#inaccurate depiction of a pirate

[icezeebee]

For part 3 of @dilatorywriting ‘s siren Vil series. (Please read it their dynamic is so silly)

I know there are inaccuracies but I hope you still enjoy it 🙇‍♀️

[aucupariaart]

Part 5.2

Part 6 (you are here)

Part 7

[bi-writes]

an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k)

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART FIFTEEN

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, hallucainations/hearing voices??, inaccurate depictions of medicine, idk how ppl made medicines in 1800s but idc its fiction masterlist a/n: thank u for the love from the hurricane i went thru!! i'm okay and back in business, i love u guys <3 things are gonna get a lil spicyyy

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

“Dove,” a voice singsonged, a whisper in the wind that whisked away almost as soon as it appeared.

You halted in your steps, whipping your head around. Standing on the deck, you knew you were alone. You had just been on your way to collect your variety of herbs and powders to teach the Captain of medicine making, yet the sense of dread overtook you the moment you heard your name called out.

Looking out into the vast sea, there was nothing. A heavy mist clouded the air from the storm that was brewing mere lengths away, its arrival unknown. It clouded over the horizon, hiding away what lay beyond in the dull, gray atmosphere.

Yet, Graves had spoken yet again, as if he had sent his voice to travel miles upon miles just to get a rile out of you. It felt like a warning, letting you know he was still present, and very much still attached.

“The one who heals the ill and poor,” Graves echoed tauntingly, a dark chuckle rasping at the end of his words. “The one who has the 141 in knots. That’s you, isn’t it, dove?”

You couldn’t see him, and you weren’t sure whether that was ideal or not. You knew he wasn’t there physically, hell, you weren’t sure it was even really him talking. Your mind could be playing tricks on you.

The words of the prophecy were spoken with such mockery, the ones referring to your very role. The venom in his tone made you queasy. A cold chill dripped down your spine, causing the hairs on your neck to stand.

“Oh, this will be fun,” he cooed. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Stood frozen in place, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the horizon. It was gloomy, and you were beginning to mirror that feeling. You felt toyed with — like a puppet on a shelf, waiting to be used when Graves deemed you useful.

“What are ye doin’ down there, dove?” a voice called. “Looks like ye seen a ghost.”

The faint snickering had you tilting your head up in the direction it came from. Soap sat high up in the crow’s nest, peering down at you mischievously. His broad arms rested on the rim of the nest, leaning lazily.

“I am fine,” you scowled, quickly regaining your composure. Graves crept menacingly in the corners of your mind. “What are you doing up there?”

“She’s a crow’s nest for a reason. I’m watchin’ for the storm, seein’ if I can spot anythin’ out of the ordinary like I’m a bird, birdie” Soap explained with a grin, cocking his head. “What are ye doin’ down there?”

You frowned at him, unamused. “I plan on teaching the Captain how to make medicine,” you replied. “I’m just going to collect my things. It is wealthy to have knowledge in medicines, you know.”

Soap blew out a puff of air, waving his hand dismissively. “If I have any more knowledge up in this noggin’ of mine, it might explode.” He made a point of knocking his knuckles against his head.

“I do not believe there is much in there at all,” you sighed, unable to force a small smile away. Even in times of fear and uncertainty, you couldn’t deny the way Soap put you at ease.

“Ach, yer a bird that bites. What happened to bein’ a sweet bird?” he mumbled in feigned hurt, lips puckered into a pouted frown.

Your smile grew and you shook your head. “Where is Ghost?” you asked. Soap rubbed the back of his neck, fingers twirling into his messy mullet.

“That lad. Locked himself up again, he did. I think the weather’s makin’ him all moody. He helped me out for a bit before goin’ back, so I’m not sure what’s wrong,” he explained sympathetically. There was a hint of hurt at being shut out.

It made you recall the two of them. Embracing. Whispering amongst each other. Ghost, unmasked, leaning into his touch.

You tried your hardest to not let it shift your expression, even if it dug a little hole somewhere in your heart to be reminded of what you didn’t have.

“I see,” you hummed, playing off your tormenting thoughts and shoving them to the side with the rest. “I am… happy that he has someone like you.”

Soap’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He stared at you, confused, before smiling softly. “Ah, c’mon, dove. Ye got us, too.”

Not in the way your heart longed for. But that was a thought that attempted to fiddle with your mind and leave you stranded on an island of foreign feelings far, far away.

You weren’t sure what you desired, anyway.

“Right,” you agreed with a curt nod. “I’ll be going now. Please, do not fall while I’m gone — or do. I have not been able to aid anybody in quite a long time.”

Soap laughed, the sound rumbling you to the core. “Mean li’l bird,” he teased.

With a smile, you continued on to your quarters, shoving any strange ideas behind and focusing on the task at hand. Price was still waiting for you, after all.

Entering your shared space, you nearly cursed the world for putting Gaz in there. While you hadn’t quite avoided him like you wanted to, that was due to the others being around. Now, here alone, was different.

“Hello, Gaz,” you greeted stiffly, giving him a nod. You quickly retreated to your side of the room, which really was Soap’s clutter. You needed to organize it soon or you may lose your mind.

“Dove,” Gaz hummed from where he laid in bed, arms resting behind his head in a lazy position. His eyes followed you like a hawk as you rummaged through the bag taken from your village on your first night with the pirates.

The resources you’d been forced to bring so long ago were now going to be of use, which was something you wished to be excited for—yet, the elephant in the room was a downpour on your mood.

You felt ridiculous. It was not as if you were avoiding him in rejection—it was that it was not rejection that you were avoiding him.

