves you humans” she says. 

“I'm afraid not, but what fun would there be if we just stayed put?” slukx speaks. She does have a point in neytiri’s mind. She leans closer to jake, her mate being on for just adventures back in their younger years. 

“Why don't you come in? I'm waiting” a voice said. 

Ragnar and bjorn enter a place where there are bones and other materials hanging, making rattling noises as they pass. A man wearing a black cloak was sitting, his lips black, his nails sharp, and his eyes, more so, lack thereof, are sewn shut. 

“Who is that?” mo’at asks, trying her best to hide her horror and disgust. 

“That is their shaman, a seer who holds a unique connection to their gods” slukx explains. 

“Their roles were very similar to the role of a tsahik” 

Ronal agrees and shakes her head as she stares at the seer. 

“We could never harm our own bodies like that, dont you compare slukx” mo’at hisses. 

Slukx raises her hands, “forgive me mo’at, ronal, but its the best I can explain. True you and other tsahik don't go to that extent but it was done to strengthen their connection. That their vision should be only the things their gods grants them” 

Mo’at understands but it still didnt settle her inner disgust. To know what humans will do to their own bodies even before technology was a thing, truly a horrifying thought. 

Ronal however lets her displeasure show. But she looks at her hands, yes her people do ink their skin but never taking away anything such as sight. To not see her world is a terrifying thought. 

As the seer explains what he sees, by the end, ragnar grabs the hand of the seer and licks the palm of it. 

“Eeeeeeewwwwwwwww” all the kids said in grossed out unison. 

“Floki, this is my son bjorn” ragnar introduces his son to his good friend, floki. 

“He is a silly man” tuk giggles, already liking this wacky man. 

“Looks like the type that would eat weed or shrooms” Jake comments. Slukx chuckles at that. 

“He does, doesn't he?” 

Floki goes on what tree would make good use for what, as ragnar states floki is  a boat maker. Clearly floki takes great pride in it. To demonstrate, floki observes the trees around him, letting the surroundings take in. And goes to one of the trees. Feeling its texture and smiling. 

“This one” he says. 

“Inside of this one are two almost perfect planks. They will curve like a woman's thighs to the back. When I split this tree, I will find them” and begin to cut. 

“Is women the other thing he is good at?” tonowari asks, not all too impressed with floki. No answer was given as it was clear as day.

“Hello bjorn, where are your parents?” rollo arrives at the family farm where the boy was carving a stick. 

“They are having se-some time together” bjorn answers, rather a bit odd. 

Jake notices it and looks over at slukx, who was already looking at him. 

“I had to make some edits to cover those ‘steamy’ moments” she answers. 

He nods and continues to watch the show.

The episodes go on, as Ragnar and his new crew journey out to the west. Almost losing hope when they finally reached a sandy beach and not so far up on a small hill was a small building. With axes, swords and shields they march towards up the building. 

At the same time, young monk Athlestan and his holy brothers and fathers all begin to shield themselves and pray for a god that neither the vikings nor the na’vi can understand. 

“Why do they not fight back?” tonowari wonders. He sees these half bald men all gather at a building called a ‘church’ and merely chant. 

“No arrows? No metal things?” neytiri also wonders. 

The vikings are prepared to kill yet these monks cower in fear. 

“They do not believe in violence, they do not crave bloodshed and merely desire peace” slukx tells. 

Neteyam turns to her, “do other humans also share those beliefs?” he asks. Slukx slight frowns. “Very few net, very few”

Tsireya took tuk with her as she could no longer witness the amount of bloodshed that was shown on screen. It wasnt something a child should witness. Kiri left as well not long after tsireya. Neteyam, lo’ak and ao’nung stayed to watch more. However lo’ak noticed that ao’nung had his eyes wide and looked very scared. 

“Dude, its a show. All of that is fake” lo’ak tries to comfort his frenemy. 

“The show lo’ak, is fake. But this is a reenactment of what happened thousands of years ago in human history. Like your songs and stories, this is how we tell our history” slukx mentions. 

Ao’nung turns to her, slightly scared, “y-you mean….?” 

“Humans are just as violent as they were back then. So, yes, this is in a way, real” 

Humans truly are scary. 

“Yeah I'm done” ao’nung walks away, having enough of the show. 

Further into the show, Athelstan sees his brothers hung like they were animals to skin. From a monk now turned slave, every pities him as he was now lesser than he was. Ragnorok gives him the option to be free if he so wishes, but everyone knows he wouldn't last long on his own. In a world that he knows so little of. 

Neytiri pities athelstan. To be forcefully taken from what you have known and into a place where they see you as a bug. To parade around like a thing, all while seeing your brethren dying right before your eyes. 

“Even amongst their own do they treat each other so terribly?” ronal asks. 

“For humans, not everyone sees each other the same. Some see themselves superior and feel that they hold the power to decide what others should and should not do” jake answers. 

Humans are really confusing and so complicated. 

“Is he going to fight their olo’eyktan? While still being injured?” neteyam reacts in shock as ragnar challenges the earl. 

“Well he isnt an olo’eyktan, he is an Earl” jake says without looking away at the screen. Tension clearly rising, wanting to see what happens next. 

“What is an earl?” neytiri wonders. She has heard of chief, commander, colonel, olo’eyktan, sergeant, but earl is new. 

Slukx, being a nerdy goof, let her mouth go on autopilot. 

“An earl is a a man born of nobility. He is above viscount but below a marquess, also way below a king” 

Everyone just looked at her in utter confusion. So she shortens it, “its someone who watches over his people”. 

And then everyone nodded in understanding. 

Next time they should watch royal family documentaries. Though, maybe or maybe not the na’vi would laugh at how stupidly complicated ranks are.

“Come on…come on….” jake mutters, obviously on ragnar's side as they all watch him begin his fight with Earl haraldson. Everyone leans forwards, not one blinking. Their tails swaying in anticipation. Swords swinging and clashing, grunts and groans. Blood is already leaking from their skins. 

They watch how ragnar started as a simple farmer, a man with big dreams to do more with his life. To enter a new world full of wonders and new possibilities. His dream and determination, his ambition for bigger things. Too big for the earls' liking. 

Tonowari, as leader, can tell that this earl haraldson felt envy and threatened by rangar. Many were switching sides and begin to follow the farmer. To follow someone that isnt the leader, that poses a threat. But tonowari knows, the threat isnt of losing to someone more worthy or anything, the threat is of losing power and control over the people. Something a leader should never do. 

“Perhaps its time he falls…” he mutters, seeing haraldson become weak in the fight. 

“And let a new one rise…” ronal finished for him. 

“But will the change be a good one?” lo’ak wonders. 

They all watched and cheered as the fight was done. Ragnar won, and all who surrounded them kneel to him as the new earl. Many were ready to swear their loyalty to him, as they knew he would make things better.

“So he is the leader now?” mo’at asks all of a sudden. 

Everyone was quick to turn around and see her getting comfy with a big bowl of fried teylu and popcorn. 

“When did you leave??” Ronal asks in a rather startled tone, not once did anyone hear mo’at get up or say she was coming back. 

“2 hours ago” mo’at answers simply as she offers the snacks to her family. Everyone just stares, slightly confused. She isn't one to just leave like that. Mo’at sees this and looks back at them, “what? Everyone seemed very interested so I did not say I was gone”. 

Mo’at knows she missed a good chunk of the show but doesn't mind. 

They all resume watching.

While it is not known how much time passes in the show, by hints the characters drop, some can guess a few months since Ragnar became the new earl. Athlestan has grown his hair and is wearing better clothes. The children have slightly gotten older. 

Neteyam doesn't know why but he likes the young boy, Bjorn. First born and takes care of his sister despite his age. He can somewhat relate, making sure his parents are on the same page of whatever they discuss while he grows. 

Lagertha welcomes her new position and aids those in need, especially the women. Neytir and ronal likes her, and seem themselves in Ragatha. 

