look it comes with the hat and backpack and the sword

Glaive out of armour

Nyx

Nyx likes wearing tight shirts, or nothing at all (“which is illegal Nyx what are you a nudist?”, “Luche, I’m going to elect to ignore your stupid question.”). Clothes that make him feel better about the way his body looks and the way people (women or men, he doesn’t care) look at him. It’s this self-consciousness of it all, he’s never had much confidence in himself growing up, but knowing that the looks he can receive from certain people, those sort of looks, make him feel better about it all.

Just a little bit.

In the summer, he’ll wear short sleeved shirts, patterns across the front or back, or those lose sleeveless shirts that show off his body under the thin material and when he stretches in the sun. He owns a pair of khaki chinos and only wears them when he’s going out somewhere nice, a party or a celebration with a friend. He enjoys formal casual day to day wear, button shirts and tight trousers, suit jackets over a V-neck shirt. Calming shades of blue and grey on white.

In winter, he’s normally in large puffer coats and fluff padded boots. He’s always wearing some sort of beanie or cap, a scarf that covers his neck (he likes being warm, and hate the feeling of chapped lips) underneath it all he can get away with odd socks and bright yellow shirts (because even indoors he’s wearing a baggy jumper or a hoodie) showing a little madness in all the frozen weather.

Underwear? What is that? Everything’s free flowing when you’re not in your Glaive uniform.

Crowe

Crowe isn’t a dress kind of woman, the wind running between her legs make her uncomfortable, and there’s far too much maintenance required to keep her legs hairless all throughout the summer (she do it when it’s needed, when it suits her, but she sees so many of those mole rats of models with their perfect legs and faces, not a hair out of place with that strange open mouth thing they do – she’s jealous, a bit, sort of, she’s hot too and she knows that). She prefers shirts and trousers, shorts when she’s feeling brave (and when she wants to brave waxing everything, dear God it’s painful sometimes) she likes shirts with the lace backs or see through parts, feeling sexy and mature when she can walk around feeling confident in her own skin.

In winter, she huddles down, Barbour coats that end at her waist, thick scarves (some of them are glittery or have tassels she knots together when she’s bored), she wears tights if she’s braving the shorts (which is a rarity) but prefers her tight trousers and tall boots to get her through the snow and black ice.    

Libertus

Libertus doesn’t care what he wears, as long as it’s comfy, or reminds him of home. He’s a backpack for work, printed t-shirt and shorts all day (and even in the winter, he’s immune to it and Nyx is convinced his friend was abducted by an alien) kind of guy. His leather jacket a staple for everyday with the added embellishments he’s still got as mementoes from Galahd. Most of his clothes are thing he can also wear around the home, easy to move in but conservative (he’s not like Nudist Nyx), buttons done up, sleeves down. He can dress up when needed (with help from Nyx and Crowe over a bottle) but will descent down to the depths of fashion fopaux with the addition of socks and sandals to his daily

(Credit to wyrm-eater, it was all their glorious idea)

Libertus also, once upon a time, had a partiality to fanny packs. Colour faux leather they were both a nuisance and useful, but when Luche had enough of looking at the abomination so close to Libertus’s junk and Crowe threatened disownment (“You can’t disown me! You’re my sis.”, “Fight me. I can, and I will with that thing around your waist.”) he stopped, much to the amusement of many.

Luche

Style is consistent with Luche, only the best names that he can find (we’re talking $200 just for a thin summer jacket, they all think he’s insane until he wears it and oh dear god he’s hotter than normal) work for him. He’s got this thin natural model look about him and just between him and Crowe it makes it so easy to go shopping together (they just bring the seasons top picks from a fashion magazine (it didn’t matter which) and shove Luche into everything they see in it until a certain shirt and a certain pair of trousers or shorts just works). He likes the weight of long jackets and their deep pockets, the rolled-up ends of certain cut trousers or the way he can roll up the sleeves of a button up and just feel better about it.

In winter, it’s much the same, scarves and deep leather gloves, he pulls out a pair of military like boots when the snow is thick enough to come up to his ankles (it’s a death trap snow don’t be fooled by the fluff)

Tredd

Crop tops that say “I’d tap me” or “Redheads are better in bed” with terrible neon Ray-Bans (pink or green, he’s got a yellow pair but those are his favourites). Hot pants (it’s hit and miss whether they say “Grope my Glaive”, “Satisfy your sword” or “Explore my Void” – they’re a womens pair and no one gets how he fits into them) that end just a little too close the curve of his arse and perhaps he might endeavour to pack a little ‘something something’ in the front just to see Luche gawk and scowl the entire day. Flip flops or trainers that are about to come apart, mismatched socks with small ladybirds or cute penguins on the side (“Tredd, what are those?” “They’re mooses. Meese? What’s the plural for moose?”, “For God’s sake.”).