Your heartstrings seemed to tighten and pull whenever he was near, and it made you feel crazy. It felt like you couldn’t catch a break, constantly toying with your own feelings.

What was this feeling of longing you so hopelessly seemed to feel differently with each of them? Was it still the craving for a sense of belonging?

“Is someone hurt?”

You glanced up from your bag, fingers pausing. You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion before realization took over and you shook your head. “No. I am teaching Price the ways of medicine.”

So much for avoiding him.

“Is that so?” he asked. You weren’t sure why his tone seemed so… off. As if there were a taste of bitterness to it.

You recalled the night you threw your food at him from the stuffiness of your cell below deck when he had done nothing but try and quench your hunger. He truly was not a fan of you, nor you him. While you were scared, he was protective of his kin.

Now, his tone was a grave reminder of how much time had passed, and how different things were.

You gave him another stiff nod, watching as he stood from the bed. Your heart pounded in your chest, banging against your rib cage with every step he took closer.

When he finally stopped, he was mere inches away, standing tall and proud over you. You focused your gaze on his chest, mapping the loosely tied strings that hung from the middle of his billowy shirt. You were overcome with spikes of awkward anxiety and unable to connect eyes with him.

Seeing this, he tilted his head down, cocked to the side in a mocking way. He forced your gaze to meet his from leaning down alone, and you held your breath at the sight of slight annoyance burrowed somewhere in his expression.

“Are you avoidin’ me?” he asked lowly.

You attempted to swallow the lump in your throat. Your hands grew clammy, and you couldn’t take them out of your bag to wipe them on your dress or else he’d know.

“No,” you stammered, frowning. “I am just— Price is waiting for me.”

Was he angry that you did not reciprocate a kiss? It was not your fault—you had never shared one.

“There is no playful banter. Nor even a gaze in the eye,” he commented.

“I am looking at you right now,” you defended weakly.

“What you’re doin’ is actin’ different,” he said slyly, mirroring your frown. “What, you hand me a gift, a beautiful one, and now that I have read the signs wrong, you wish to hide from me?”

“That—” You inhaled sharply. “That is not what is happening.”

“So, I have read them right, then.”

“I do not know what signs you are referring to.”

“Don’t be daft, dove.”

Your fingers tightened around a small jar in your bag, knuckles going white. You wanted to avoid the forced eye contact altogether, but now you could not look away. It was as if you were in a trance.

“It is improper to refer to a woman as daft,” you hissed in defense.

“You’re unlike any woman I’ve ever met,” Gaz mused, his head tilting once again.

This is what he wanted, and you were giving it to him. He wanted the banter, the jests, to see you grow irritated to tug a reaction from you, and unfortunately, it was working.

“You have never been kissed before?” he continued.

Your ears were beginning to ring. Your entire body felt hot to the touch, like a scorching fire burned through your veins and trickled its way up to your brain.

“That is inappropriate, Gaz,” you tried, though your defense was weak. He was right. He was always right, and you hated it. “I must return to Price. I—I cannot have this conversation.”

“You will have to avoid the whole sea if you believe I am the only one,” he stated calmly, growing soft now that his initial annoyance was wearing off. “Do not make me the one to suffer.”

You stared at him, mouth opened to speak but the words lost in translation. You felt like you were betraying yourself by choosing to avoid him out of mere uncertainty. You were only doing a disservice to yourself.

The words he spoke laid heavy on your mind, but you were unable to decipher the true meaning. Perhaps you were avoiding that, too.

The two of you said nothing, sitting in tense silence as you hurried to throw your bag over your shoulder. You didn’t want Price to slam open his door and search for you, believing you accidentally fell into the treacherous waters and sunk below the angry sea.

You shuffled to the door, hand hovering over the handle. You risked a weary glance over your shoulder, seeing Gaz standing and watching you with keen eyes, a glint of something unrecognizable in them.

You had nobody else to feel sorry for but yourself.

“I will not avoid you,” you muttered quietly. “I do not think I have the strength to do so, anyway. Not with you.”

You tugged open the door, excusing yourself.

The chill in the air was refreshing against your warm skin, cooling off the heat that radiated off of you like a furnace. As you returned to Price’s quarters, your mind was scrambled, overloaded with millions of thoughts that plagued you.

The wind rustled and blew, and you could only pray there wasn’t a familiar whisper hiding in its trail. It seemed as if the universe had plenty of tricks up its sleeve today, and it was dealing them all to you one by one.

When you looked up at the crow’s nest as you walked by, Soap remained. He gave you a smile when you passed, and it made the worry in your stomach simmer to a low boil.

“You took quite some time,” Price noted as you stepped inside. “Did you walk the plank along your way?”

You chuckled, shaking your head and shooing the bag off your shoulder. It fell to the desk with a small thud. “I ran into Soap,” you explained.

“I see.” Price smiled in acknowledgment. “Alright, dove. Let’s begin, hm?”

“You are not very good at this.”

You watched as Price attempted to grind a mix of herbs and powder in the bowl you lent him. Teaching him how to make a paste meant for burns proved fruitless, as he seemed to mess up the measurements when you weren’t looking.

“That’s why you’re the expert, dove,” he huffed in annoyance, laser focused on grinding the end of the wooden stick into the roundness of the bowl, mashing down the mixture. “I do not see how this will become a paste.”

“Did you mix in the drops of water like I told you?” you asked.

He glowered at the clear dropper you held up, which seemed just as full as when you first started. He snatched it up, squeezing a couple of drops into the failed paste for good measure, then continued mixing.

“Was I correct?” you teased, peering down into the bowl. You were pleased to see it mixing much more smoothly, almost like thick butter.