Jake however, for some reason does not favor any characters. He sometimes questions their motives. One thing he is definitely sure of, his major dislike for Rollo. A man who has a hungry lust and is never satisfied with what he is given. 

“Now comes the big parts” slukx predicts, not really a prediction since she saw the show before. 

“Bye” lo’ak leaves along with neteyam. The time for sacrifices has come. And that part was both intriguing as it was terrifying. The temple, those who watch over the godly statues, the prayers and traditions. To begin learning of the olds gods, Thor, Odin, Freya, Loki. All of them. And how all demand something different. What lengths humans were willing to do for them. 

Something the na’vi can understand to a certain degree. 

But this was too much. Yes, risking their lives and willing to die is not anything new, but by the hands of your own? Such an inconceivable idea. 

“Their gods demand blood all the time?” tonowari asks, horror written in his eyes. Those poor animals. And those humans as well. Saying their goodbyes and never seeing them again. 

“Not always, only on certain occasions, like this one. They sacrifice for the future of fertility, health, prosperity, and good luck” slukx informs. 

“And do they answer?” mo’at asks. 

Slukx slightly shrugs, “if they are pleased with the sacrifices” 

“And….if they are not…?” ronal wonders. 

“Then the people better hope they can survive the next day” 

Reaching the last episode, Ragnar enters the home of Jarl borg, as emissary on behalf of king Horik. While Lagertha pleads to the seer, what is to come of her husband. While the seer has been shown plenty of times, his overall appearance is something mo’at nor ronal can get used to. 

And the ones to interprets eywa’s will and search for anything of signs, they dont mutilate their bodies to seek answers. 

If the seer was the one to damage his eyes. 

The two cant help but enjoy him wherever he is shown. Oddly satisfying, something they won't admit. 

As the episode goes on, there was one odd edit that was shown, aslaug appear and claimed ragnar's friends saw her bare, but did not show it. 

“Yeah I had to edit that part as well…” slukx rubs the back of her neck. It was tiring really, trying to make sure all intimate or risky parts were out so it can be safely watched by the kids. 

But neytiri, seeing that smirk from Ragnar, as he admires Aslaug's beauty. 

“He better not…” she slightly growls. 

“Better not what?” jake asks. 

“He better not betray lagertha. He mated her for life, did he not? Does he not love her?” 

Jake gently swings side to side with his love in his arms. “Easy baby, its merely a look. Its not that deep. Nothing wrong with admiring a woman's beauty” he tells. But neytiri quickly turned her neck to face him. 

“Do you admire another woman's beauty? When I am not around?” She challenges him. 

“No, you are the only beauty I see” Jake quickly answers. 

“That's what I thought” 

Slukx and mo’at sees this, “sheesh you two” 

A plague was growing in the village. Many people were being infected and spreading fast. Rough coughs, heavy sweating, dizzy vision, skin around the eyes darkening. Strength was depleting. Medicine from what was shown, is hardly doing anything. 

“And the seer? Can he do anything?” Tonowari looks as the people get weak, the mention of young children dying. 

“Shamans only see the vision of the gods, he is no healer” slukx answers. 

Many were dying, bodies already being burnt to prevent the plague from spreading. Mothers cry as they find their families dead. 

It was a horror to see. 

“Odin…. I give you this offering, hoping you find it pleasing” lagertha prays as she slices the neck of the poor lamb. 

However, it was for naught. 

“Oh no….” neytiri mutters, her voice shaky. 

Gyda was dead. Poor girl was innocent, out of everyone she has done no wrong. Yet their god has taken them. Before her was Thyri, another innocent child. Wed to an old man, whom she did not love. Dead, now that she may join her father and brothers into the afterlife. 

“The village dies but ragnar enjoys the pleasure of another woman” ronal rightful criticizes. 

“I am with your child” aslaug tells ragnar. 

“Oh shit…” jake says so bluntly. Neytiri pinches his ear. 

Perhaps admiring the beauty of another woman was not a good thing after all. 

As the last minutes of the final episode was in countdown, all was rising to what could happen next. 

“So what do you say Rollo? Are you with me?” Borg asks Rollo as they meet in secret. Is he going to betray his own brother” 

“Yes, I will fight with you against my brother” was the answer. 

“Why, why do families have to fight against each other?” neytiri asks, annoyed. Family is precious among the na’vi. Family is everything. 

“Blood doesn't mean anything to humans” jake tells her. He should know, while he loved his family, kin doesn't always stick together. 

From lagertha having to grieve of her miscarriage, then her daughter, and the loss of the people to the sickness. Bjorn sees his father be distracted by some lady and betray his mother. And Rollo gives into his selfishness. All too much is happening. A possible war is going to break out. And even more, a child on the way. It ends the episode with many possibilities. Credit roll and the show comes to an end.

“But why so many gods?” neytiri asks. Curious as she is, its a bit odd to remember many names. 

“And why haven't we heard of them?” she asks another question. Grace has taught her and others of what earth was like and what humans believed in. This was something no one has heard of. 

Slukx shoves some corn into her mouth, “because they died”. 

All na’vi turns to her, “died?” mo’at repeated. 

“As all the other gods” 

They begin to clean up their little setting as the show ends. Still, many questions linger. 

“So this odin, thor, all of them are gods. But many were seen worshiping this ‘jesus’ and their ‘lord’. How did they coexist?” tonowari asks. 

Slukx takes a moment to think about it, “huh, well to be honest, that is something many even today wonder. There were so many gods on Earth. Some fought, some got along, but all of them entirely? Not sure” 

“All other gods…” mo’at repeats. They only have Eywa, and Eywa is all they ever knew. 

“How many gods were there?” she asks. 

Jake this time answers, “too many” 

“And they are dead as you say?” 

Slukx nods, a hint of sadness in her eyes, “yes” 

They all stopped momentarily, more question they are eager to ask, but one they now want to know. 

“How did they die…?” mo’at asks. She just can't help herself. 

Jake now wonders too, he wasn't much of a religious man but then again, religion was already fading as he was growing up. 

Slukx turns around to look at everyone, her smile slightly bitter but not towards them. 

“How else? The humans killed them by abandoning them”

okie ngl, this took me a loooooooooooooooong time to finish, between watching the episodes, and life getting in the way. FINALLY!! its done! Yes there was a huge chunk that I skipped but then it be way longer than needed.

Either way!

So I hope you all like it! Tell me watchu think! until next time! see ya!

[tunastime]

hell tunastime may i request a 34 sending you the smirking cat image

you are an enabler of the worst kind. don't send me that freaking cat smirking image I can't stand you. anyway myke this is for you, the only tuna and lovelace enjoyer that I know besides myself. this is on my MCCI playlist, so that's the ONLY reason I have for writing this. besides myke.

(574 words)

Tuna stands outside of the third parkour course with their eyes squinted. It's bright, and the everlasting sun is blocked only partially by the big green fishing hat balanced on their head. Their tail flicks agitatedly as they rock forward and back and fold their arms. They're still shaking off the heat and exhaustion of their last run, hair pushed back and sticking to their forehead where it still manages to fall forward.

5 minutes and 37 seconds.

That's their best time right now—which is to say, not what they're looking for in a parkour run. Another annoyed flick of their tail. Right now, the Shepherd's most advanced run is 2 minutes and 16 seconds. Luckily, nobody else in their party had run the third course since it reset, so really, they were only batting against themselves for the basic. They could afford the few mistakes that came with learning a run and go from there, hopefully to a higher score. Out of the corner of their eye, Lovelace tilts her head.

"Standin' around for fun?" She asks, leaning back on her hands. From under the brim of the hat, mask tied tight through the belt loops of their black cargo pants, Tuna furrows their eyebrows. They stretch slightly, their now tanned, bare arms pulling this way and that.

"No," they grumble. "I'm trying to figure out how to mentally prepare myself for the second worst parkour run of my freaking career."

Lovelace laughs. 

"Well can I follow?"