In winter, he’s the complete opposite. He’ll put on a pair of trousers(!), fastens up his shirts and finally pulls out something black (for summer Tredd there’s no such thing as black) from the back of his overflowing wardrobe. Everything else is just thrift shop buys. He covers his hair with reindeer hats, or polar bears. Finds as many Christmas themed jumpers as he can (which were purchased every year with increasing concern for his sanity by everyone) and wears them every day, all the time (to the point that the one day he forgot to put one on the entire Glaive group panicked, even Luche, and stole Libertus’s one for him).

Okay. I’m joking, although the idea of Tredd wearing such an abomination to piss Luche off amuses me.

Tredd is actually a very ‘casual wear’ kind of guy. Jeans and lose shirts, jumpers that fit around his wrists and hips just right. He loves the feel of their warmth in the winter and how he looks with them on in the summer, rolled up so people can see the leather bracelets and wrist bands in support of certain charities, and that highly tasteful watch he’s had for the last six years (“No, I didn’t steal it”). Light colours and a few deep reds and blues tone out his wardrobe and he doesn’t add much in the winter except for a thicker coat and a little more constitution. He’s a fan of thick woolly socks in and the smell of his girlfriend’s perfume on his beanie and scarf, although he doesn’t admit that last part openly.  

(Tredd just likes to dick on Luche, this is a thing now [crack ship?] and I will take it to my grave)

Pelna

He likes his long shirts and jumpers, skinny trousers with simple designs that originate from his birth home and warm colours. (He’s got an entire second wardrobe filled with Ackkan jackets and Bandhgala suits). When he’s going out for the night he’ll don a freshly ironed shirt (never wear white on a night out is his fashion motto so the lightest he goes are pinks or baby blues), watch on the left wrist and ring on the right hand. He always looks classy and rich when he’s sat there in the bar with a bottle before him and his small crowd of fellow Glaive. He’s casual with his clothes, bits of home he’s comfortable to keep. In the winter, it’s much the same, although his style has improved to a slighter Lucian city tone. (Luche was quick to help him, without compromising the man’s individual style, finding him clothes stores and tailors that would provide him with long robes and baggy sleeves he wanted.) Embroided work that crawls up his back and over the shoulder of his coats and jackets. He wears scarves sown by the girls in the Glaive, orange and green colours that he can’t seem to stop picking up.

Axis

Axis is very… unimpressive with his sense of style. He’ll wear what he likes, when he likes, and how he likes it – sensibly of course. But there’s moments of character that spark through the seemingly dull exterior, the peek of bright yellow socks under his jeans. Or the blue and orange scarves and the slip of his shirt over a belt buckle that oddly looks like a comic hero symbol. He’ll wear dark long sleeved shirts and jeans, fingerless gloves and black shoes most days, comfortable to go out them at night as well.

Sonitus

Through the year he wears his polo shirts, tight in the sleeves to show off his more… physical attributes, he’s comfortable in most clothes and is wardrobe ready for waking up and wearing whatever he wants (he’s even got a kilt somewhere, Tredd picked it up as a joke and Sonitus remembers that night so fondly he doesn’t dare throw it away). Blues, pinks, greens; colours and shades don’t seem to bother him as long as they work with his skin tone (he’s even found purple doesn’t look half bad). Baggy trousers (not the ones that hang so low you can see his underwear Luche might have a heart attack), ripped jeans and cotton trackie pants with white trainers or converse style shoes.
in the winter, he sports the same black ribbed coat every day, a think dark scarf and snapback. His hands are in his pockets, he always forgets his gloves, too and from work and even though he denies the cold there’s still the rise of condensation as he breathes.

Sweaters

also known as Imagine knitting an ugly sweater and forcing Thorin to wear it.

A/N - Yes its a day early because I’m busy tomorrow! Yes, its christmas in middle earth and yes the reader has knitted Thorin a Christmas jumper. What more do you want?