“Silence,” he grunted, shooting a weak glare your way. “I pray this medicine proves to be useful.”

“It is for burns to ease the flare up of the skin,” you explained, keeping an eye on the mixture. “I am sure it will come in handy.”

Price hummed, mashing the paste until he seemed satisfied. He shifted the bowl towards you, waiting for approval. The idea of it made you snort—a Captain, seeking approval from his ex-prisoner.

“It is not bad,” you praised, earning him a furrow of his eyebrows. “Much better after the water.”

He gave you a look, unamused, eyeing you as you shoveled the paste into an empty jar. You were happy to add it to the collection, though you wished you had the opportunity for a room for yourself to display them. Soap and Gaz’s room was feeling crowded.

“I am only teasing,” you said with a smile. “It’s almost as good as mine.”

Price snorted, smiling back. “Aye, I’m a Captain, not a medic. That’s your specialty,” he retorted.

“And will this medic ever get a room of her own? Or perhaps a place to work?”

He raised an eyebrow. You mirrored him. “Are the boys not fun to room with?”

Images of Gaz earlier flashed in your mind. You swallowed. “No, they are just fine. But I am a woman, after all. It is not… suitable.”

Price made a noise of acknowledgment, nodding slow. He seemed to be thinking, a hand brushing through his beard and stroking his bottom lip.

“That is… understandable. Forgive me, I have not had a woman on my ship until you. It slipped my mind that you roomin’ with those two may not be entirely appropriate,” he replied thoughtfully.

“You forced me to sleep with you on my first night out of the brig,” you reminded him.

Price paused his stroking, blinking at you. For a moment, you lost him, his mind running astray. You could only stare back patiently.

“Would you prefer to stay here, then?” he asked. “You may find much more peace in here than with them., or if you'd like, you may switch off between quarters.”

You felt your body tense up at the mere thought. You knew no matter who you stayed with, it would be a gamble. Each of them had your heart on lock in an unfamiliar way, and the thought of staying with Price again had your stomach twisting into knots.

Gaz popped up once again, and you wondered if that decision would solidify your act in avoiding him. A pang of guilt hit your chest.

“You would not mind?” you asked wearily.

Price shrugged. “I may prefer it, actually.”

Your expression morphed into confusion, eyebrows pulling together and lips curling into a frown. He’d prefer to spend nights with you, rather than allowing you to cram into a small bed with Soap in the late hours of the night?

You thought the Captain valued his privacy and solitude. Now that he was offering you to stay on his own rather than out of fear of you running off to islands unknown, it felt much more personal.

“You’d prefer it?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“Why?”

The Captain paused, narrowing his eyes at you. You were curious at to what he could be thinking about.

The door to his quarters opened, silencing your conversation rather quickly. The wind sounded much louder now without barriers between the inside and outside, and when you whipped your head to look at the doorway, Soap stood, drenched in water.

You were so focused on your time with Price and your craft, you hadn’t noticed the uneasy rockiness of the ship that seemed to grow with every second.

“The storm’s brewin’ real fast, Cap,” Soap breathed, lightly heaving. He must’ve climbed down the nest in a haste. “We need to get her steady. It’s comin’ down faster than we thought.”

The Captain stood quickly, giving him a nod. “Go collect Gaz and Ghost,” he ordered. Soap agreed, tossing the door closed and leaving you alone. “Dove, you’re stayin’ here.”

“I must be of help—”

“Here,” he repeated, tapping his finger on the desk. “That’s an order.”

You wanted to protest, but the look on his face was gloomy. You watched him leave his quarters and enter the battlefield of heavy rain that spilled over on to the deck.

Something in your heart tugged, but this time, not out of longing, or envy—it was worry. Sure, you faced many storms in your village, but never on a ship where one wrong move could send you right below the waves and have you never come back up again.

You felt helpless as you sat, thumbs twiddling mindlessly in your lap as you hoped and pray the ship would become steady enough for them to return to safety.

“Dove.”

The crashing sound of cracking thunder had you jolting in your seat. You did as the Captain ordered and stayed put, but you were becoming restless. The longer you stayed, the more your feeling of cold dread grew.

You knew where it was coming from. It was the very thing living inside your head, and you wondered if Ghost could hear it, too.

You couldn’t sit anymore. You got to your feet, quickly throwing open the door to a monsoon.

The ship swayed with the heavy, angry waves that crashed harshly against the sides of the ship. It made you lose balance, and you grabbed on to the doorway to steady.

Gaz and Soap stood under the rainfall, water soaking into their skin and clothes as they heaved the sails closed, holding the ropes to guaranteed they stayed.

Ghost was lifting heavy baggage that had yet to be stored away, thrown over his shoulder as he hurried to transport them to a dry part of the ship.

The Captain stood at the helm, his hair flat against his forehead and dripping water all the way down to his beard. He was mastering the steering of the ship, barking orders at Soap and Gaz while the two attempted to keep the sails at bay.

“Isn’t this fun, dove?” Graves whispered. You wished you could claw out your own eardrums.

You knew he was near. Before, you couldn’t feel his presence—now, it felt stronger than ever.

You frantically looked around, hoping to spot him somewhere out at sea, but the rain was too heavy. The sky had been darkening, giving off an ominous hue covered by storm clouds. You wouldn’t be able to see him from below.

Your eyes landed on the crow’s nest, the net of rope leading up to it swaying in the crazy wind. Soap had been up there mere hours ago, watching the storm and charting its location.

Without a moment of hesitation, you sprinted in the cold rain, heading towards your destination.

