So apparently Lloydโs birthday is the 22ND of SEPTEMBER, which so happens to be the AUTUMN EQUINOX (also called/celebrated as Mabon). This means that heโs a VIRGO which makes perfect sense because heโs always the voice of reason (or mostly) who calls people out on their bs now a days and is theย โresponsibleโ one (supposedly).ย
Virgos are known to be SELF CRITICAL, perfectionists, and can get frustrated when something doesnโt exactly go RIGHT. Virgos are also kinda uptight, stubborn, and OVERLY critical. Lloyd isnโt exactly a perfectionist, but when something doesnโt go his way, he can get frustrated or annoyed. Heโs overly critical of himself, and that can make him uptight and even angry at himself.
Another thing to point out is that the Autumn Equinox is the only (?) day of the year when day and night are almost exactly equal. Not only that, but the day represents BALANCE. And who is Lloyd? Grandson of FSM as well as son of Garmadon, the guy whoโs the complete opposite of Wu and in a way, the embodiment of darkness (not exactly evil darkness, just the absence of light). Wu on the flip side is the embodiment of light with the absence of darkness.ย
My conclusion? Lloydโs birthday is basically a representation of how heโs BALANCE, the inbetween between his father and his Uncle. His elemental powers basically are just the representation of life. Green is the colour of life, it flows through each and everyone of us and is very much like chi (life force energy in Chinese culture). Lloyd isnโtย โevilโ orย โgoodโ perse, but the thing that binds everyone togetherโbalance.ย
Without balance, nothing can exist. So what Iโm trying to say is that everything ties together PERFECTLY. His birthday. His Zodiac. Him being the Green Ninja. Heโs literally balance in itself (even if he himself hasnโt found it).
Chronological: Lloyd was 9-11, and is now in his early-teens (13-14?).
Physical: Lloydโs physically the same age as the ninja (late teens), but somehow hasnโt gone through puberty yet. I guess the tea literally caused him to skip it.. until NS8โฒs time-skip.
Mentally: Lloydโs mental age was not affected by the Tomorrowโs Tea, and grows with experiences, and is 15ish.
Hereโs to the LEGO Ninjago Movie for keeping things simple.
With the release of reference art from theย Spirit of an Episodeย shorts/interviews on Amazon (a big thanks to yesile for posting these), a more accurate and newer height chart can be made! So of course I did.
However this causes some discrepancies to pop up between the on-screen references and some of the official art released (the โNew Friendsโ poster specifically).ย In this compare, I scaled the reference art so Korra stands at 5'7" and since everyone was already lined up in comparison to her, I could line them up easily.
P'li: This moves P'Liโs height down one inch from 6'8" to 6'7". However, an inch difference is fairly negligible and keeping her at 6'8" officially causes no issues visually.
Gazhan:ย Loses an inch from my other compare, but that was a rough guestimate anyway and based on his size compared to Zaheer.
Zaheer:ย Not pictured, but based on his size compared to both P'Li and Gazhan, Zaheer is in the 6'0" to 6'1" range, which is where I put him in the previous chart.
Mako: Mako is one of the two bigger changes. Bryke has put him at 6'2", and theย New Friends poster certainly has him scale in right there if Korra is 5'7". However the reference chart above that compares him, Gazahn, and Korra to P'Li, has Mako coming in at 6'0".ย
Tenzin:ย The largest change. Theย New Friends poster scaled Tenzin in at a whopping 6'7" when compared to Korraโs 5'7". However, in this reference line up, Tenzin scales in at a little over 6'2". Potentially 6'3" if his figure was moved slightly higher so his feet fell more on the โhorizonโ line. However, the impression of the New Airbenders Line Up is that this is supposed to be their general heights when compared to each other and drawn in a group.
Bolin and Asami:ย With Mako and Tenzinโs heights on theย New Friends poster now in question, actual heights for Bolin and Asami are more difficult to guess at. We do know that both of them are taller than Korra by several inches just from seeing them in action in episodes, but until we get a reference line up like the above for them where we can see a line for โKorraโs heightโ, a more accurate height is not currently possible.
young!Baelor Targaryen x fem!reader x young!Maekar Targaryen
( although more maekar because i know he's a yearner! )
During the Blackfyre Rebellion, a young apprentice healer works tirelessly in a crowded medical tent, tending wounded soldiers and princes alike while enduring fear, exhaustion, and quiet indignities. Through small moments of kindness and unexpected connection with the young princes, Baelor Breakspear and Maekar Targaryen, she finds the resolve to continue her work as war rages on around them.
Word Count: 5.3k
[Chapter 1/?]
GRRM is probably bad at the years and math, so for this sake, let's pretend neither Baelor or Maekar are betrothed/married yet.
โ
The tent was already too warm when she ducked inside; canvas walls sagging slightly from last nightโs rain, the air was thick with the smell of blood, boiled linen, sour sweat, and crushed herbs, a scent she had long since learned to learn the trade of healing. She moved her feet carefully, threading their way across the narrow spaces between stacks of pallets and crates, making sure she was careful enough not step on discarded bandages or the hem of someoneโs cloak.
A small basket is tucked against her hip, fingers numb from scrubbing them raw in cold water only moments before, her mind already counting what she had leftโthree clean cloths, half a jar of honey salve, one small bundle of dried comfrey, barely enough for the afternoon, and certainly not enough for the number of wounded that kept arriving in uneven waves like a cruel tide that never truly receded.