Pairing - Thorin x Reader
Words -  1,538
Imagine

It was finally nearly Christmas.
The company wasn’t even half way to Erebor and tensions were getting high.
A day didn’t pass without Gandalf and Thorin arguing or Fili and Kili getting into trouble.
You were even sure that they’d forgotten all about the human holiday that resided in December.
Luckily for them, you hadn’t forgotten.
In fact you made it your mission to get the perfect gift for each of them with what little resources you had.
Hopefully, it would cheer them up at least for a little while. 

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Drifter (Teenage Sam x Reader)

Note: I know it’s not part number whateverthefuck of my whateverthefuck series, but I can’t seem to write anything good for that just yet, so bare with me. In the mean time, here’s some teenage Sam to keep you amused and yadda yadda yadda LETS GO!

Summary: You’d never actually met either of the Morgan boys, but the eldest was pretty well known around town. His shenanigans were always the talk of the school; not that you ever bothered with petty gossip. You had a “business” to run - money to make. You didn’t expect to run into Samuel Morgan in the dead of night, but alas, you did. Who’d have thought that one cocky teenage delinquent would get along so well with another cocky teenage delinquent? 


You stroll down the dimly lit street with your hands in the pockets of your oversized leather jacket. Your two friends – more like associates, really – follow either side of you.

“Hey, Y/N, did you get a pack of those smokes? The ones with the fancy gold logo?” Asks Jordan, the older of the two twins – a slender boy, with greasy hair.

“You know I did,” you sigh as you round the corner and start walking up the road that houses the St. Francis boys’ home.

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Lessons

A Captain Cobra Swan fic in 1874 words. Rated PG.

Based off of THE CUTEST OF CUTE SPOILER PICS, but the pic doesn’t necessarily have to be considered spoiler-y. Enjoy!



“Emma?” Killian calls from the living room, “love, we have to go or risk being late.” 

Emma barrels out of the kitchen, thermos of coffee in one hand, half a bagel in the other. “I’m coming I just…I can’t seem to find my cuffs.”

Killian taps his fingers on the door frame as he thinks. “Maybe you left them at the station?”

“No,” she says, rummaging through mismatched gloves and hats in the hall closet. “I know I had them on me when I left the station Friday, in case I needed to pull a shift over the weekend.”  

Henry bounds down the stairs at that moment, and heads for the door, his backpack slung crookedly over one shoulder.

“Whoa lad, slow down,” Killian chuckles, stepping out of Henry’s way. “School doesn’t start for,” he glances at the watch on his right wrist, “almost an hour. I’m the one with the slave-driving boss that insists that crime fighting must begin at seven o’clock sharp.” He winks at Emma as she turns toward them rolling her eyes.

“Yeah kid, what’s the rush?”

Henry mumbles something about seeing Violet ‘to talk about their literature project’ which makes both Emma and Killian smile.

“Alright, you should go,” Emma says, “but take an apple for the road. And Killian do you mind heading out with him? I’ll be right behind you.” She leans up to Killian for a quick kiss as Henry makes a slight gagging sound and goes to grab fruit from the kitchen. Killian’s hand slides home into the silky hair at the base of her head as he takes advantage of their moment together to deepen the kiss, sucking gently on her lower lip as she makes a slightly breathy noise.

She breaks away after a moment, steadying herself with her hands against his solid frame. “Ok pirate, this is not the moment for…that.” Her words sound stern, but there is a fire kindled in her eyes where just a moment ago there had been only harried concern.

“What kind of pirate would I be if I didn’t take full advantage of every opportune moment?” he asks, eyes glinting merrily. 

“Hopefully a much-reformed one, Deputy Jones.”

“Ah yes,” he winks, “as a law-man by day, I now restrain my pillaging and plundering to after-work hours.” He runs his hook down the right side of her body from collarbone to hip. “It’s a pity, that.”

Her eyes light a little further and she opens her mouth to speak, but Henry comes swinging out of the kitchen at that moment, mouth stuffed full of bagel and cream cheese, apple in hand.

“See you at the station, love,” Killian says as he opens the storm door and holds it for Henry to walk out ahead of him. “By the way Swan,” he says lowly, upon a flash of inspiration, fingers brushing lightly against her wrist where she has her hand propped against the door, “have you searched our bedroom for your quarry?”

Her eyes go wide and her cheeks flush, realization and memory flooding her at the same moment. “Oh…I…no. I haven’t. I’ll just…yeah okay, I’ll see if I can find them and then be along in a minute.” That lovely flush is the last thing he sees before the door shuts behind her.