“Dove?” Soap called out in confusion, before recognizing you. “Dove! What are ye doin’?”

You began your ascent, just as Gaz had joined in calling for you. With them unable to leave the ropes of the sails behind, they couldn’t chase after you, stopping you from your foolish moment of cleverness.

“What the hell is she doin’ out?” Price growled, his firm voice quieter in the winds chasing it away.

The rope creaked as you planted your feet in the gaps, climbing your way up to the nest. The higher up you got, the more the breeze increased its abuse, whipping along your face in a serious of angry smacks.

The pirate’s voices grew farther away as you approached the crow’s nest. Their tones were ones of concern, fear, and worry as you scrambled your way on to the rugged, old wood platform, hauling yourself up.

You needed to know if your thoughts were true—if Graves truly was here, or if it was another one of his tricks.

You stood on the crow’s nest, holding yourself steady with a firm grip of the sides. You looked out into the void, scanning for anything, any sign—and there it was.

A ship, not too far off in the distance, swaying with the waves with its front nose pointed in the direction of your ship. A large sail flapped in the wind, and it was so misty you nearly couldn’t see it until a familiar white outline of a skull appeared, waving as if saying hello.

Graves was setting sail right towards the ship, and he had every intention of riding out the storm until he reached you.

[bambisspeckles]

Stowaway ✿ Poly Pirate!141 x Reader

*pics for aesthetics only!

Summary: You accidentally sneak onto pirate crew 141's ship CW: Inaccurate depiction of pirates, poly!141, fem!reader, ghost and price are kinda assholes (for right now), soap is well soap, gaz is an angel sent from heaven, reader is held captive (ish), stockholm syndrome core but like in the way beauty and the beast is, no romance yet (sorry, but don't worry it won't really be a slowburn), self-edited! WC: 1.8k

It was a mistake, honestly you should have just stayed put. You have no idea why you thought it'd be a good idea to sneak onto any ship, at all, ever.

You suppose this cruel fate is karma for your actions.

It started in the early hours of the morning, when many passenger ships were docked. You had decided to pack a small bag with your most important belongings and sneak into one of the ships cargo holds. In theory it was a good idea, you figured most of the crew we be pretty occupied tending to passengers needs, therefore your chances of getting caught and thrown into the ocean were slim. It's a shame you the ship you decided to board wasn't a passenger ship.

You should have known, it didn't look remotely like a passenger ship. There weren't any nice amenities, only one small dining room, not nearly enough beds for the amount of people that come to and from your island, and there were too many suspicious looking locked chests. There was a voice inside your head screaming for you to get off the ship but the adrenaline being pumped through your body was too high, and the yearning to escape the hell your home brought to you overruled almost all your sense of logic and reasoning. When you found the cargo hold, you didn't even think twice before making your way inside, quickly scanning your surroundings to find the best place to hide. You decide to hide behind some unmarked crates, figuring they'd be bothered the least. You squeeze your body behind the boxes, maneuvering so all of you can be hidden well.

It feels like you're there for days, realistically you know that's not true, but you're so close to leaving this island and never looking back. No matter how tempted you are to bolt, you keep yourself firmly planted behind the crates. Finally, you hear voices, it doesn't seem like there's very many people and that makes your anxiety sky rocket, but it's much too late to sneak off and try to find another ship to become a stowaway in. Pushing your knees further into your chest, you take a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm your nerves. For hours you hear voices and footsteps above you, but no one seems to have any suspicions. In fact it's been so calm the rocking of the ship has your eyes fluttering shut, you've been fighting sleep but nothing has transpired for so long maybe a few minutes of shut eye won't hurt. As your mind battles between alertness and staying asleep you hear something.

Footsteps. Coming down the steps, right into the cargo hold.

Your heart drops into your stomach and your breath hitches. You squeeze your body into itself in an attempt to make it smaller, one of your hands coming to clasp your mouth shut. The footsteps get louder and louder until you see a large figure standing in the archway. You go rigid as you get a better look at him. He's no average sailor, he's a fucking pirate.

"Great." You think wryly. "If he finds me then I really am dead."

He's moving around some boxes, you're not quite sure why, and for a moment you think he has no clue you're there.

Unfortunately for you, that's where you're wrong.

In the blink of an eye he grabs you from behind your crate wall, holding you by the scruff of your neck like a naughty kitten. The look in his eye is dark, and the rest of his face is covered by a mask, a skull print adorning the fabric. He says nothing, only staring at you for a moment before throwing you over his shoulder and walking back up the steps, presumably to bring you to the rest of the crew.

Oh. you're totally fucked now.

The mans footsteps attract the attention of his crew as he walks across the deck, when he stops walking, he practically throws you onto the ground, forcing you to kneel before three other men.

"Wha' a bonnie thing she is… S' what tha' noise was? Was startin' worry I was finally losin' it." A man, Scottish you think, says as he stares at you. His thumb dragging down the side of your face as a devilish smirk graces his lips.

You flinch under his touch and the Scotsman quickly removes his hand but his touch is soon replaced by another, a man much more imposing than he. Rough hands gripping your face, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Was wonderin' why it sounded like there was a rat down in the cargo," A dark glint flashes through his eyes, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared. "Now tell me, stowaway, wha' the hell are ya doin' on my ship."

Tears well in your eyes as you struggle against his grip, and you can feel his impatience growing as he waits for you to respond. After another moment, the final man turns to speak to you.

"Captain asked ya a question love, best answer him before he gets angry." His voice is surprisingly gentle, and when you meet his gaze, soft brown eyes stare back at you, eyes filled with pity.