A young lord was waiting for her on the far side of the tent, propped awkwardly against a stack of folded blankets as though even sitting upright offended him, with his fine boots still polished despite the mud outside, his cloak spread carefully beside him so that no one might step on it. His face is pale and slick with sweat and the dark curls that were plastered to his forehead. One of his hands was gripping the edge of his pallet as if he expected it to flee at any moment, and when he saw her approach, he let out a long, exaggerated breath that sounded more like a sigh of martyrdom than a simple reaction to pain.
โYouโre late,โ he said at once, voice thin and sharp, eyes flicking to the stained cloth in her hands. โIโve been waiting for ages.โ
She did not answer, only set her basket down beside his pallet and knelt, smoothing her skirt automaticallyโbecause answering would waste breath and breath was better saved for counting stitches and murmured reassurances to those who really needs it, and because she had learned very early that some patients would complain no matter what she did, and this one had been complaining since before she even touched him.
โI hope you washed those,โ he added, watching her hands with suspicion. โMy uncleโs maester always washed his things three times. With wine.โ
โTheyโre clean, my lord,โ she replied quietly, lifting the edge of the bandage that wrapped his upper arm, already stiff with dried blood.
โIt still smells,โ he muttered. Everything in the tent smelled, she thought, but she did not say it, only loosened the knot with careful fingers, peeling the cloth back inch by inch to reveal the angry red slash beneathโit looks shallow but wide, with the skin torn open where a sword had glanced off his shield and found flesh insteadโnot a mortal wound, not even a serious one, but definitely was enough to frighten him, enough to bruise his pride, enough to make him feel wronged by the world.
โOhโohโgently,โ he hissed as she cleaned around it with damp linen. โYouโre pressing too hard!โ
โIโm not, my lord,โ she said.
โYou are. I can feel it.โ She adjusted her grip anyway, though she knew she had been careful. Her hand went to dip the cloth again and wipe away old blood and dirt. Carefully, she checks for signs of rot, heat, swelling, or anything that might mean trouble later.
โMy maester never did it like that,โ he went on. โHe always used blue oil first.โ
โBlue oil traps dirt,โ she replied automatically.
โWell, he saidโahโSeven save me, that hurts!โ He jerked his arm suddenly, nearly knocking her hand away, and she caught it on instinctโsteady despite the jolt of fear that shot through her.
โPlease donโt move, my lord,โ she said, her voice still soft, though something tight had entered it. โYou will make it worse.โ
โYouโre the one making it worse,โ he snapped. โYouโre going to scar me. Do you know who I am?โ
โYes,โ she said. Truly because she did, because everyone knew, because his banner flew outside and his name had been whispered often enough since he arrived, but knowing did not change how she cleaned a wound. She applied the honey salve next, spreading it carefully with the flat of her finger, watching his face twist as if she were pouring molten gold onto him instead of medicine.
โGods,โ he groaned. โDo you have to?โ
โYes.โ
โIt burns!โ
โThat means itโs working.โ
He laughed bitterly. โThatโs what they say when they donโt know what theyโre doing.โ
Her hand hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second, then continued. Her jaw tightened as she reached for her needle and thread, already threaded and boiled, her old mentorโs voice echoing in her head as it always didโsmall stitches, close together, donโt rush, donโt let them see you doubt.
When the needle barely pierced his skin, he cried out, loud enough that several heads turned, one of the other healers glancing over with mild irritation.
โStop,โ he gasped. โStop, stop, stop. I canโtโthis is unbearable! Get someone else. Get someone who actually knows medicine.โ She paused, looking up at him at last, meeting his eyes for the first time. She saw fear there beneath the arrogance, the terror of being hurt, of being weak, of being powerless in a tent full of dying men, and for a moment she almost felt sorry for him.
โI know what Iโm doing, my lord, if you would justโโ she said quietly.
โNo, you donโt,โ he snapped, his voice rising sharply, cracking with panic and wounded pride. โYouโre just a stupid girl with herbs and dirty rags. Send for a real healer. Send for a maester.โ
The words fell into the tent as stones dropped into still water. The low murmur of pain and complaint faltered. A man halfway through a groan fell silent, his mouth still open. Another froze with a cup halfway to his lips, dark liquid trembling at the rim. Someone near the back stopped muttering a prayer. Even the flies seemed to pause in their lazy circling, hovering in the heavy air.
A few soldiers turned their heads, though some stared openly. Some others looked away at once, suddenly fascinated by their bandages or their boots. One older man, his arm bound in bloody linen, frowned faintly and shifted as if uncomfortable. Two men exchanged an uneasy glance, the kind shared by people who knew something cruel had just been said and did not know whether to intervene.
Each syllable found its place inside her chest, pressing against old doubts she had never quite managed to silence, doubts whispered by tired mentors, by impatient officers, by her own reflection on sleepless nights when she wondered whether she truly belonged here at all. After all, she hasnโt been here long.
Her fingers loosened on the needle. The thread sagged.
For a heartbeat, she thought of standing. Maybe she could step back, murmur an apology she did not mean, or say that she needed more water, more cloth, more anything. She briefly thought of escaping into the press of bodies and noise before anyone could see the way her throat tightened, before anyone noticed the sting gathering behind her eyes.
Then the tent flap lifted. Light spilled in, thin and pale, cutting through the smoky dimness like a blade, and with it came the sound of boots on straw and the low murmur of voices outside falling abruptly silent, as if someone had reached out and closed a door on the world. A ripple passed through the tent.
A wounded man near the entrance straightened painfully. Another tried to sit up and failed, settling back with a grimace. A pair of soldiers hastily pushed aside a crate to clear space. Someone whispered a name under their breath while someone else crossed themselves. She noticed that the conversations died mid-sentence.