***

Killian chuckles all the way down the driveway to where Henry is waiting for him at the street, but he sobers when he sees the look of consternation on Henry’s face. They walk along in silence for a few minutes, Killian determined not to push Henry to tell him what is bothering him. He doesn’t have to wait long before Henry addresses the issue, albeit in a roundabout way.

“Have you and mom and grandpa been busier at the station lately?”

It’s kind of an odd question, coming from a teenager, but he figures Henry’s building up to what he wants to ask so he’ll play along. “Not much more than usual. Most of the new residents seem pretty quiet. The dwarves keep us busy, what with their drinking and quarrelling, but nothing consequential recently, why?”

“Well…I don’t know,” Henry says, inspecting the apple in his hand before he takes a large bite. He mumbles his next words through a mouthful of fruit. “I just want to be ready.”

Killian’s brow furrows as he slides his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket and taps his hook along his left leg with each step. “Ready for what, lad?”

Henry takes another bite of apple and looks like maybe he regrets saying anything. Killian just waits patiently, keeping stride with the lanky teenager, mind wondering idly when Henry got to be nearly as tall as him.

“Back in Camelot there were knights always prepared to protect the people of the kingdom.” He takes another bite of apple, glancing at Killian. “Violet’s from Camelot.”

“Aye…that’s true.”

“I want to be able to protect Vi—the people of Storybrooke,” Henry says, with an edge of determination in his voice.  

“You do, lad. Your actions, making believers out of the common folk of New York, delivered us from the Land of Untold Stories. And Vi—certain people were there to witness the whole thing. I’d wager that most would agree that you are a superlative hero.”

The reminder brings a small, self-satisfied smile to Henry’s face as he chews on another bite of apple, but his face soon sobers again. “That’s great, but I can’t believe my way out of a swordfight.”

“A swordfight? With whom do you expect to be crossing swords?” Killian asks in mild alarm.

“No one…exactly, but it would be nice to know how to defend myself and…others if one of the newcomers decided to start some trouble. Grandpa promised to teach me to fight, but we haven’t had a lot of time, what with baby Leo and the underworld…”

Guilt grips Killian as a slight, involuntary shudder ripples across his shoulder blades, and not for the first time he wishes that none of his family and friends had sacrificed their happiness, comfort and peace of mind—not to mention very nearly their souls—to rescue him from that horrible place. “I’m sure I wouldn’t make as fine a teacher as the prince, but do know a thing or two and if you want I suppose I could…”

Excellent,” Henry says, cutting him off and tossing the apple core neatly into a sidewalk trashcan. He immediately begins hunting for a stick with which to practice.

Henry’s smile is so wide now, and his manner so excited that Killian wonders if he wasn’t just duped by the boy into feeling pity so that he would agree to help hone Henry’s sword fighting skills. He thinks he must be spending too much time with the lad if Henry is picking up his pirate ways of manipulation, but he can’t seem to feel sorry for it, in fact it seems as if the realization has made his heart swell just a little.

They find sticks a ways off the sidewalk at roughly the same time, and Henry immediately falls into a ‘ready’ stance, his weight pitched forward over his right foot, sword-stick held low across his chest and eyes trained on Killian. Killian knows now that Henry was sand-bagging him, because for all he means to correct Henry’s feet and balance, he can’t find a single fault with Henry’s form.

“I think you know what you’re about more than you let on, lad,” he says, grinning as he weighs his sword-stick against his hook and then swings it vertically just once to test the balance. “The prince seems to have taught you a few things already.”

Henry beams and if there is the slightest hint of sheepishness for his deception in the look he throws Killian, there is no worry, because he knows his mother’s true love will forgive him anything. “We may have had time for a few lessons between all the crazy things that happen in this town. En garde!”

Killian gamely raises his sword-stick and charges at Henry in a basic pattern of thrust and slash. Henry parries the offensive maneuvers easily, and then moves forward, advancing slowly to swipe at Killian. Killian smiles broadly at the old pleasure of the fight, a dance his body has known for hundreds of years, and easily blocks Henry’s blows, standing his ground, but pivoting in place to parry on all sides. When Henry brings his sword-stick down from on high, Killian catches the wood easily in his hook and twists, pulling the weapon right out of Henry’s hands.

“Hey!” Henry exclaims, protesting the break in fighting etiquette. “That’s not fair.”

Killian just grins. “Pirate!” He chuckles smugly. “We pirates have the advantage over princes.” He winks at Henry and allows him to retrieve his sword-stick, swinging his own lazily in his hand.