"Are you actually going for time or are you just gonna laugh at me?"

Lovelace shrugs.

"Probably just laugh."

Tuna sighs. Not much else they could do.

"Fine," they huff. "Just don't trip me and I'll be fine."

Lovelace bounds over, all smiles and hands stuffed in her pockets. She looks them up and down for a moment, head slightly cocked. Tuna squints. 

"You don't trip, you just don't jump," Lovelace teases, still smiling. Tuna rolls their eyes, laughing to themselves. The smile that worms onto their face is instinctual.

"I do jump—it's—I'm not good at this, so I just fall. I over-jump. I don't do it 'cause I'm good. I do it for fun."

"I think that's cute."

Tuna blinks at her, grinning confusedly.

"What? Me being a tryhard and still failing? Do you think I’m cute?"

"Pfft—" Lovelace snorts. "No." Then she looks away, expression faltering. "No I don't. actually. I don't. No."

"Well,” They muse. “I'm gonna try really hard to do well, but... you know how I am."

"Mhm," Lovelace manages to eke. Her eyes flick over them again. 

"Last longer if you take a picture," they hum, putting their hands on their hips. The irritated flick of their tail has turned now into a slow sweep, keeping their balance as they rock back and forth again, testing the weight on their heels. Lovelace raises her eyebrows. She seems to regain some of her composure as she tilts her chin up.

"I'll do that when you beat your time, how about it?"

"I'll hold you to that," Tuna smiles, a mouth full of sharp teeth. Lovelace smiles back, but not without the wobbly falter of someone trying to ignore an internal ping to their system. If Lovelace could blush, she'd probably be red by now. 

Cute.

With a huff of a laugh, Tuna shakes out the tension in their hands, drops into a lunge, and hits the start timer around their wrist.

(send me a number 1-100 and I'll write a little thing based off the song!)

[folklore-girl]

ek ladki bheegi bheegi bhaagi si — a short story

a/n: okok so i tried my best for you @androgynous-pavbhaji <3 since this is your secret santa gift? im so sorry for posting this so late, this was supposed to come out a long time ago.. but ig happy new year? hope you like this!

word count: 0.6k

warning(s): bad writing, cringe dialogues + a shitty asf story in general :( im so so sorry.

raindrops splattered on the sidewalk as i hurriedly made my way to the bus stop, my clothes drenched from the downpour. my hands held up my handbag to shield my head from the rain and to try and deflect some heavy raindrops, but all in vain. for the millionth time, i cursed my stupid self for not carrying an umbrella, even though we were deep in winter, and there was no way I could’ve predicted this. i still should have.

and, to top it all, i was horribly late to my bus.

when i reached the bus stop a thousand years later, my shoes were soaked and my head was in an overdrive. i noticed a guy—probably my age—waiting at the stop too and decided i should probably wipe the mess off my face.

so, i took out my napkin, just to drop it on the ground like an absolute idiot. and as i bent to pick it up, the guy on the right offered me his napkin, in spotless white.

i was scared. not of the guy, but of ruining his napkin by using it. he saw me hesitate and said, “arey, it’s fine. i have a spare.”

“pakka?” i asked, uncertainly.

“yup,” he said and i thanked him, smiling.

he smiled back. and i thought, wow. i guess men aren’t all bad, then.

i took the napkin from him and dabbed my face with it gently, still scared to damage it. when i was giving it back, he said “it’s ok, you can keep it.”

“you sure?” i asked again.

“yes!!” he laughed, “it’s alright, you know. i don’t bite.”

“no, but, i’m not used to all this,” i gestured with my hands and his eyebrows rose in confusion. “kindness?” i finished lamely.

“well then, you will be soon,” he winked and i looked away because i was in a loss of words.

meeting a decent man made me feel like i was in some other dimension, some dream where kind strangers were real and not a thing to read in tumblr posts and fawn over.

by now, my heartbeat had slowed down and my breaths were much less frantic, so we talked about our buses.

“oh, me too,” he smiled, “we’re both going to mumbai.”

“that’s nice,” i smiled as the bus approached the stop, “i bet the ride is gonna be fun.”

he smiled, “hopefully.”

we hauled up our luggage and sat in the bus, me in the window seat with him by my side.

we talked for almost the entire ride there, exchanging our names and talking shit about distant relatives (my lord, we had the same type of humour). and when we grew bored of talking, we both decided to do something else. he plugged in his earphones and i found out that i couldn’t find mine anywhere.

i looked out of the window and i could tell it was going to be a long road.

he noticed and offered to share his wired ones. feeling utterly helpless, i gave in.

later, we discovered that our music tastes were very similar and i soon found myself scooting closer to him as we listened to his playlist together.

by the time shuffle lead us to ‘i guess i’m in love’, i knew the feeling burning up in my chest, threatening to spill over. it was beautiful and warm, like sunlight filtering in through the curtains. like the first day of spring, my heart was blooming and after a long time, i felt the butterflies.

but it couldn’t be, could it?

i woke up to the sound of mumma calling my name. i’d fallen asleep with my head in my arms, crossed on the windowsill while rain poured outside and my chai grew colder with each passing minute. right next to it, my phone had just finished playing the song “ek ladki bheegi bhagi si” on my wired earphones and suddenly the surreal scenario in my head made sense.

i guess it was a dream, after all.

xoxo

[ramayantika]

I was in no mood for studying. Every time my eyes glanced at the page of my textbook, I would try to understand the concept, but my efforts were in vain. All the words flew above my head, and my mind was cluttered with a hundred different things.

I was humming a tune with my feet tapping to the beats. My fingers tried to rotate an empty pen flawlessly as my mind raced with thoughts about the upcoming tests, with catchy tunes from Instagram reels serving as the background music.

Sighing, I placed the pen on my open notebook, scribbled with equations and definitions, and grabbed my phone from my bed. I peered outside the window, silently admiring the quiet roads of my society. It was 11 p.m., and I could see a few balconies lit with golden LED lights that looked warm and cosy.

Below my window were green bushes and jasmine plants that were filled with white buds, ready to bloom at dawn. I plugged my earphones into the phone and opened YouTube to play my favourite go-to songs to soothe my mind.

And just like that, my body began swaying to the familiar tunes, and a smile graced my lips. Deciding that I could no longer stop myself from dancing, I quietly locked my room from the inside and unplugged my earphones.

Opening my braid, I let my hair fall loosely down my shoulders. Admiring the curly ends that had formed because of the tight braid, I smiled at the mirror and admired myself in the mirror.

Dressed in a long grey sleepwear T-shirt and black capri, I wasn’t a sight to behold at eleven in the night, especially for someone who had spent all her day studying. I looked exhausted after all the mental labour my brain had to do, but the open hair and the light breeze from the window did make me feel a little refreshed.

Aankhon ki gustakhiyan came up, and I grinned at the mirror. I twirled in the room as gracefully and quietly as I could. Kavita Krishnamurthy’s part came up a while later, and I was ready with katakamukha mudra to enact a woman shyly opening her veil to her beloved.

Aankhon ki sharm-o-haya maaf ho

Tumhe dekh ke jhukti hain

Uthi aankhen joh baat na keh saki

Jhuki aankhen woh kehti hain

I pretended to peer down while darting my eyes for a second at my imaginary lover in the mirror at the last line. Taking another twirl, I began practicing a few hand combinations for the instrumental part while practicing an easy-going, graceful smile in the mirror.

Quickly lining my eyes with kajal and applying a bindi to the centre between my eyebrows, I hurried back to the middle of my room, which acted as my imaginary stage, and giggled to myself while blushing hard for the upcoming stanza.

Kajal ka ek til tumhare labon pe laga loon

Haan chanda aur suraj ki nazron se tumko bacha loon.

I dabbed some kajal from the corner of my eyelids and applied it below my lips, and then I acted to be completely besotted with my beloved.