โIs there a problem here?โ asked Baelor Breakspear, calmly, as if he was asking with genuine curiosity.
The young prince did not stop walking as he spokeโhe moved slowly along the nearest row of pallets, pausing briefly to rest a hand on a soldierโs shoulder to murmur a quiet word to another, before glancing down at a bandage that had slipped and gesturing for it to be fixed. Only then did he turn fully toward the young lord.
Baelor stood just inside the tent now, tall and broad-shouldered, mail dulled by dust and sweat. His cloak looks more practical than lavish, dark hair tied back at his nape. His eyes were already moving from her half-raised needle to the loose thread, from the bleeding wound to the young lordโs flushed, petulant expression, taking everything in within seconds, missing nothing, weighing it all in silence.
โSheโs hurting me, my prince,โ the lord blurted. โShe doesnโt know what sheโs doing.โ
Baelor stepped closer, stopping beside the pallet, folding his hands behind his back. โYou were struck by a sword, young man,โ he said mildly. โThat tends to hurt.โ
The lord flushed. โButโโ
โIโve seen men lose arms for less,โ Baelor continued, his tone unchanged. โThey complained less, too.โ
A few soldiers nearby hid their smiles. Baelor turned his gaze fully on the young lord now. โThis girl has cleaned your wound, treated it, and is closing it properly. If she were careless, you would already be feverish. If she were foolish, you would already be bleeding through the straw. You are fortunate she is here.โ
The lord opened his mouth, then closed it again, shrinking slightly beneath the authority in Baelorโs voice. โIโฆ I didnโt meanโฆโ
Baelor shifted then, his attention returning to her, and when he spoke again, his voice softened, as though he were speaking to someone entirely different. โYouโve done well,โ he said. โContinue.โ
She stared at him for a heartbeat, startled, her mind scrambling to catch up, then nodded quickly. โYes, my prince.โ
โI trust your hands, young lady,โ he added, with a small pat on her shoulder.
Her fingers stopped shaking. She bent over her work again, thread sliding smoothly through skin, her movements steady now, certain, the young lord utterly quiet beneath her hands, watching her with something like awe where irritation had been before, and when she tied off the final stitch and wrapped the fresh bandage around his arm, he whispered, โIโm sorry,โ so softly she almost missed it.
Outside, the sounds of soldiers training continued; the shouts, hoofbeats, and distant hornsโbut inside the tent, for a brief moment, she felt something settle inside her chest, something fragile and new and bright, the knowledge that someone important had seen her, had believed in her, had named her work for what it was, and that no matter how many wounds waited tomorrow, no matter how many doubts whispered in the dark, she would remember this moment, and hold onto it, and keep going.
The tent had finally grown quiet in the late afternoon.
Not the deep, peaceful kind of quietโnothing in a medical camp was ever truly peacefulโbut the thin, fragile lull that came when the worst of the dayโs rush had passed, and the screaming had faded into hoarse murmurs, and most of the wounded had sunk into uneasy sleep or dull, grinding endurance. Outside, distant hammering and shouted orders drifted faintly through the canvas, reminders that the war had not paused just because this small corner of it had run out of breath.
This was her teacherโs tent. Normally, he would still be here at this hour, checking her work, correcting her stitches, sending her back to wash her hands again if he thought she had rushed. But he had gone to the nearby village earlier, trading bandages and coin for dried herbs and crushed roots from a local healer who knew the hills better than any book ever could. He had told her to rest. She had, of course, ignored that.
Now she sat cross-legged beside a low wooden crate that served as both table and stool, wiping dried blood from her needle with slow, careful strokes of a rag already stained beyond saving. Her shoulders ached dully, as if weighted with stones. Her fingers were getting stiff. Her eyes burned from smoke, sweat, and hours of forced focus. Every blink felt like dragging sand across her vision.
She had just finished cleaning her tools, just begun to let herself think about stretching her cramped legs, when the canvas flap was shoved aside so abruptly that light spilled in and dust leapt up from the straw-covered floor. She startled, looking up too late.
Before she could properly register who it was, a familiar, steady presence filled the entrance, as unmistakable as a change in weather. Baelor Breakspear stepped inside with his broad shoulders nearly brushing the canvas, his expression composed as everโthough now touched with faint irritation, the kind he rarely allowed himself to show.
And behind him, half-dragged, half-stalking in under his own stubborn powerโcame his brother, Maekar Targaryen.
He scowled fiercely, brows drawn low, jaw clenched as if he were biting back both pain and complaint. One hand was pressed hard against his forearm, where dark blood had already soaked through the sleeve of his tunic, turning the fabric stiff and heavy. His other hand was clenched at his side, fingers flexing impatiently, as though he resented even the act of bleeding.
His boots left small crimson marks on the straw as he walked, as though the ground itself were tattling on him, recording every step he had stubbornly refused to admit was difficult.
Baelor paused just inside the tent, releasing his grip only when he was certain Maekar would not immediately turn around and leave again.
She remained where she was, frozen for half a heartbeat, rag still in her hand, needle glinting faintly between her fingers, suddenly acutely aware that she was alone, exhausted, and about to tend to a prince with a temper and a wound he clearly did not intend to take seriously.
โI told you,โ Maekar snapped, trying unsuccessfully to pull his arm free, โitโs nothing. Let go.โ
โYou are bleeding on my boots, brother,โ Baelor replied mildly, still holding him by the elbow. โSit.โ
โI donโt needโโ
โSit.โ
Maekar glared, but he sat, dropping heavily onto the nearest pallet with an expression that suggested he was being sentenced to public execution rather than basic medical care, his eyes immediately finding her and narrowing slightly, as if offended that someone so small and unassuming had been selected to deal with him.