When Henry is again in position, Killian takes the offensive, this time attacking faster and with slightly less obvious technique. Henry gamely blocks his blows, but it is clear from the way his brow furrows (Killian doesn’t fail to notice that his brows draw together in focus the very same way his mother’s does) that he is having to concentrate much harder now than before. Just before he is able to move in the last few steps to disarm Henry again, Henry looks up. His face drops a little and his eyes go wide the way they do when he is caught doing something he knows he shouldn’t do. He squeaks out an “oh, hey mom,” laughing a bit nervously.

Killian remembers in an instant that he should already be at the station, and that his boss (true love or not) is not likely to look favorably on his horsing around when there is work to be done at the station. He turns on instinct to address Emma and sees…nothing. She’s not there. Before he can register what has happened, Henry knocks his sword-stick right out of his hand and places his own against Killian’s chest.

“Do you yield?” Henry asks triumphantly, grinning from ear to ear.

Killian’s hand and hook rise in the universal gesture of surrender. “Aye, I do, you bloody pirate.” Henry lowers his weapon to his side, still smiling, and Killian grabs him around the shoulders as they begin walking again.

“Seems as though you know a little more about sword fighting than you let on, lad, but I bet there is still a thing or two I can teach you. We can pick this up after school this evening. I think I may even have a set of practice swords we can use on the Jolly.”   

Henry enthusiastically agrees as they walk in the direction of their responsibilities for the day.

They are a ways down the sidewalk when Emma steps out from behind the corning building where she had an excellent vantage point of the entire exchange. She begins to trail in the wake of her two favorite boys, feeling like her heart has swelled beyond its normal size. Her deputy will be late this morning, but she could hardly fault him. She knew what she was getting into when she hired this pirate after all.      

 *

Four Sword Middle School AU! This post was inspired by Ask-Ravio-Stuff’s HS AU! Note: This combines several Zelda Universes.

“Please! This has to stop!”

That voice…was definitely not the voice of a kid. Red, the poor child in tears now, pushed his hands onto the pavement, wincing as the raw skin rubbed against the dirt floor. He turned to look over his shoulder, able to make out the form of a…rabbit man?

“Begging your pardon little guy,” the rabbit said, looking over his shoulder at the boy on the floor. “I hope you don’t mind if I intervene. But…you…well, you looked like you needed some help.”

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At this point in her attack on Terminus, the only person that Carol had seen with her own eyes was Rick, being bound and dragged out of the train car. She had heard Martin mention a “kid in a hat” and a “chick with a  sword,” and as much of a stretch that might have been to immediately connect that to Carl and Michonne, seeing Rick in Terminus had solidified in Carol’s mind that her people were in trouble in Terminus.

While the fire and smoke gagged Terminus and the walkers set upon the Termites, Carol infiltrated the camp and worked her way room to room looking for Rick, Carl, Michonne, and any others who might be prisoners there. Along the way, she came across this room, where it looked like the Termites had stripped their prisoners of all worldly possessions before doing God only knew what to their bodies.

Among the clutter were tables covered in jewelry, clothing, children’s toys, weapons, and other miscellany. Between Rick and Carol, a wristwatch has come to encapsulate several meanings to their relationship. Carol had been around Rick long enough to recognize his watch instantly on the table amongst the other ones. As she picked it up and studied it, Daryl’s crossbow came into focus in the background.

Just like that, the atmosphere of the scene shifted. Not just visually, as Carol immediately crossed over to it, but audibly. You can hear her breathing hitch for a moment at the sight of the familiar weapon, and the soft music of the scene changed tune, from a sound of reminiscence at the watch to a sound of emotional recognition at the crossbow. She had come to Terminus to rescue Carl, Michonne, and any of their people or strangers who were being harmed there, but she had not expected to find this, to find him. She still hadn’t made visual contact with Daryl, Carl, or Michonne, only Rick. They could have been dead already, tortured, beaten, or mistreated in some way. This room was full of the loot stripped from prisoners, with the implication being that they would not be needing them again.

Carol picked up the weapon, giving a quick glance over to see if it was the same crossbow. If she recognized Rick’s watch with one look, then she knew this crossbow intimately. Every scratch, every worn spot, every mark: this was Daryl’s. Daryl was here, in Terminus, within reach and in harm’s way with Rick and the others. Her reaction was different from Rick’s, when he saw the poncho, the pocketwatch, and the orange backpack. Her response was not of rage or demanding where the rightful owners were. That would come later. Rick had come to Terminus suspicious but willing to try trust. Carol had had no misconceptions upon arrival there. She was set only on rescuing her family and, upon coming into contact with this familiar tie to Daryl, now she was set on not only ensuring their safety, but finding them. She had to find them, to reunite with them in some way, even if it was only briefly and only to be turned away again.