Har dum tumhe sochti hain

Jab hosh mein hota hai jahaan

Madhosh yeh karti hain

Moving my fingers around my kohl-lined eyes, I closed them a little and curved my wrists in a spinning motion to show the state of being drunk in love.

My eyes for a second moved outside the window and went downwards at the bushes when I found a boy staring up at me. I gasped and averted my eyes while scurrying back to the door to calm my racing heart.

I counted the rapid beating of my heart until ten and tip-toed to the window again. Hiding half of my face behind the curtain, I peered down the window to check if the boy was still standing there or not.

He was!

“No use hiding. I have already seen you. You dance really well.”

Blushing at the compliment and at my embarrassment, I replied, “Thanks.”

“What’s your name?” The boy asked.

The white lights were dim, and some were already switched off. I could barely make out the boy’s appearance. I could spot a bike and the boy standing beside it, all dressed in a sleeveless grey tank top and black trousers. His hair tousled because of the wind, probably from the bike ride, and his face was half hidden thanks to the dim street lights; he looked no less dreamy.

I wondered how I hadn’t seen this guy before.

“Sameera. Yours?”

“I will tell you if you agree to meet me at the society park tomorrow evening. I am new here, though.”

Taken aback and slightly amused at his forwardness, I said, “I have my dance class in the evening.”

“When does your class end?”

“At 6.30 PM.”

The boy thought for a while before saying. I silently looked at him, wondering what in the fictional novel world I had actually seeped into when he looked up at me again. “I will see you around 7 then. Goodnight.”

Passing me a two-finger salute, he sat atop his bike and sped off towards D-wing. After a minute, I tapped my head and stood in front of the mirror to contemplate what had happened in these ten minutes. Aankhon ki gustakhiyan had finished a long time ago, and Dekha ek khwaab had begun playing.

I rolled my eyes while trying to hide the bright smile on my lips as I glanced at my reflection. Hiding my face in my palms, I closed my textbook and notebook. Placing them on their rightful shelves, I made my bed, and with a strange, warm smile, I went to bed. My mind was now fixed on the boy on the bike outside the window.

***

Taglist: @alhad-si-simran @ramcharantitties @jukti-torko-golpo @navaratna @krishna-priyatama @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @krsnaradhika @kaal-naagin @houseofbreadpakoda @aesthetic-aryavartik

This was supposed to be a short story par nahi hua so maybe with enough motivation I might just end up writing this in parts to fuel my writing with end sems kyunki dimag isn't dimaging well :(

IT'S 1 AM NOW?? HOW BYE I WILL GO SLEEP AND WAKE UP TO STUDY TOMOROW

Also if you want to be added in the taglist, do let me know

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 1

Read on AO3. Part 2 here.

Summary: With your father off to serve the Continental Army, you've taken up the mantle of protector for your family - so when redcoats arrive on your property looking for him, you stand your ground. Sure, this ends in your arrest as a prisoner of war, but you don't plan on making it easy for them.

Until, of course, your interrogation is co-opted by Colonel William Tavington - the cruel, brutal Butcher of the Continentals.

Unfortunately for you, he's also the most beautiful man you've ever seen.

Words: 5500

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, William Tavington is Not Nice

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: THIS IS CO-WRITTEN WITH MY GORGEOUS PERFECT LOVE, @bastillia.

If you made it through, thank you for reading this first chapter to a mini-story about a villain from a film that's 24 years old. No better way to celebrate Fourth of July than fantasizing about fucking a British soldier!

Bastillia and myself are currently in a Jason Isaacs phase and we desperately need him and in particular William Tavington. So! Here you go. <3

Love y'all so so much!

Grace found you in your father’s rocking chair, dressed in his clothes. Taking a seat on the porch bench next to you, she let her head fall back, her gaze following the ceiling. When you didn’t speak, she sucked in air through her nose and sighed. 

“Are you going to sit out here all night again?” 

You shrugged, and she nudged you.  

“You and one gun won’t stand much of a chance against a bunch of redcoats.”

You frowned, glancing from the pistol in your lap to the dirt path cutting across the grassy field in front of you. Evening’s claws crept across the village, sank into the horizon. Since the fall of Charleston to the British, darkness carried an hourglass with it, the bottom growing heavier every night. Jaw stiff, your eyes followed a firefly as it drifted and winked out like an ember over the grass.

“You would rather I let them burn our home?”

Grace sighed again. “They won’t burn our home.”

You turned on her. “Won’t they? Mrs. Miller has a cousin outside of Charleston. Told me they fired her barn.”

“That’s one person.”

“Mr. Allen said his brother told him about a whole town down the way from Camden they found burned to the ground.”

Grace snorted. “Ah, yes, Mr. Allen, our esteemed purveyor of truths.”

“Grace. If…” You gripped the barrel of the pistol, your mouth drawing tight. She didn’t know, and it had to remain that way. There was no ‘if’ to your father’s return in her mind. He’d left the truth behind his departure only with you.  “I won’t let father come home to a pile of ash.”

A family of crickets swelled in song. Grace shifted closer to you. “You would rather I let him come home to your grave?”

You looked at her. Seeing her expression, a small part of you softened. She wasn’t wrong to worry. Your eyes ached, your head heavy from the lack of sleep. But even when you decided to lie down, your mind refused to release you to rest. Your shift as sentinel would end when your father returned home. With a sigh, you slumped back. The chair eked back and forth on the planks, the drumbeat of your station. 

“Let’s talk about something else,” you said. “Nathaniel’s been paying you quite a bit of attention, hasn’t he?”

Grace stiffened, battling a grin. “Yes, he has.” She folded her hands in her lap, her cheeks reddening. “Why?”

A laugh rumbled in your throat. You knew it. “What do you think about him?”

She pinched her lips between her teeth. “Well, he’s very sweet. Very kind. He always has been, you know the Joneses, they’re such good people.” Her shoulders melted into the bench. “He’s been walking with me after church. Just through the town. We look at the flowers.” She sighed, finally letting herself smile, her gaze drifting until her eyes hesitantly found yours. “What do you think about him?”

“Me?” you replied, as if you didn’t know the question was coming. “I don’t know him that well.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. What have you noticed about him?”

You hummed in thought. Nathaniel Jones. 

“Well…” His jawline was seldom free of razor wounds. “Probably a little clumsy.” The grooves in his fingers were always tread with dirt, the collar of his shirt tanned by sweat. His hands had stained almost every page of his Bible. “Not sure if he ever washes without needing a reminder.” He always showed up to church with at least one piece of tack fastened wrong on his horse. His mouth would mimic reading aloud during service, but his eyes would be trained on the floor. “And I don’t think he’s very bright.”

“Really.” Grace studied you. “Mrs. Jones taught all of those boys, though.”

“Doesn’t mean they all have the same capacity to learn,” you mumbled. But before Grace could protest, you shrugged. “Kind is good, though.” You offered a small grin. “Kind is very good.”

With a laugh of relief from Grace, the two of you lapsed into comfortable silence, basking in cricket song. The rocking chair squeaked back, forth, back, forth. It squeaked in tempo with your heart, rumbling, louder, a vibration skittering through your toes. Deeper, deeper it grew, staccato in its cadence, a pounding that rocked your porch. 

It wasn’t until Grace turned to look at you, her eyes shimmering in starlight, that you realized it wasn’t your heart at all. Torches floated over your lawn and up the dirt path, bobbing in rhythm with horse hooves. A dozen of them, each illuminating a soldier in a crimson jacket.

Your throat thickened. Your stomach tightened. You squeezed the handle of your father’s pistol. Beside you, Grace whispered your name.

“Quiet,” you said. “Just get behind me.”

You leapt to your feet, crossing over the top step of your porch to lean against one of the wooden columns, gun held slack but unconcealed at your side. The officer in front—a white-wigged man with a sword on his hip—held his fist in the air. Behind him, the squad stalled to a stop, dust swirling in the halos of light. 