She rose at once, heart leaping unpleasantly into her throat, smoothing her skirt with one hand out of habit, her other already reaching for clean cloth and water. She bowed her head briefly.
โMy prince,โ she murmured to Baelor Breakspear, then turned to the younger man. โMay I see?โ
โItโs a scratch,โ Maekar Targaryen muttered, shifting his weight.
โItโs bleeding, my prince,โ she replied quietly.
โIt will stop.โ
โEventually,โ Baelor said mildly, leaning against a crate nearby, arms folding loosely across his chest. His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary. โPossibly after you faint.โ
Maekar shot him a dark look but did not respond. Instead, he thrust his arm toward her with exaggerated impatience.
โFine. Get it over with.โ
She knelt beside him, skirts brushing the straw, and carefully rolled back the torn sleeve. The cut stretched long and shallow across his forearm, with dirt ground into the edges. As she began cleaning it, cool water darkening with grime, Maekar sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his shoulders tensing despite himself.
โHells,โ he muttered. โYouโre rough.โ
โIโm sorry, my prince, but I must clean the dirt first,โ she said, stammering slightly.
โWell,โ he grumbled, โremove it more gently.โ
She did not answer further. Instead, she simply continued. A loose strand of hair slipped forward near her cheek, catching the light, and she pushed it back absently with her wrist without breaking her concentration. Though, her pulse hammered in her ears.
Poor girl was acutely aware of Baelorโs presence behind herโof the way his eyes followed her hands, seemingly with growing respect, of the faint softening in his expression each time she worked through a difficult patch without hesitation.
And she was just as aware of Maekarโs gaze.
He watched her fingers trace the edges of his wound, watched the way she leaned in slightly when she stitched, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of crushed herbs and smoke in her hair. He caught himself staring and looked away, jaw tightening.
Baelor, sensing the tension, spoke lightly.
โYouโve been busy today.โ
โYes, my prince,โ she replied, without looking up.
There was warmth in Baelorโs voice now that threads gently through his calm, steady toneโnot the polished courtesy he offered by habit, nor the charm expected of a prince, but something more sincere. It carried the weight of genuine recognition, of having truly seen her work and understood its worth. As he spoke, his gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary, and he inclined his head slightly in her directionโa small, respectful gesture that felt far more meaningful than praise spoken loudly.
Beside her, Maekar let out a faint scoff in response, a soft breath of sound pushed through his nose rather than a proper laugh, his lips curving briefly in what was meant to be dismissal. Yet it lacked its usual sharpness. His eyes flicked toward her hands and then away again, his jaw tightening as though he were arguing with himself, and the scoff faded almost as soon as it appeared, leaving behind an expression that was more thoughtful than scornful, as if he were reluctantly, quietly, beginning to agree.
โSheโs barely older than some squires.โ
Baelor glanced down at her, eyes gentle. โHow old are you?โ
She hesitated for half a heartbeat, then answered honestly.
โSixteen, my prince.โ
Maekar turned his head sharply, finally looking at her properlyโnot as a pair of competent hands, but as a girl kneeling in the straw, exhausted and far too young for this workโespecially in this place. His brows drew together, surprise giving way to something more unsettled.
โSixteen?โ he repeated.
She nodded, suddenly self-conscious. โYes, my prince.โ
Baelor studied her with concern and something unmistakably close to admiration. His gaze softened further.
โAnd youโve been stitching men twice your size back together all summer,โ he said.
โYes, my prince.โ
Maekar looked away again, jaw tightening, his voice lower when he spoke. โHmph.โ But this time, he did not intend for it to be dismissive. It was thoughtful. After that, he did not complain.
He still flinched when she applied salve. He still clenched his teeth when the needle pierced his skin. But he did not pull away, nor would he snap. He sat rigid and silent, staring at the far wall as though enduring a private trial. When she finished and began wrapping the clean bandage around his arm, Maekar finally spoke again, his voice rougher than before. โWill it scar?โ
โNot much, my prince,โ she answered. โIf you keep it clean.โ
He nodded once. โGood.โ Which, for him, was praise.
Baelor straightened as she tied off the final knot. โThere. Youโre patched up. Try not to undo her work by charging headfirst into walls, brother.โ
Maekar snorted faintly. โNo promises.โ He stood, then hesitated, glancing down at her. โYouโฆ did well, girl.โ he muttered, barely audible, before turning and stalking toward the exit.
After they were gone, the tent settling back into its familiar murmur of pain and exhaustion, Baelor paused at the flap and looked back at her. โYou handled him better than most seasoned maesters,โ he said quietly.
She felt warmth spread through her chest, sudden and overwhelming, and lowered her head quickly so he would not see her smile.
โบ
The light shifted as the afternoon wore on, slanting lower through the canvas and turning the dust in the air into drifting gold. Outside, the clatter of practice dulled into slower, heavier rhythms. Men queued for food with bowls tucked under their arms. Someone began singing softly near the cookfires, his voice thin but stubborn, as though refusing to let the day end in silence.
Inside the tent, work continued. She barely noticed when her master finally finished with the worst cases and began moving down the line, checking her bandages with curt nods and muttered corrections. He adjusted one knot, grunted at another, then moved on without comment. For him, that was approval.