The look in his eye breaks you, and fat tears begin rolling down the apples of your cheeks.

"I'm… I'm sorry!" You choke out your words between sobs, your body taut under the piercing gaze of the Captain.

A beat of silence passes before the Captain of the ship releases you from his grip, your body crumbling into itself.

"I didn't know! I didn't- I don't… I just wanted to leave! I promise I didn't take anything a-and you can drop me off at your next stop, just please don't hurt me…" Your words come out watery, your voice hoarse and snot coming out of your nose, ugly sobbing as these men surround you.

The man with the soft brown eyes crouches down next you, his gentle hand wiping tears off your cheeks.

"You poor thing, you're all outta' sorts. M' sure you didn't mean any harm…" He looks towards his Captain but his head is still angled in your direction. "Go easy on her sir, poor thing is trembling."

The Captain scoffs, his arms folding over his chest as he studies you, his gaze scrutinizing, piercing through you.

"She shoulda' thought of that before sneaking onto my ship." He gives you another once over before ordering you to stand on your feet. You figure it's best to do what he says so you rise from the ground, knees almost buckling under you.

The group of men stare at you for a while, seemingly unsure of what to do with you. After a few moments, a deep voice from behind finally speaks, you turn to look at him, his skull mask making your spine tingle with terror.

"We should just throw er' off the ship, no bloody reason to keep the thing around." You wince at the way he refers to you, objectifying, dehumanizing.

"Now, now, Ghost, nae reason tae make such a hasty decision. The kitten's completely harmless! I say we keep er', it'll be so nice to have a bonnie thing on board." The man, Ghost, scoffs.

"We don' need liabilities layin' around Johnny. Sides' got no use for er'. M' sure Price is inclined to agree with me." Ghost turns his head towards Price, presumably waiting for some type of agreeance on what he said.

Before the Captain can even get a word out, he's interjected.

"M' inclined to agree with Soap- for different reasons," He pauses shooting Soap a look, but he merely shrugs back. "But I agree all the same. I mean look at er' poor thing is terrified, I doubt she came to pillage our goods Captain."

Price sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he mulls over his, limited, options. Everyone, including you, waits for him with bated breath. Selfishly, you hope he'll keep you around a bit longer, at least then you'll get a chance to make an escape plan.

Finally, the Captain speaks.

"She can stay, for now. We can keep er' in the cellar until I figure out wha' the hell to do with her." His words carry a tone of finality, a fact that has Ghost scoffing.

"You're jus' pickin' sides cause' Gaz wants to keep er' around." He motions towards the man next to you, bitter venom coming out alongside his words.

Gaz rolls his eyes, blowing out with an irritated sigh.

"Price isn't picking sides, he's doing what's right. Just cause' you don't agree with it doesn't mean that-" Price puts his hand on Gaz's shoulder, interrupting his sentence. A silent way of telling him "settle down."

Gaz relaxes under the Captains touch.

"Gaz, Soap, take er' down to the cellar, we'll keep er' there for now. Ghost, come with me to my quarters." Ghost mumbles something in response, but his words are muffled by his mask, something you're sure he's grateful for at this moment.

You, Soap, and Gaz watch him for a moment as he follows Price like a kicked puppy. When they're finally out of view, Soap and Gaz turn their attention back to you.

"C'mon kitten, yer gonna ave' tae be a bit uncomfortable tonight, the Captain didnae plan for any stowaways.." He chuckles at you playfully, something you'd find much more comforting under different circumstances.

You suddenly feel a hand on your back, the skin a bit rough even through the fabric of your clothes. You whip your head to look behind to see Gaz, his soft brown eyes still filled with that same look of pity. He and Soap begin gently guiding you towards the ships cellar.

"It's alright love, The Captain can be a bit cruel but he won't hurt you. Even pirates have their limits… Besides, I assure you we're not nearly as bad as some of the other pirates out there. We'll get you sorted out in the morning."

You have no reason to trust these men, all you've known is that pirates cause pain and destruction everywhere they go, but the only thing you can do right now is trust them. So, you nod timidly, letting them guide without resistance.

Hopefully you can escape at the next docking place.

[katerinaaqu]

Finished Chapter 14 of The Song of Achilles and like you I already found one change that gets on my nerves. Why is Odysseus now the Prince of Ithaca? When he was already King by the events of the original poem? What was Madeline Miller’s purpose in demoting him from King to Prince?

This better have a payoff or else… without Odysseus being King I feel his 20 year absence from Ithaca has less serious consequences. I think without him being King of Ithaca, his wife’s suitors wouldn’t be so eager to replace him.

Well I will start with what me and other classics readers say, that Miller is extremely biased with certain characters and that shows in her writing (true she writes in a very beautiful way and has great expression but still...) so certain characters are depicted positively and others negatively (no surprise or news there) and she writes in a feministic way so certain characters in the background are bound to be disregarded or worse changed. However most people have come to know that her writing of characters is really inaccurate or that it comes straight from her imagination (see for example how in order to get her romcom aura we must see a "homophobic character" aka Thetis who acts almost as a villain, we see the stereotype of star-crossed lovers like Achilles and Patroclus (which is a trope she uses by combining elements from the original but ignoring the character development of others in order to fortify her message) etc.

That being said, Miller's style seems to me like she uses SOME elements of the original, blasts them out of proportions, altering it to be more simplified to fit a romcom setting and re-writes the rest to fit the characters. I am not 100% famliar with her books given how I haven't read them in the full but I have seen stuff around and read some passages so take this hypothesis with a grain of salt but this seems to be the case to me. So in this case it is clear that Miller doesn't see Odysseus in a very positive light (given what she goes with to her other novels as well) so yeah her trying to lesser his importance or the status in the story seems more than just a possibility to me.