Swallowing, you stuck your chin toward the sky, hoping that your father’s farm boots made you a little bit taller, that the breadth of his shirt made your shoulders even a little bit wider. The officer in front dismounted his horse and waved his hand, and a soldier behind him joined him on the ground. Together, they marched toward your home. 

“Officers,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

At the foot of the stairs, the inferior officer looked between you and Grace. His brow furrowed, he leaned toward the ear of his superior. “No record of a son according to our intel, sir.”  

You frowned, but didn’t correct him. Being mistaken for a man had its benefits in this situation.

The superior officer scrutinized you, hairline to hips, his lips screwing in thought. Whatever he was considering, he didn’t say it—instead, he cleared his throat and pulled a piece of parchment from one of the pouches on his hip. 

“Good evening,” he began, his nose wrinkling as he glanced at you and Grace. “You may call me Sergeant Dalton, this is Corporal Bancroft. Is this the home of Michael…” His eyes narrowed as he tried to read the last name. But you didn’t care to wait.

“Yes,” you said. “This is his home. We’re his children.” You stared between them. “Is that all? My sister needs to be getting to bed soon.”

Dalton returned the parchment, his hands meeting behind his back. “You’re aware your father is an officer in the Continental Army?”

Your heart—it was definitely your heart, this time—thumped in your temple. This was the part you didn’t want Grace knowing about. The soldiers waited, studying your face. You needed to say something. Words died on your tongue.

“What?” Grace stepped forward, peering around you. “No, he’s not. He’s been away—”

“Grace, be quiet,” you hissed. 

But she’d already caught the interest of Dalton. “Would you like to continue, young miss?” He advanced a step toward you both, and your finger slipped into the pistol’s trigger well. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to submit to questioning regarding your father’s whereabouts?” He glimpsed your hold on the gun. “Come along, quietly, and you may very well be pardoned by His Majesty’s army.”

You shook your head. “Just take me. She doesn’t know anything.”

Grace whispered your name, grabbed your hand, and proceeded to undermine you. “No,” she said. “Take me. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Dammit, Grace—”

“That’s enough.” Dalton looked at you, then at Grace, then at Bancroft. “Arrest them both.”

---

In the tent, the air was thick with breath and sweat. Candles swayed in the center, their lambent glow hovering on the walls, deepening every shadow. Voices filtered in from outside, so low that they clogged together through the canvas. Sharper was the ache where your bindings had begun to bite your wrists to rawness. Louder the pulse in your own eardrums, and the sniffled prayers coming from the young man bound beside you. 

Twisting your wrists sent a knife of clarity to your brain. You bit back a hiss—you needed to think. 

By your estimation, they’d brought you between two and five miles beyond the outskirts of town. But between the darkness and the burlap sack which had been so benevolently foisted upon your head for the entire wagon ride here, it was impossible to say for sure.

More alarmingly, you’d lost track of Grace somewhere in the weave of shoves and barked commands. When the tents had been erected, you’d been thrown in with the men—Elijah Smith, Adam Brown, and Nathaniel Jones, as fate would have it. Whether this was somehow a genuine mistake even after your thorough handling by the soldiers, or some drawn-out taunt to your choice of attire, you also had no idea. 

Each unknown seemed to hook itself upon a tender sinew in your mind, and stretch it taut. You tried shaking your head, but that only set off a ringing in your ears. 

Beside you, Nathaniel sobbed out another prayer. Your teeth ground together.

Craven would have to be added among the placards you’d already tacked to his character, you decided. 

Outside, hooves thundered again. As they slowed, one pulled ahead of the others and into the heart of the camp. Your ears pricked. There was an unevenness to its gait, the rattle of a bit shank as the horse threw its head before slowing to a halt several yards away. Voices rose and hushed, soldiers shuffling. A distant chorus of acknowledgement to a new arrival.

“Colonel, sir,” said one that sounded like Dalton. “The Dragoons weren’t—I wasn’t aware you’d be arriving.”

“Another detail among many which seem to slip your awareness, Dalton,” said the voice belonging to this colonel, whoever he was. “The rebels, then. What have we learned?”

Dalton was silent for a moment. “Well… Nothing yet, s—”

“Nothing.” 

“We haven’t begun the interrogations, sir.” 

Boots struck the ground. As his horse was led away, the colonel dusted his coat twice. And, with the manner of someone chiding a forgetful child, said: “Well, no time like the present, is there, Sergeant?” 

There was movement, grass rustling, canvas flapping. You stuck out your neck as if this would help you hear—all it managed to do was strain your collarbones. Beside you, Nathaniel was still sniveling, sorry for himself and his whole family, as if now was the time to be crying. Closing your eyes, you caught the frayed wisps of voices, drowned by the sound of his sobs.

“Nathaniel,” you murmured. When he didn’t respond, you kicked his boot. "Nathaniel.”

He snorted up snot. “What? Who are you?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s me. Grace’s sister.”

“Grace’s—” He inventoried your outfit. “Dear God. I didn’t recognize you. Is that why you’re in here with…” His eyes gained focus through his tears. “If you’re in here, where’s Grace? Is she all right?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out!” You tilted your head toward the origin of the other voices. “Be quiet.”

Nathaniel choked and nodded, his nose still leaking, his face ruddy. You caught a sigh in your chest and sat straight, listening for intakes of breath, stammers, the scrape of metal, the chime of glass, anything that would give you insight.

The colonel’s voice first, dipping in and out of your perception. “All of you have… Captain Michael…”

You swallowed. This was about your father. But he should be with the Continentals up near Virginia by now. 

“... his crimes against the King’s army… may be spared and released.” 

Spared and released? Civilians weren’t targets, torture wasn’t permitted, you had nothing to fear from soldiers who would be your future brethren—this was according to the Loyalists in your village, anyway. Recent reports sparked doubt in their confidence. This colonel concealing threats stoked it further.

God, you hoped Grace wasn’t in that tent.

Silence. The candles wavered under the sodden air. One, two, three steps in the grass. You closed your eyes. 

“Very well.” The click of a pistol. 

Your breath stalled. 

“Wait! Don’t—don’t…” 

Grace. Grace was in that tent. Your consciousness slipped with a skip of your heart, but you sucked in air, fighting the ring in your ears. If you were going to help her, you needed to be alert. 

“Is—is that Grace?” said Nathaniel.

You kicked his boot again.

“I’ll tell you everything I know. Michael is my father.” Grace’s voice was tight, trembling. “But he’s—you have the wrong idea about him, sir. Or the wrong man entirely. He’s not a soldier in the Continental Army, he’s been away visiting our grandmother in Pennsylvania.”

“No,” you whispered. “No, Grace, no…”

“How very interesting,” came the colonel’s even reply.

A gunshot split the night. 

All three men beside you flinched at once, and your bones flashed to ice. When the tin-whistle screech died in your ears, someone outside was screaming. Another was pleading.

“No! No, no…” It was Grace’s voice. Relief hit like opium. She was sobbing, incoherent between retches and sputterings of "you killed her,” and “oh, God, no, please no…”

You swallowed bile. Nathaniel resumed his prayers with fervor, now rocking back and forth. Elijah joined him.

“Colonel Tavington, I must protest,” came Dalton’s voice through the chorus of grief, before dropping lower. “... cannot abide… protocol… my jurisdiction—”

“Fortunately for you,” the colonel—Tavington—said, “these prisoners are no longer under your jurisdiction. They are under mine. But do feel free to stand by, Dalton, if you’ve the stomach for it. Perhaps you and your men could benefit from a demonstration, hm?”

“Sir,” was the only acknowledgment Dalton offered.

“Tavington,” said Adam, looking at Nathaniel and Elijah. “William Tavington? The Butcher?”

Elijah met his gaze and nodded without stopping prayer.

Your father had never mentioned any Butcher, but tonight was giving you plenty of context. Bracing against needles of panic, you closed your eyes, forcing your breathing to slow. Wails wracked Grace, and your chest squeezed. She had never seen death. Perhaps naively, you had hoped to keep it that way. 