She was rinsing her hands in a bucket when she noticed a familiar shadow fall across the entrance. Baelor Breakspear stood there, just outside the flap, as though uncertain whether he was welcome back with no reason. He had removed his gauntlets and held them loosely in one hand. His cloak hung open now, hem dusted with straw and ash. The tension she had seen earlier in his shoulders had not entirely left; it lingered in the way he stood, weight slightly forward, as if bracing for something.
He waited until her master turned away to bark at another patient before stepping inside.
She straightened at once. โMy prince.โ
โThereโs no need,โ he said gently. โNot here.โ
He glanced around the tent, taking in the rows of pallets, the stained cloths, the exhausted faces. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
โI wanted to thank you,โ he continued. โFor earlier. For my brother. Andโฆ for everything.โ
She hesitated, then gave a small shrug. โIt is my job.โ
โYes,โ he said. โThatโs precisely it.โ
He looked at her hands. They were clean now, freshly washed, but the skin was cracked, her nails look uneven, even the knuckles were faintly bruised. He saw a pair of hands that had done too much for someone so young.
โYou shouldnโt have to be here,โ he added quietly.
She blinked. โI wouldnโt know where else to be, my prince.โ
For a moment, he simply stood there, his gaze drifting past her to the far end of the tent, where a man moaned softly as her master reset a splint. His expression grew distant, heavy with thoughts he did not voice.
At length, he broke the silence.
โI must apologise,โ he said quietly.
She glanced up, faintly puzzled. โFor what, my prince?โ
He hesitated, then lifted one hand in a small, helpless gesture that seemed to take in the tent, the rows of pallets, the low moans of the wounded, the smoke-stained canvas, and beyond it all, the vast, grinding weight of the war itself.
โFor this,โ he answered at last. โFor what it costs. For those who must bear it. It should not fall so heavily on those who never chose it.โ
She was silent for a moment, her fingers stilling on the cloth in her lap as she considered his words.
Then she said, simply, โIf it were not me, it would be another.โ
Baelor turned to her at once. She met his gaze steadilyโwithout challenge, without fear. There was no bitterness in her eyes, only a sense of certainty, as though she had long since made her peace with this truth. Something eased in his face then, even as something else tightened. He nodded once, slowly, as if committing her words to memory.
โYou are a remarkable young lady,โ he said, and seemed faintly embarrassed by his own honesty. โIf there is ever anything you needโโ
โI need more linen,โ she interrupted, almost apologetically. โAnd stronger thread, my prince.โ
He stared at her for a moment before, quite unexpectedly, he broke into a laughโa low, quiet huff, touched with surprise and genuine amusement. โVery well,โ he said warmly. โI shall see it done.โ He bowed his head to her, not as a prince to a subject, but as one exhausted person to another, and left.
Not long after, she noticed another figure lingering near the entrance.
Maekar stood half in shadow near the entrance of the tent, arms folded tightly across his chest, posture rigid as a drawn bowstring. His bandaged arm was held carefully against his side, as though he barely trusted it not to reopen if he relaxed. He had clearly been there for some time, lingering just beyond the edge of the light, watching her work in silence, hesitating, gathering the courage for something he did not particularly want to do.
She finished tying off a strip of clean linen around a soldierโs wrist, tucked the knot neatly away, and only then lifted her head.
โIs there anything that needs tending, my prince?โ
He stiffened, as if she had caught him doing something forbidden. โIโโ He stopped, lips pressing together. Then he tried again. โMy armโฆ itโs fine.โ
โIโm glad,โ she replied simply.
Another pause followed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, boots scraping softly against the packed earth. โIt does not โฆ hurt much.โ
โThatโs good.โ
The words fell between them and lingered. Silence stretched, very awkward and heavy. Somewhere outside, someone laughed too loudly. A pot clanged near the cookfires. The canvas walls were suddenly blown by a gush of wind. Maekar frowned at the ground, studying a dark stain in the dirt as though it might offer him instructions.
Then, abruptly, he reached into the pouch at his belt. His movements were quick, almost furtive, as though he feared someone might catch him. He drew out a small bundle wrapped in pale cloth, slightly misshapen. The edges were smudged and flattened from being hidden too tightly. When he unfolded it, a delicate honeycake lay inside, its sugared crust cracked, one corner crushed.
โโฆ here.โ
He held the small bundle out stiffly, arm extended, as though afraid he might change his mind if he hesitated any longer. Her gaze flicked from the slightly crushed cloth in his hand to his face, then back again, brows knitting in confusion.
โWhat is it, my prince?โ she asked.
His scowl deepened at once, as though the question itself had offended him. โItโsโโ He broke off, jaw tightening, clearly irritated with his own uncertainty. โItโs cake.โ
โOhโI see that,โ she replied mildly.
โItโs from supper,โ he added quickly, almost defensively. โI was not in the mood for cake.โ
His mouth opened, then closed again. His jaw set hard. The cloth crinkled softly as his fingers curled into it without his noticing. โI figured you might not have more than that mush you call a stew for tonight,โ he muttered at last. โI know you do not have the time to.โ
She froze, but slowly, she lifted her eyes to him. He was not looking at herโhis gaze was fixed stubbornly on the far wall, his expression carved into something very stern and unreadable, as though he were bracing himself for ridicule. Only the faint flush creeping up his ears betrayed him.
โOh,โ she said quietly.
He shifted his weight at once, boots scraping softly against the packed earth. His shoulders drew in, as though he had suddenly become aware of how close he was standing. With an awkward, almost impatient motion, he thrust the small bundle toward her, nearly pressing it into her hands.
โYou shouldโeatโโ he muttered, stumbling over the words. โYou look tired.โ
The sentence came out rough and hurried, as if he were afraid to linger on it. Yet he did not take the cake back. His arm remained extended, rigid, offering.