She had to return the crossbow to Daryl after all. She had to see him.

The pepper of gunfire and the moans of walkers filtered into the music, and Carol shouldered the crossbow with practiced ease. Only moments earlier, she had been driven inside by walkers who heard her gunfire. Now, she had a silent, long-range weapon. She took nothing else among the myriad of rifles and other guns. Just the crossbow, just that reminder that her people were still alive, that they were in danger, and that they were within her reach.

It seemed appropriate that she have Daryl’s signature weapon then, because it was time for her to go hunting.

gingerjilly  asked:

I love how you never take these prompts where we think they're gonna go. Anyway, here's one: SHIP ;)

“ARR!” Judith cried, leaping from one couch to another. “Shiver me tenders!”

Carol, who had been napping on the second couch, groaned and rolled over, where the girl had planted her feet in the gap between Carol’s knees and the backrest.

“Timbers,” Carl corrected, jumping out from behind the corner of the wall. “It’s shiver me timbers.”

“Don’t question my language, you swine!” Judith wielded her ‘sword,’ which Michonne had fashioned out of a cardboard gift wrapper roll.

“Hey, hey, can we take the piracy outside?” Carol rubbed at her eyes.

“There’ll be no swarsh buckling or horn swaggling aboard my ship!” Judith brandished her sword and adjusted the newspaper hat on her head.

Normally, Carol would have found this battle amusing. It was so rare to see Carl in a cheerful mood. His six year old sister had that effect on everybody. Unfortunately, Carol had been laid up with a headache for most of the morning, and she was simply not in the mood for this.

“C’mon, Jude,” Carl gestured, seeing Carol’s discomfort. “Let’s head for the open sea in the yard.”

“Nay!” Judith called out, pointing her sword at the floor. “The ground in lava! I can’t touch it!”

“What kind of pirates has lava oceans?” Daryl walked into the room, holding the mug of tea that he’d scurried off to make for Carol.

“I’m not just any pirate,” Judith declared. “I am Vulcana, Pirate Queen of the Lava Oceans! But you can call me…Your Demise!”

Daryl’s expression was flat, and he looked to Carl. “And what are you?”

Carl tipped his worn out hat. “I’m the Kraken.” He smirked.

Daryl shook his head and looked to Carol, who stretched out on the couch, hand on her forehead as Judith leapt onto the nearby recliner.

“What’s the name of your ship?” Daryl asked, setting the mug of tea on the coffee table in Carol’s reach.

“It WAS the White Rose, but the Kraken, here,” Judith glared at Carl. “Shot an ice torpedo at it, and it sank off the coast of the back porch.”

“Tragic,” Daryl tsked and looked to Carol. “You feelin’ any better?”

Carol grimaced, massaging her temples and closing her eyes. “I was.”

Daryl rubbed her shoulder briefly and stood, going over toward Judith. “So you can’t go outside without a ship then. C’mon, I’ll be the ship. Get onboard.”

Judith squeaked and waited for him to turn around. Once his back was to her, she jumped on him, wrapping one arm around his neck and keeping a firm hold of her sword in the other. Daryl got a grip under her legs, hitching her in place like a giggly backpack.

“Gotta name your new vessel,” Carl prompted, as Daryl carried Judith out of the living room, leaving Carol in peace and quiet.

“The…The U.S.S. Daryl!” Judith chirped. “And I henceforth name that couch as Carol Island!”

Carol snorted, watching them go.

“Or, since I love you both,” Judith giggled. “The U.S.S. Carol-Daryl…Daryl-Carol…Caryl!”

“Just Carol?” Daryl pretended to be offended.

“No! Caryl. ‘Car’ from Carol and ‘Ryl’ from Daryl. Mash ‘em together to make Caryl!”

Carl lifted an eyebrow. “The U.S.S. Caryl?”

“Yes!” Judith said with a mighty swing of her sword. “And..and it’s impervious to ice torpedoes and…and lava and…and pine cones. Yes. The U.S.S. Caryl: the ship that never sinks!”

Daryl snorted, toting her out into the yard, to wage nautical warfare against Krakens, trees, and any other foes that might come their way.