A gasp rippled through the women, and then Tavington spoke again.

“Now, now, darling girl. Shall we try this once more? Perhaps without lying.” The scrape of a ramrod resounded, then another click. 

“I’m not lying” The tone of her utter despair tightened your throat. “I—I promise, that’s the truth. You can ask my sister. She—”

“Which of you is her sister?” 

“I…” Silence. “She’s not in this tent. I don’t know where she is. But you arrested both of us, sir, she’s around here somewhere!” Another whimper crawled its way out of her. “There’s no need for anyone to die, please.”

You chewed your lip. You’d had enough. “Colonel!” you called out. “Leave her alone. I’m in here.”

“Stupid girl,” growled Elijah, “you’ll doom us.”

Ignoring him, you sat up straighter and willed your nerves to harden. Grace cried out your name, but was cut off with a yelp as leather cracked against skin. Fury roared within you.

Through the hot surge of blood, you heard footsteps marching toward the opening to your tent. Whoever this Butcher was, you’d halfway convinced yourself you’d spit in his face. But you needed to play it smarter than that, needed to keep Grace safe. With what little information you gathered, you at least knew he was a man, and from what you knew about men, they were easily swayed with a bit of physical encouragement.

With the shards of a plan coalescing, you shifted up onto your knees and thrashed your shoulders. Pain leapt from your wrists up your arms, but the movement had the intended effect—the front laces of your shirt slackened, the collar slipping open until it threatened to drape off of one shoulder. Pulse thundering, you settled back onto your heels. Exposed. Ready to bare your throat to the enemy. 

Boots came to a halt outside. Then the entrance peeled open, and the Butcher stalked through. 

You could make out little more than his silhouette. Tall and broad, head bowed to accommodate the tent’s low threshold. Then he straightened, took a step forward, and another, until candlelight thawed the shadows from his face. And as it did, the searing core of your anger surged and flashed to mist. 

He was disarmingly handsome. High cheekbones framed a face carved from cruel marble. His eyes, alive like blue signal fires, penetrated the dimness from beneath the bastion of his brow. Peering down a curved nose, he struck a hawklike poise, with shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back. His long, dark hair was combed back into a bond at the base of his skull. Immaculate, apart from a single errant strand that drifted down to brush his jaw. Even beneath an ink wash of darkness, you devoured his shape. 

And, against every rational instinct left thrashing for air—found him exquisite.

A prickling sensation rose under your skin, spread hot across your bare collarbones and up your neck. You bolted your eyes to the floor, shifted on your knees. His presence stole even more air from the tent than you’d thought was possible. With a pang of frustration, you blinked hard once. If you were to have any chance of surviving this encounter, if Grace were to have any chance, you needed to pull yourself together. Now. 

One slow, controlled breath flowed in through your nose, out through your mouth. You dared to glance up again. 

The colonel’s head swung down the line of men, surveying his prisoners as a wolf might a flock. And then his eyes landed upon you.

“The sister,” he said, advancing. “Playing soldier with the men.” He clucked his tongue. “Quaint.” Your teeth ground in your skull, but words were not as forthcoming as you’d hoped when you’d shouted his summons into the night. The Butcher moved closer. “Is your father so thoughtless, leaving his daughters vulnerable while he dies in war?”

“My father,” you began, “trusts me to take care of the family while he’s away.” 

Tavington’s eyebrow cocked. “You’ve done a wonderful job, then, haven’t you?”

The venom his beauty had diluted was gathering on your tongue again. With effort, you swallowed it. Stick to the plan. Eyebrows pinching together, you made a show of slouching in capitulation to his jabs. You then conjured a pained whine and wiggled in your restraints, hoping your shirt would expose more of your clavicle, that he’d be able to see the sway of your breasts when you moved.

The colonel frowned, but did not drop his gaze. “Something the matter?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” You pulled breath through your voice, fluttered your lashes. The focus required not to crumble under the frigidity of his gaze could have earned you regional acclaim. “These restraints are just so tight.” You wrested your shoulders back and forth as if to demonstrate, gasping from the very real pain that screamed in your wrists. “Perhaps you could loosen them just a little…”

Next to you, you felt Nathaniel watching, caught from the corner of your sight his mouth agape in horror. The realization irritated you. What had he done for Grace other than whimper like a beaten dog for God’s help? Yet another strike against him.

He wasn’t important. Bargaining for Grace’s safety was. 

Meanwhile, Tavington had tracked your movement, his expression indecipherable. Your palms sweat in fear you’d managed to find the one man impervious to the temptation of sex. 

“Poor dear.” He crossed behind you, and you stifled a sigh of relief.

Strong hands slid down your forearms and found the bindings on your wrists. The leather warmed your skin, his breath skimmed your nape. Goosebumps raced over you along with an undeniable desire to shiver, but you held your breath, fighting it off. Instead, you tipped your head to the side, exposing the bare skin of your shoulder to his view, along with the intriguing pocket of darkness that had formed down the front of your shirt, between your breasts. 

Tavington paused. Your breath stalled. With an unforgiving grip on the ropes, he undid the knot—and then yanked it tighter. The fiber gouged your flesh, air fleeing your chest. 

He stood and wedged the sole of his boot along your spine, shoving you forward. You smacked the dirt with a cough.

Your cheeks burned. So you had managed to find this previously-assumed-mythical man. Fine. If your body wasn’t going to work, you would find an alternative strategy. 

“Perhaps that may help you focus less on squirming and more on the task at hand.” Tavington’s boots crossed your vision, shiny enough that you could almost glimpse your own pathetic reflection. With a grunt, you twisted to glare up at him. He was watching you like a child might watch ants under a magnifying glass on a sunny afternoon. “I’m going to show you a map. You’re going to show me where we can find your father. And if your sister gives me the same answer, you both may leave with your lives.”

Hoping the ground would yield a new perspective, you studied him. The horse he arrived on—it’d had a lame gait. Then there was his hair—a single thread of it kissing his jawline. His hands were concealed, his jacket and boots impeccable. But his stock-tie—the knot had been pulled slack, one tail creeping from beneath his collar. 

There was so little to gamble with. But you had to try your luck anyway.

You snorted, using your shoulder as leverage to hoist yourself back onto your heels. “That will prove fruitless for you. She doesn’t know where he is.” You leveled him with your stare. His own bore into you, almost hollowed you. “My father only entrusted me with that knowledge.”

Tavington stepped forward. “A mistake on his part, perhaps, given the situation you find yourself in now.”

“No,” you said. “I think he had the right idea.” 

A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk curled his mouth. “Then you’ll have no problem telling me exactly where he can be found.” He exhaled, the next words drawn out as if your lives were an inconvenient tedium. “Or you and everyone in this tent will suffer until you do.”

Nathaniel quailed. You jut out your chin. 

“Do your worst.” 

Tavington’s lip twitched. He snatched his pistol from its holster.

“You won’t kill me!” you spat. “You need me. Or you will fail.” Your voice was tight. 

Tavington regarded you coolly from over the pistol’s frizzen. That moment’s silence was admission enough—a mote of triumph surged within you.

“Terribly sure of yourself.” As stony as his expression remained, you caught a certain bile now laced through his tone. “Pity,” he tutted, moving forward to rest the barrel between your brows. “To think such a pale imitation of bravery could save you.”

“It’s your risk to take,” you spat out, heart drumming your chest. 

Something flashed across his expression. Seizing your chance, you held his gaze and pressed your forehead into the gun barrel. 

“No cavalryman of honor rides his horse to lameness.” Fear bubbled in your throat, but you swallowed it. “Look at you, Colonel. Your hair, your stock-tie—utterly disheveled. One might think you rushed here. One might even think you need something. Desperately. But you won’t get it if you kill me.” You flicked your eyes toward the other tent. “And if you hurt Grace, you’ll have to, because I promise that if you lay another finger on her, you will leave here with nothing.”