It was the closest he could manage to kindness. She accepted it carefully, as though afraid it might crumble in her grasp. Her fingers closed gently around the cloth.
โThank you, my prince,โ she said.
He nodded once, as though concluding a formal exchange. Without another word, he turned on his heel, clearly intending to leave. Maekar had taken only two steps when he stopped. She could see his shoulders tense. His jaw worked once, as if he were biting back something he had not meant to say.
โโฆ that lord,โ he muttered suddenly, remembering what story his brother brought back earlier.
โThe one earlier,โ he continued, the words beginning to spill out faster than he seemed able to control. โThe way he spoke to you. That wasโฆ unacceptable. Completely. If he had said that to meโโ He broke off, scowling. โI would have knocked him flat. Rank or no rank.โ
She blinked, taken aback by the force of it. He pressed on, now fully caught in his own momentum. โCalling you stupid. Acting like you didnโt know what you were doing. As if he hasnโt been screaming over a splinter for three days. His father would be so embarrassed. He wouldnโt last a minute without you and yourโyour โdirty rags.โโ He made a short, irritated gesture with his good hand. โItโs ridiculous.โ
She lowered her eyes to the cake and took a small bite, trying not to smile.
โItโs sweet,โ she said.
โThatโs because itโs made with real honey,โ he replied automatically. Then he paused, realizing he was still talking. โI meanโof course it is. They wouldnโt serve bad food atโโ
He cut himself off, lips pressing together as though he had nearly said too much, his jaw tightening as he stared at some indistinct point beyond her shoulder.
She took another bite of the cake. Fine sugar dusted the corner of her mouth, catching faintly in the thin light that filtered through the canvas. She did not notice itโshe was too busy chewing slowly, savoring the sweetness, having never tasted something as good before.
Maekar noticed without meaning to. His gaze lingered a just a second too long, drawn to that small, careless trace of sugar. He shifted his weight, clearly intending to look away, to mind himself, to remember who he was and where he stood.
Before caution or pride could intervene, before he could think better of it, he reached outโthumb brushed lightly against her lip, wiping away the stray crumb. The contact lasted no more than a heartbeat, but it surely felt much longer.
They both froze. Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her face. Her breath was caught between her munches, barely audible, and she went perfectly still, as though afraid that moving might somehow make the moment worse.
His hand jerked back as though burned. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Color rushed into his face, spreading from his ears down his neck. He stared at his own hand as though it had betrayed him, fingers curling slowly into his palm, fingertips digging into his palm.
โIโโ He cleared his throat roughly. โThere wasโcrumb.โ
Having no words to say, she noddedโher cheeks just as warm, her voice steady despite the faint breathlessness beneath it. Another silence fell between them.
Though it felt different from the first one. Something warmer. Stranger, even. Maekar looked away first, fixing his gaze on the tent wall as though it had suddenly become fascinating, jaw tightening as he struggled to gather himself and return to familiar ground.
โYou โฆ shouldnโt let people talk to you like that,โ he added gruffly. โThey should know better.โ
โMost do,โ she replied gently, her fingers tightening briefly around the cloth in her lap before relaxing again.
He glanced back at her then. For a brief moment, the hardness slipped from his expression. What remained was uncertain and earnest, something like pity tangled with respect, admiration he did not yet know how to name.
โThey should,โ he repeated. With a stiff nod, as though sealing the thought away, he turned and left the tent.
She watched the prince go, her gaze lingering on the place where he disappeared into the shifting shadows and noise of the camp.
Only when he was truly gone did she lower her eyes to the cake in her hands. The sugar had melted slightly into the cloth, leaving faint, sticky stains. One edge was flattened and bruised from being hidden too tightly against his side. It was imperfect, misshapenโclearly smuggled out in haste, clearly meant for her alone.
She finished it slowly where she stood, taking her time with each bite. Around her, the tent never paused in its labor. Blood was washed from weary hands. Fresh bandages replaced old, darkened ones. Groans softened into uneasy sleep, even as new wounded were carried in.
Ok so, I was looking at Kuviraโs fights again, and I realized that the style she uses is essentially Northern Snake Style.ย
She literally developed an entirely new style for efficient metalbending, like Toph with Mantis for earthbending. Thatโs hella impressive? Maybe she could teach it after prison, like Tophโs academy.ย
Speaking of, Lin uses mostly straight up Hung Gar when earthbending, I think, which is strange to me since I assumed Toph taught her. Also I think Suyin uses crane? So I guess she developed her own style as well? Crane is such a fluid and light kung fu style though, so itโs interesting how she applied that to the element of substance and strength.ย
the post had no purpose other than for me to talk about kung fu lol.
I just did a YouTube search for Northern Snake style. Cool. It looks to me like it combines a strong stance akin to Hun Garโs horse stance with fluid arm movements which makes sense for someone like Kuvira. But Iโm just getting that from YouTube, not Kuviraโs acting bending. Does she use a strong stance?
Whatโs in a Name: Beifong Family (Special Edition)
Cause theyโre just that fancy.
Beifong - Northern Square,ย ๅๆนย (Mandarin). The name sort of implies that Tophโs family is originally from the north of the Earth Kingdom and maybe got pushed down southward because of the Fire Nation occupation. This would explain why Tophโs family name seems to carry so much weight in the Ba Sing Se area. Theย โsquareโ part of her name might be a reference to her familyโs estate or possibly Chinese/Earth Kingdom coins, which have square holes in the middle. The square is also the shape that tends to represent the Earth Kingdom, as well.