So here goes my reply, sorry if this is long:

In this case she seems to take advantage of the fact that in translations there is no distinct difference in the text between the word "prince" or "king" in the homeric text (both are being stated by the term άναξ (anax->wanax, from mycenean greek as well) and is being used to speak on the ruler that has under his command the ships and the army. That is to be said some of the commanders of the greek army had living parents back home and Odysseus was included among them. It seems like Laertes was in a way retired since indeed Odysseus seemed to be a king in his own right, in fact Penelope even insinuates he had been so for a long time, given how she tells Antinous the story of his father who arrived to the palace begging Odysseus for his own life, possibly implying that Odysseus was a ruler of his own right more than 20 years prior, possibly before Antinous's birth or during Antinous's childhood or infantry. On the other hand some people seem to separate his father from Odysseus by naming Laertes "King of Cephallenians" and Odysseus "King of Ithaca" aka that technically Laertes is the king of the entirety of the kingdom (Ithaca, Cephallonia, Acarnania etc) and Odysseus's juristiction is Ithaca. Personally I do not fully support that last one given how Odysseus is the only one who seems to be in charge even if Laertes is still alive. It seems that the tradition in Ithaca was a bit more family-like in terms of ruling and the king retired from his duty because of age, letting the younger and more capable son to rule (potentially Laertes is an exception and gave the authority to Odysseus because he thought he was more capable ruler than himself. Odysseus possibly proved his worth during the internal conflicts with the Taphian pirates or in conflict in Messinia [when he received his bow in his youth as a gift])

It also seems to be backed up by how by n large they got married within the kingdom (Eurylochus is from the same kingdom, from the small island of Same and marries Odysseus's sister Ctimene, the suitors of Penelope all come from within the kingdom from different principates and regions). Laertes and Odysseus seem to be exceptions to the rule since Laertes marries Anticlea, daughter to the great thief Autolycus who lived in Parnassus and Odysseus who married Penelope from Sparta) So it seems that the kingdom is more like a "family business" than actually some kingdom with expansive or military construction (unlike Mycenae or Sparta) so it doesn't seem impossible that there is either a tradition for the old ruler to quit and pass the throne to the next generation rather than wait for his death to pass authority or that if one did it wouldn't seem impossible. It also seems that other kingdoms are not necessarily the same as modern kingdoms either. Icarius is still alive when the events of the Odyssey take place. We don't know if Tyndareus also is alive or not, from what I remember, in Homer's writing so it is not clear what kind of rules exist to that realm. Could it be also that the ruler is not only of age (able to grow a beard aka around the final 20s or early 30s) but also marriage that gets them ready to rule? Like Menelaus is a ruler of Sparta by marriage, Odysseus rules as a sovereign ruler because of his marriage? It could be although again the suitors of Helen were often called "kings" in literature, it doesn't seem to be the case given how most of her suitors are either young (Ajax, Menelaus, Antilochus was also mentioned or even Diomedes in some sources even if the two of them would be literal children at that time) or sons of existent rulers let's say Odysseus. So it is possible that marriage AND coming of age play their part in succession. It gets a bit confusing as well since Odysseus leaves order to Penelope that she has to wait till her son is of age (when his beard grows) to pass him the throne, if he hasn't returned till then. Does Odysseus imply that his son would rule if he was of age, regardless of his death or is he implying that they first have to confirm he is dead before Telemachus takes over? It is indeed an enigma but then again the case of Odysseus is complicated; he goes to a war that he doesn't know if he is gonna return from and according to some readings and traditions, he was repared to be off for a long time as well from an omen he heard so his case with Telemachus seems to be an exception rather than the rule given the extreme conditions they deal with.

Either way yeah it doesn't seem that Odysseus is not a ruler in his own right in any shape or form in the Iliad or the Odyssey despite the fact that Laertes was still alive throughout the entire process. Either because it was a consistent tradition or because Laertes made an exception, it seems that Laertes was not an active ruler by the time Odysseus left for Troy and as I said it seems that Penelope implies Odysseus was already a ruler capable of giving pardon to someone (Antinous's father) or command armies (Taphian pirate incident, Messina, Troy) so yeah it doesn't seem that Odysseus is considred "a Prince" like for instance his brother-in-law Eurylochus or the Suitors and their families but he seems to be a king in his own right; he is the one who has the duty to send away the suitors; he is the one to command the army and he is the one to call the counter-attack in the Odyssey against the retalliation of the families after the murder of the suitors and not Laertes.

So to close this already long answer yes among the many changes Miller imposes in her book to fit her narrative, it seems that she takes advantage of modern day perspectives of rule and succession (aka the sovereign ruler's death before the other takes over) plus the fact that there is no distinct word between king and prince in the ancient texts to call Odysseus "a Prince" possibly to decrease his status (similar to how ancient writers mentioned Odysseus not being legitimate son of Laertes but a bastard son by Sisyphus) so yeah it does seem like it as you said given how Miller doesn't seem to be fond of Odysseus as a character. But that would be my hypothesis. Either that or Miller simply doesn't want to consider a different rule of succession than the modern one she and her readers are familiar with aka a king becomes king only after his father's death. Which is ironic though given how many people mention Odysseus "a king" even if they know or possibly because they forget Laertes is still alive.

Hope this helps

[sofasoap]

Lastochka AU - Seven Seas - 1

Pairing : Nikolai x F!Reader ( OC/Mini MacTavish)

Summary: Going against the odds of society's expectation and prejudice, you made a name for yourself as Lady Fortuna of the sea. but one day ....