The tent was silent. Tavington dropped to a crouch before you and pressed the pistol under your chin. The barrel moved, guiding your head side to side as he examined your face. You swallowed, heat creeping onto your neck with the intensity of his attention. He was reading you, calculating his next move. You followed the single strand of his hair. You wondered how it felt against his skin.

”Tell me,” he murmured, his breath brushing your nose, “upon which observation I struck you as a man of honor.”

Tavington stood, unsheathed his sword, and in one swift movement, sliced Elijah across the throat. A sheet of blood draped down his chest. Your eyes widened. Adam and Nathaniel screamed. The sword gored Adam’s neck, silencing him, and with its blade still lodged there, Tavington raised his pistol, cocked the hammer, and blew a bullet right through Nathaniel’s head.

The blast flayed your senses to a single tone pealing through your skull. When the world reformed, something warm and slick had smattered your face. You smelled iron.

You heard Grace shout your name, ripped through with terror, and as you heaved a breath to reply, Tavington wrenched the sword from Adam’s flesh and trained it against your windpipe. Adam’s body joined the rest, the dirt rusting with their blood.

“Ah, ah,” Tavington said, eyes sparkling with glee. “Best if sister dearest thinks you’re dead. Kinder that way, don’t you think? At least, of course, until we find out if you have anything of value to offer.” 

Dalton charged into the tent and cursed. He gestured toward the bodies still soaking the ground. “Colonel, please,” he said. “I must insist. I won’t know how to explain all of this to the General.”

Tavington turned toward him, his excitement waning. “How unfortunate for you.”

“I—I know, sir. But please. Let us just take the rest of these women to Charleston. We can handle this there.”

Crickets hummed in unison again. Tavington looked back at you. The terrible thrill flickered alive again.

“Take them, then,” he said, regarding you like a cougar would regard a lamb. “But leave this one with me.”

The sergeant nodded. “Uh, yes. Yes, Colonel.”

He disappeared again. Orders echoed to round up the women and get them on carts to Charleston. From the other tent, you caught Grace’s horrified, desperate tears. Everything inside you was bursting to call out to her, to soothe her despair. But Tavington’s blade prodded your throat. One noise could send it through.

You waited like that with him until the carts creaked off into the night. The bodies around you settled into death, their final breaths a gurgled epode to the dirt. It was impossible to stop the tears of anger that stung the corners of your eyes. Worse still, there was no way to hide them. No move you could make that wouldn’t add you to the litter of cooling corpses. All you could do with your last scrap of dignity was hold the Butcher’s stare.

A smirk flashed over his face. Your throat thickened.

“Now, there’s an obedient little soldier, hm?”

You held your breath, cheeks hot with humiliation or agitation or something altogether unfamiliar. God, what a bastard. If only you’d had your gun on you; you would’ve been happy to demonstrate just how much of a soldier you could be. 

Tavington watched you, checking your compliance as if you were his dog in training. The closer he moved, the greater the heat in your chest, the thinner the air waned. His attention in any other scenario would've felt flattering—he followed every line, every curve of your body, eyes scouring your skin like chipped timber—only he sought the evidence of your deceit, anxious for an excuse to pile you on top of his casualties. 

In any other scenario, the something altogether unfamiliar would've been simpler to define. In any other scenario, you might have wanted him closer.

Tavington raised a brow. Whatever he was searching for, he didn’t find it—or the weight of your information while alive was greater than his desire for your death. 

He lowered the blade. You exhaled.

“Your father is a fugitive. Tell me where I can find him,” he said quietly, jaw tight. “And your sister may fare well in her trial for treason.”

Your heart pounded in your throat, in your temples. You had no idea where your father might have headed, and you didn’t have any intention of handing that information to this monster, regardless. But you first needed to survive him. The rest would come later.

“Yes, sir,” you said, nodding. “If you show me on a map where he escaped from, I can show you the path he likely followed.”

Tavington considered you for a moment, then offered a mirthless grin. “I advise you not to move.”

With that, he turned on his heel, striding outside. Breath trembled through you, your eyes jumping around the tent. They’d stripped it of anything potentially useful—no knives, swords, guns, not even a damn rasp or a pair of nippers for the horses.

“Colonel Tavington, sir,” came a voice from outside. 

“Do I appear at liberty, Bancroft?”

“Well, no—”

“Then it can wait.”

“But sir, it’s—”

“As you were.”

“It’s correspondence from General Cornwallis, sir.”

Silence. Your head cocked. He was unmoored. And behind you, candles crackled dutifully. 

If you had any stitch of time to take at all, it would be now. 

Your limbs moved autonomously. You rolled onto your side, working your bound hands beneath your thighs, tucking your legs to your chest. Wincing at the strain in your wrists, you forced them all the way around your legs. Now in an awkward quadrupedal position, you turned and focused on the candles. With a dizzying level of concentration, you managed to suppress the cries of pain as you dragged yourself forward. 

Your wrists throbbed. Numbness pricked your fingertips. Your lungs screamed for air. None of it mattered. Balancing on your heels once more, you wedged your shirt collar between your teeth. Then you reached up and held your wrists over the flame. 

Pain wasn't immediate. First there was only heat. Heat, and the acrid taste of your own heartbeat in your mouth. The fibers between your wrists frayed, dissolving like sugar upon the little tongue of flame. And then, it began to bite. 

If you’d wanted to shout before, it had been nothing compared to this. Everything inside you lurched with the singular need to snatch your wrists from the flame, cradle them to your chest. Your teeth tore into linen. Your eyes squeezed shut.

Blisters bubbled to life on your flesh, agony lodging in your throat. Vision blanching, you could feel every muscle shake violently as they went to war with your will. 

Just as surrender mapped a cannonfire course down your arms, the fiber snapped and your wrists sprang apart. You collapsed to your knees and elbows, wrangling the sobs that clawed your chest, blinking against the cotton fog that threatened to blanket your senses. 

Move. You need to move.

You spared one glance back toward the tent entrance before prying a candle from its pricket and shambling for the lip of the tent. As you flattened yourself to slide under, you caught the vacant stare of Nathaniel Jones. Behind him, the shapes of the other two men could have been cloth-covered stone. A lump wedged in your throat, which you swallowed with force. 

Was it regret? Maybe. Pity? Assuredly. Either way, all you could do now was slip beneath the edge of your canvas prison and light them a pyre. You left the candle on its side, the flame licking at a piece of rope rigging. And you ran.

Silhouetted against the summer night sky, you could just make out a treeline. That would be your haven, if only you could make it. Your feet attacked the uneven ground, somehow keeping you upright. You looked back just in time to see the tent erupt in flame, to hear the bellowing of redcoats and screeching of their horses.

The fire’s ghost haunted your skin. Pain hammered up your shoulders, and as you made your way into the forest, you bit your tongue to silence a burgeoning whimper. Familiarity with the terrain was your advantage, but you needed silence to make full use of it.

You leapt to avoid leaving footprints and snapping branches and dropped against a tree. The tent’s blaze pulsed in your periphery. Drawing a slow, long breath, a familiar rhythm rumbled close, closer. Rumbled, then pounded and clanked in an awkward, head-tossing gallop. 

Tavington’s horse. 

You froze, sunk to the ground, spying the torch that danced with the horse’s gait and watched as it met the treeline, spilled light on the leaves. It tracked through the forest, a flame aching to swallow a moth. The light’s edge nearly skimmed your toes. 

Tavington growled—a deep, furious grind in his chest—and tore off down the perimeter.

When you were certain he’d gone, you stood and kept moving, pressing your wrists together to will the pain away. You’d find somewhere to hide. You’d wait them out tonight. 

Tomorrow, you’d find Grace.