Also, this is the only surname mentioned in the entire series! Unless you count the Fire inย โWang Fireโ. Multi-syllable surnames (ๅคๅง) are somewhat rare in Han Chinese culture and tend to carry a carry a more elegant or โhistorical/fantastical" feeling. So the name Beifong is pretty fitting for both Tophโs family and the Avatar setting.
Toph - Tough and/or toff (English). So, as explained in the Ember Island Players, Tophโs name is a corruption of the English word tough. Cause sheโs tough. But it could also be a reference to the British slangย toff,ย a derogatory term for someone with an aristocratic background, particularly someone who exudes an air of superiority. Both meanings are equally relevant to her character.
Lao (Tophโs Dad) - Long-standing or outdated, ่ (Mandarin). A pretty fitting name for an old money aristocrat. His views on disability are certainly very outdated.
Poppy (Tophโs Mom)ย - A type of flower (English). From what Iโve gathered from some questionable floriography (flower language) websites, the poppy represents sloth and death in Chinese culture. Poppy seeds are used to make opium, so thatโs pretty fitting symbolism. Itโs also an appropriate symbol for a complacent aristocrat who ignores an ongoing war in favor of personal comfort.
I do not condone the casting of this adaptation of Wuthering Heights. But Jacob Elordi is Jacob Elordi, and ovulation is ovulation.
tw: sex
do i need to say size kink just because it's Jacob Elordi?
enjoy
Like clockwork. The shutting of the door, no matter how softly they tried, made a clanking noise that awoke it inside of me. Like clockwork, at 8pm once a week, the two servants would have their conjugal visits. And equally like clockwork, I sat on the floor above, excited to witness it.
The soft patting of the horsing equipment ensued as the lady carefully weaved in and out of our horse brindles, lightly giggling, taking on the role of the mouse in the dramatic chase that was to pursue. Joseph happily obliged, and slithered through the leather straps following her, like a predator hunting his prey, only to catch her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her towards him. Her laughter was louder than they usually allow, prompting him to quickly kiss her mute.
I already knew what was to happen next. He used his measly arms to somehow manage to pull her up on the counter. The sound of her plump rear hitting the wooden counter worked like a switch to my body. I felt almost Pavloved, feeling an immediate rush of excitement at the filthy act I knew I would witness. I pressed my body as hard to the ground as I could, and pressed by forehead against the light cracks between the floor boards, watching attentively as her hair was pulled back to grant him access to her neck. I felt such vivid tingles on my chest and neck, it was as though I could feel someone's breath against my own body.
Once their mouths touched, they had their hands on one another like they were clawing at who could get closer to the other. I felt tingles watching her spread her legs open and him push his clothed body against hers. Even the slightest contact gave me shivers.
Suddenly, I am broken out of my dirty trance. A large body is pressed against mine. My mouth is swiftly covered. The hand is so large, my gasp is rendered silent. My initial panic is settled once the scent of familiarity hits my nostrils. Heathcliffe uses his hand over my mouth to pull my face to the side and look at me. Maintaining sturdy eye contact, he presses his entire body against mine, fitting perfectly against me like a puzzle piece made of my hips and rear pressing against his crotch. Our legs remain intertwined, with my feet pressing against his knees.
"Snooping, are we?", he whispers against me so quietly, that against the continuous gasping heard from beneath us, I could barely make out the words. I pretend not to, and don't respond, which is met with an airy laugh against my face. His hand remains over my mouth but he gently lets go of my face, so I slowly let my head back down, partially in shame, partially to check whether our presence is known to the people below us. But two people so in love wouldn't notice an earthquake. Joseph begins to pound at his lover, holding the side of the counter to avoid it from hitting the wall with each powerful thrust. Only a few seconds of watching them makes me feel a certain guilt that usually an hour doesn't. The difference is Heathcliffe's presence, which I can feel over every inch of my body, as well as his increasingly fast breaths that tingle my neck.
The feeling of his body heat increases my arousal tenfold, making my cheeks full flushed and my head spin a little. I don't move an inch, as though not moving now would save me from being caught in the act of sneaking around. Too little too late, I fear.
Heathcliffe's lips press near by temple, making me instinctively flinch away from him, only for his strong hand to pull me back to gaze I previously held. I continue looking down, not being able to control the speeding beating of my heart or the warmth building in my thighs every time he uses his strength against me.
"You just can't look away, can you?"
His tone sounds partially mocking, but equally genuinely intrigued. It isn't until he mentions it that I realise how long we've been watching them together. Heathcliffe lets out another quiet laugh, this time much more mocking, and slides his body forward to put his head by my side. When his shoulder move past mine and his hips graze against my ass, the sharp feeling of his hardness rubs against the middle of my cheeks, and I let out an involuntary whimper. Though his hand muffles it to the people below us, who have now increased their moaning to a decibel close to yelling, Heathcliffe clearly either hears or feels it fine. His face presses against my temple, and his nose tickles my eyelid.
"Shhh"
The almost inaudible soothing sound pushes warm air against my cheek. I can barely hear it over the sound of him rustling his overpowering hips around, I can only assume to purposely bother me. It works, and the heat radiating from me doesn't penetrate the floorboards, instead hitting back to me, trapping me in an inescapable heat. Any attempts to wriggle and release the increasing tension from my predicament is nullified by Heathcliffe's heavy body pressing me further into the floorboards.