AU to my Lastochka series

WARNING: Mature Theme. swearing. violence. inaccurate period/historical depiction. or languages. or facts. everything.

A/N : Well, I started another AU. Thanks to @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot's mouth frothing render of Buccaneer!Nikolai. Please go check out her wonderful renders and story :D and oh... this was suppose to be part of the 141 challenge ooops I was tooooo late. sorry @glitterypirateduck! oops.

Main masterlist

Credit : @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot

“Pirate! Starboard!!” 

“Captain! They are getting closer!!” 

You knew this wasn’t going to be an easy journey. You had a hunch about it the moment you boarded the ship.  And usually your hunch never fails you. 

“That’s a Schooner. They might look small, but they will catch up to us no matter what we do. We will never outran that ship.”  you heard the Captain mumbling, as he looked through his telescope, trying to identify the ship.  

Putting down the telescope he sighed. “The only chance of escaping is to face them.”

Treasurer might be a government commissioned ship, but being a merchant ship and designed to carry cargo and goods, it was never equipped with the heavy cannon or artillery like the naval battle ship. A chill runs down your spine. They have no choice but let the pirate board the ship and fight them in close combat. 

“Arm yourself! Ready for battle!” The Captain yelled at the crews,before he turned around and escorted you back to your resting quarter. “Lady MacTavish, you will be safer down there than up here. Go.” 

You wanted to argue with him but you know better than disobeying a Captain’s command. 

This is probably the first time you have met with real danger on the sea after years of sailing. 

You started sailing with the merchant ship from the day you became of age. 

You have begged and bribed your father for years to be a passenger to sail on one of the merchant ships that sails from Port Inbhir Nis to London, delivering the orders of whisky and woven goods from your parent’s distillery and farm to the clients down south.

“Please Da! I have never been to London before! Besides, Johnny will be there too, you have nothing to worry about.” you begged. 

Lord MacTavish sighed. Putting down the document he was reviewing, he leaned in, clasped his hand and frowned. He looks straight into your eyes, tries to reason with you. 

“You know how superstitious the crews are about taking women onboard a ship…” he started.

“I can pretend to be a man!” you countered. 

“Not that easy you know..” 

“I got an idea!” you clap your hand together, as another excuse comes up. “Social season is starting soon in London, So…”

“You can get there by land….”

“Will be too late. You know how long it takes! Plus my bottom will be so sore by the end of the journey…”  

“Language, Mini.” your father warned. “You've never been on a ship or boat before..” “River boat Da, I've been on a river boat once.” “Fine. once. But the open sea is a totally different business. The unforgiving waves, the danger…” 

“Da. After growing up with Johnny, do you think anything will faze me?”

“... True.” 

“Just remember to behave a bit more like a lady….”  not waiting for him to finish his words, you surge forward and give him a big hug. 

“Oh thank you Da! Thank you!” you pepper kisses on your father’s face, all excited. You knew your father wouldn’t say no to you. You have always been the jewel in their eyes, their precious little gem. You were brought on in a very unconventional way compared to the other noble ladies. Sure, you have learn how to read, write, etiquettes, languages and sewing like other girls, but you also run around like a wild goose with your older brother Johnny, learning how to fight, use swords and roll around in mud, climbing trees, all the un-lady like things you can think of? You’ve done it. 

“I hope I am making the right decision… Now just try to convince your Ma…”He mumbled as he patted your back. 

He manages to find a merchant ship that is willing to take you onboard, after paying a nice sum of money to the Captain and the crew to take a young lady and a few of the servants onboard with them.  

When you reached London at the end of the journey, the Captain was amazed how smooth sailing the trip was.

“I have been going up and down this stretch for the last fifteen years, I have never,ever had a more uneventful but smooth sailing journey than this!” 

Second, third, and fourth journey was the same. Rumours started to spread that contrary to the superstition, you were a lucky charm, a sure guarantee for a fast and safe journey.

Suddenly everyone is fighting to take you onboard. To your parents’ surprise. They would have thought you will be giving up on the “sailor’s game” by now but instead you have come home with your brother blabbering how much fun you had and all the invitations you have received from various Captains for more journeys in the future. 

They reluctantly let you continue on after they discovered people were willing to pay good money to have you onboard. You were also helping to manage your father’s business by dealing and expanding clientiles in London, also sometimes going across the channel, into the continents. 

You slowly made a name for yourself not just being Lady MacTavish, but Lady Fortuna, lady luck, the one who brings good fortune and safety for anyone who travels with you. 

Gossips spread within the social circles. Good gossip, bad gossip.

Good gossips of how other ladies are envious of you, how much freedom your parents gave you despite being a lady, being a woman. 

Bad gossips of how you must have slept around to gain so many favours and names amongst the merchants and sailors, how you were only just a northern barbarians 

But you ignore the rumours. You were just happy you have become an independent woman. Even with reassurance from Johnny he would look after you in the unfortunate event of both of your parents passing, you don’t want to be dependent on anyone. You don’t want to be a burden. What if Johnny’s future spouse hates you and kicks you out of the house? 

How many times have you witnessed yourself the stories of young ladies with not a penny under their name, ditched by their siblings after their parents passing, nearly ending up on the street. You were glad she was in the position of wealth and social status to reach out to help resettling those girls, helping them to find a respectable job to bring in some income.

You are proud of what you have managed to achieve. And you are thankful for your family’s support, no matter how reluctant they are at the beginning.

And for years, things have been peaceful… until today.