[dailyadventureprompts]

any ideas for a druid villain who isn't a pro-environmentalism "extremist" who opposes the #just'n'kind authorities and such? i'd like to do one but honestly most suggestions are just to make a fantasy anti-civ unabomber and idk im not too crazy about the concept

Villain: The Eelmonger

While the scholars debate whether it is nature, society, or fate that makes a person cruel, remember my student that none of these things are kind or fair to most whom they govern. -From the diaries of Tarraji, country tutor

Hooks:

Every year a great festival is held across the kingdom to honour the queen's birthday, a tradition started by the previous rulers to celebrate the long-sought birth of their first heir, but maintained by the current sovereign as a means of sharing a little of her prosperity with her subjects, the crown footing most of the bill for the event. This year, just as people (and the party) are crowding into the rivermarket to enjoy the festivities, a horde of grotesque aquatic monsters surge from the water to rampage through the town.

Two days later when the last of the beasts is either slain or driven off, word arrives that similar attacks have occurred all up and down the central waterway, paralyzing the realm's economy and making travel tremendously dangerous. The party could go hunting the worst of the rivermonsters, or they could sign up to protect a daredevil merchant's cargo and make a small fortune crisis trading.

Along with all this chaos an old threat reemerges, pirates with a long hatred of the realm trawling for plunder in the wake of the rampage. Apparently exempt from the wrath of the seabeasts that still lurk in the rivers and canals, they fly a new flag bearing images of sharp-toothed eels, and sing songs in praise of an unseen master.

Dressed like a peasant and exalted by outlaws, the enigmatic figure known only as the Eelmonger has emerged seemingly from nowhere to overthrow the realm and topple the queen from her throne. Who is she? Why her unprecedented attack? How is she able to turn the great predators of the deep into warbeasts bent to her aims? Among all the uncertainly all that can be known is that she has seemingly declared war against the realm, and will not stop till the queen and any who support her have been reduced to meals for the ocean's scavengers.

Background: Sha's parents thought it was very lucky for their daughter to be born under the same stars as the crown princess, as in the old traditions of the kingdom such "celestial siblings" were thought to share their fortunes, and as poor fisherfolk eking out a meagre living from the sea that fortune was dearly needed. As Sha Grew however it became apparent that the stars played a cruel game of favourites, and whatever luck the oneday queen was given was taken in equal portion from Sha's own: The day the princess was thrown from her horse and rose mirraculously unharmed was the day Sha tumbled over the side of her family's boat in a calm sea and somehow broke three bones, the announcement of the king's recovery from the brittle sickness reaching Sha's village the same day they put her long-ailing father in the ground.

These transgressions were manifold, too obvious and cruel to be mere happenstance, and over the years and the grand festival-birthdays Sha's resentment at her distant royal sister and the injustice of fate filed her sharp and cold as a gutting knife. Things paradoxically got a little better during the pirate wars, when those foreign fleets took the town she lived in as their fortress, burning and pillaging many other settlements along the coast and great river. Sha, now a woman grown, felt her fortunes had reversed, as the pirates were all to happy to pay for her catch with handfulls of stolen coin, and her expertise with local cuisine saw her elevated to the position of landbound galleycook, feeding whole crews of cutthroats in between their inland raids.

It was not to last however, after a few brutal years on the defensive, the princess and her allies rallied and launched an offensive that shattered the invader's fleet and ousted them from the lands they'd set to conquer, culminating in a battle that saw Sha's town (and the life she'd built there) burnt to the ground. It was in the midst of that fighting, trapped beneath burning rubble that Sha saw her celestial sister for the first time, glorious and beautiful and totally ignorant of her existence, scaling the ruins of Sha's happiness on her way to future glory. Sha was pinned there for days, forgotten among the rest of the corpses; it wasn't until a great storm broke and washed the wreckage of the battle out into the sea that she was freed, her druidic powers awakening as she drowned and calling out to those creatures of the brine to aid her. Whatever warpath and hope she had for making a good life in spite of her sister she left below the surface, because as soon as she made landfall she started plotting her path back to the queen.

Goals & Schemes:

Ruination: As strong as her monsters are individually or as a horde, The eelmonger knows her beasts can't challenge the might or logistics of an entire kingdom. However, Sha grew up on the kingdom's waterways and knows that just like small tributaries fed the great trade river, the lives of farmers and merchants feed into the strength of the crown. If she has any hope of evening the playing field Sha must break the system that feeds the realm's warchest even if it means breaking the realm itself in the process. Monstrous chaos and resurgent pirates are just the first step: Targeting the merchants will cause supply shortages and beggar the realm, after that she'll move on to sowing famine in the farmlands. When there isn't enough to go round people will break down into factions, causing the army the well trained army the queen has inhereted to crumble before it ever reaches the field.

Fixing the broken scales: Simply killing the queen won't be enough. Sha reasoned out long ago that if she ever did direct harm to celestial sister whatever fate bullshit that connects them would likely redirect the outcome onto her somehow and that just wouldn't do. Instead she has to settle for making the soverign suffer by proxy, all the while searching for some means of attacking the connection itself. Those pirates directly privy to her plan are out hunting for priests and fortunetellers during their raids, anyone they could kidnap and bring back to the eelmonger to help correct this balance.

Saint of the Brine: Though she has no love for gods, Sha's vengeful ascent is watched over by a coldhearted deity of the fathomless seas, who has umbrage with this particular kingdom ever since the queen's ancestors laid claim to its bays and coastlines by slaying a titanic beast she favoured. The eelmonger is her unwitting instrument of wrath, and whether the gods involvement began during Sha's almost drowning or all the way back were praying for a safe birth is impossible to say. Though the eelmonger has unseen aid throughout her campaign against the crown, if the party is able to make their enemy aware that some god may be the source of her misfortune they may be able to divert Sha's wrath from the queen and the realm's inhabitants.

Art

[rpfofficial]

*the literal meaning is "the sewing of hands (together)"

[jeahreading]

tag game for the desiblr!

Hum yaaron bigde hain, dil apna hai shareef bada MAKE SOME NOISE FOR THE DESI BOYS! 1 2 3 GO! English thumke, dil ki rhythm pe! Maare jamm jamm ke, desi boyz!

Reblog this with a song which has the word "boys"!

@randomx123 @wulfricnavy @zeherili-ankhein @chichihuahua1413 @bookisposts

@telugu-girl-13 @shinchansbitch @tamanna-and-her-struggles @im-on-crack-send-help @ek-ajnabee-haseena

@no-idea-where-i-am-lost and all my desi moots!!!

I have a version for desi girls as well! let's see kounsa better karega

[nonvaleantredeo]

Marius de Romanus Appreciation Week, day 7

Prompt: My independence, which is my strength, implies loneliness, which is my weakness (P. P. Pasolini) The poet Gallus dreaming (L. A. Tadema)

In the final day I present the most difficult (for me) piece, the Grave of Loneliness, that was named after the Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall

This sonet needs a little excurs in Russian philosophy that I placed under it, please read it after sonet, it'll add another sence to the text

~The Grave of Loneliness~

I will be lonely for eternity, perhaps, more or a less

And heart of mine will turn into a mystery for everyone

But pain of hesitation gnaws the soul so deep and permanently

Melancholy and heartburn are my deadly sins garland

Won’t witness joyful amusements of my resemblings

And suffering of martyrdom in fullness eke

Bewitched by unknown goddamn armor piece

Will cover with a cerement vampire hearse

Through hundreds years voice desolated will awake

The shadow, ancient ghost is modern bogochelovek (emphasis is marked, read the caption)

Sepulcher song, litania of him – the voice of God

Not long enough last getaway from ell to heaven

The tremble of a grave catch him so far away

Conclude in ice of underground poet’s soul

Based on the Θεάνθρωπος or the Theanthropos term, bogochelovek is the essential part of Russian religious philosophy, that were invented (in sociocultural environment) by the V. S. Soloviev in 1878 in the work called «Lectures on a God-like-humankind». Basically, it’s a studies on a modern to him culture that leads (and now we know he’s right) people to self-destruction, and only work on culture can turn humankind to the direction of God-like-humankind, where everyone will be teacher to themselves, will work for the peace, wisdom and beauty in the word like the first Theanthropos – Jesus.