The movement of his hips continues, and he pulls my face up closer to his. He props himself up on his elbow and gently begins to pull up my skirt. The sudden movement renders me frozen for a moment, and the continuous sound of slapping skin and breathy noises from downstairs only adds to the difficulty of processing this situation. I put my hand over his, but don't succeed at pulling it off my face. I pull at one of his fingers to no avail, an effort that he rewards by entertaining me, and letting go of my face with one of his fingers. It does nothing to weaken the tight grip he has at me, physically, and emotionally.
His hand tugs at my skirt so lightly that the fabric travels up at a torturously slow pace, tickling my thighs, and letting the caresses linger between them. Heathcliffe grinds his body against mine, attempting to speed up the process of lifting my skirt, aiding only in my shortness of breath and lightheadedness. The hem of my skirt finally brushes past the peach fuzz on my lower back, and bunches in a way that drives some distance between Heathcliffe and I.
He does not allow this, immediately lifting his body slightly to lay the skirt flat over my back, before pressing his body back against mine. This time I can feel it. His bare skin touches my ass. I can feel a patch of hair on my ass and his long shaft pressed against my thighs, before his hand resumes a tighter grip over my face and brings it closer to his.
"Be quiet now"
The rhythmic movement and lewd cries that fill the stable from downstairs make it hard to concentrate. My head feels light and almost drunk from such arousal, not only titillating my mind as it does every time I'm up here, but now being on the receiving end of these manly yet gentle movements. Heathcliffe's arms trap me on either side of my shoulders, and he guides to push into me with nothing but his hips. Though my body was lax with tingling helplessness until now, I bend my knee to the side and scootch my crotch around aimlessly, lifting it up closer to him in a desperate attempt to be so so good for him. He finds the help unnecessary, and his chest presses against mine, squishing my ribcage into the wooden floorboards before sliding in past the plushness of my thighs and slowly but firmly pushing further in.
He pushes past any obstacles and stretches me to fit around him, with the keen help of how absolutely soaked his body heat has gotten me. The rapid sounds of cursing and muffled whining downstairs reach a speed they never have before, only increasing the aching clenching around Heathcliffe, longing for us to get to their level. My ribcage pressed so tightly against the floorboards accenuates to me how fast my heart races. The filthiness of the toys, uncovered breasts, Joseph's hands restraining the hands of his lover, all pale in comparison at how lewd I feel taking Heathcliffe. The curvature of my ass does nothing to mediate his size, and he still fills me up past my limits, despite the angle. I whimper at the fullness. The teasingly slow speed at which he pulls out only to begin pushing back in is only highlighted by the comparison of the speed of the furniture squeaking downstairs.
The tingles of my scalp and the attentive speed at which Heathcliffe rips his cock out, giving me a brief reminder of how tight and small my canal can get, only to push himself back in and stretch me out to his girth, makes my head drowsy. My eyes struggle to stay open, and any slow whines I make are relentlessly muffled by his hand. Every time his tip kisses my cervix, his deep groan echoes in my ear.
The lady downstairs is getting persistently drilled, her hair is being pulled, her nipples are being tugged, her eyes are rolling back, and the sweat dripping down the side of her face can be seen from the floor above. She clamps her mouth tightly around her gag yet her repeated cursing remains perfectly audible. Joseph reaches his hand between their bodies, fiddling at her crotch, which makes her go ballistic. My eyes stay half fluttered open, only to continue greedily watching them from above. Heathcliffe pounds against me, yet the sturdy whacks of his hairy crotch against my ass are for our ears only. His hand momentarily loosens up against my face, dragging his fingers down and using two of his digits to brush against my lips, a slow and loving movement that feels inappropriate considering his continuous fast assault against my ass. He drags his fingers down and slides them with ease past my teeth. I eagerly wrap my lips around him, to which he cockily plunges them in further. His fingers go deep, touching the back of my tongue, and his thumb rests on my cheek, following the shape of my hollowed cheek as I suck on his fingers, pushing it to urge me to continue.
I can instantly feel the effects of this power play on him in his stiffness plunging deeper into me. His groaning against my ear becomes delayed, like he tries so hard to stop it from releasing, but he can't. The electric warmth building inside of me feels nothing like when I do it alone. The ball of tension in my stomach unravels so fast, that I can barely hold my head up. I can feel his huge length pushing so deep inside of me, the hard floorboards beneath me only amplify it, like his tip is touching them.
I flutter my eyes open from savouring his fingers and suddenly, much to my dismay, the couple downstairs are both standing up, fully clothed, talking to one another. The reality check makes my cheeks flush instantly and I turn my head to look at Heathcliffe, who gives me a smug smile and pushes his fingers to touch the back of my throat. He only presses once before I gag and pull at his hand. The arrogant pace of him fucking me into the floorboard increases, and the airy moans he makes against my hair feel louder than ever now that the silence downstairs is only interrupted by occasional light chatter and kisses.
Heathcliffe's savagery at my body makes it move up and down on the floor, itching my clit against the floor, pulsating my insides and boosting the feeling of his tip scratching against my walls. But he presses his chest hard against my shoulders to stop me from moving, and shoves himself deeper into me. His fingers twitch inside of me as I feel it. He continues his rapid assault, and I try to control my tempered breathing and allow his fingers to quieten the moans that threaten to release. The ball in my pussy not only unravels, but explodes, like a balloon popping and releasing hot magma, just as Heathcliffe forces some of his last thrusts against me, shooting his load. I feel the warm fullness as his hitched breathing slows and he rests his head on shoulder. He gently slides his fingers out, and I finally put my heavy head down on the ground to catch my breath.
The door downstairs is opened and closed as the couple leave. But Heathcliffe doesn't pull out right away. Instead, he puts his face to mine, and gently kisses my cheek.