Well, if your father knows the dire situation that is happening right now, he probably regrets the decision he made way back to them to let you step onto ships. 

The sound of crews yelling and running around on the main deck was getting more frantic as the minute went by. 

Your poor young maid huddles in the corner of the room, shaking and sobbing. This was the young girl’s first time on a ship, after hearing your reputation, she eagerly volunteered to accompany you on the journey, never expecting to be in such a dire situation. 

“Aye, to hell. I cannot just sit here like a damsel in distress…” you came to the conclusion after pacing up and down in the small room while listening to the yelling and screaming up on the deck. 

You open your trunk and throw all the clothes onto the bed as you dig right to the bottom. 

“Ah here it is.” you dragged the Claymore out from the bottom of the trunk. You never thought this day would have come. Johnny had insisted you pack the sword for each of your travels (to your Ma’s aghast). 

“I just wish I never have to use this thing…” 

“Neither do I, my dear sister. But, if anything happens, I wouldn’t be there to protect you, but it comforts me that you will be well equipped, and show those enemies what a Scottish lass can do.” 

“Here, take this.” You shove the fork and knife that was left on the table from meal time into your crying maid’s hands. “Lock and block the door after I go out, and go hide under the bed or closet. Understand??”

“But my Lady…” 

“That’s an order. Follow it.” you gave her no room to argue and marched out the door.

You storm up the staircase, dragging the sword behind you. You pushed open the double door that leads towards the upper deck. 

You were greeted with the chaotic sight of yelling, screaming and the metal sound of swords clashing together. No one seems to have noticed you emerging from the door as they were all focused on fighting their enemies. You would be lying if you said you aren’t scared witless. But what else can you do? You are in the middle of the sea, nowhere to escape, instead of hiding in the cabin and crying about your imminent death. You are a MacTavish! Proud Scottish! You will fight until your last breath if you have to.

Qui audet adipiscitur, Audeamus. 

The family motto that has been drilled into your brain. Make your ancestors proud. As your grandfather repeats day in and day out when he was still alive.

Quickly scanning through the deck,you were relieved to see everyone is still alive, if not only slightly injured. Maybe your Lady Luck magic is still working, but for how long you wondered. It wouldn’t be long before a casualty appears if you don’t do something.    

Following the sound of the familiar voice, you spotted the Captain, towards the quarter deck, currently in a deep battle of what seems to be the Captain or the Commander of a pirate ship. 

Quickly mumbling a prayer under your breath, gathering your courage, you hauled the sword up onto your shoulder, silently thanking Johnny’s insistence of dragging you into training with the sword everyday until he ran off to London after purchasing himself an officer position.  

Everyone stopped dead in their tracks and automatically parted ways as they spotted you, a noble lady, with a broad sword that is nearly as tall as you, marching towards the front of the ship, full of purpose, like a highlander marching into her last battle. None of them dared to stop you. 

“Stop the fighting at this instance!” You bellowed out the order. Your Captain’s eyes widened as spotted you over the shoulder of the enemy, dodged out of the way just in time as the enemy tried to aim at his neck. 

The whole ship came into an eerie silence as the fighting came to a halt. Only the sound of crashing waves and seagulls screeching could be heard as everyone turned their attention to you.

You stab the claymore onto the deck floor in front of you, resting your hands on the end of the hilt. 

“My Lady… I told you…” you hold up a hand, silencing the Captain. Giving him a look. I’ll handle this.  

You just hope the plan you have formulated in your brain will work. Even if it comes at a cost. 

The tall man, who you assume is the Commander and Captain of the pirate ship, slowly turned around, while swinging his sword around at the same time, taking aim at your face.

Don’t back down Mini, Don’t back down. You keep reminding yourself as you shuffle your feet wider, standing firm. 

For a second you could see a flash of surprise from his body language. “A noble woman, a Scottish one too.well, that is something new.”  The man smirked, while scanning you up and down. But not in a leering way. You have been enough men to distinguish the difference between someone who is looking at you like a common whore and someone who is trying to suss you out. 

You took a quick glance at him yourself, trying to guess his origin. Eastern European? You deduced from his slight accent. Possibly well educated, for commanding fluent English. Tall, well built with strong arm muscle, slightly dark skinned as all the sailors have from long voyages under the sun, black sleek hair with a slightly rugged beard. 

Quite a handsome man, you have to admit. 

“Where are my manners?” he took off his traveller's hat, taking an exaggerated bow, all the while still keeping his eyes on you. “ Commander Nikolai, Captain of Chimera, Privateer, at your service.” 

“Privateer..” you mumbled. “sleekit basturts.” Trying to make himself sound more grand than a pirate is he? 

“What was that?” He smiled, but you know the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Nothing.” you rolled your eyes. 

You returned the greeting, announcing your name and clan name. “... of Clan MacTavish.” you said proudly. You could see a flash of confusion followed by recognition in his eyes. Has he heard of your family before? But where could he have heard it from? 

“I have a proposition for you.” you tilt your head, ignoring that question you have in your head, and putting your plan into motion. 

He cockily raised an eyebrow as he lowered his sword, suddenly taking interest in what deals you have to offer. 

“Take me instead. And whatever cargo you want. All I ask is for you to let my crew go, with enough food and water for them to sail to the nearest port.” 

“My lady!!!” Your Captain and any crews that were close enough to you gasped, shocked by the idea and protesting. You turned your head to look at him for a few seconds, giving a stern look. Please trust me on this. You pleaded with your eyes.

“Keeping a woman onboard? Bah! That will certainly bring bad luck! I mean look at what happened.. “ one of the pirates with .. what seems to be a sack or cloth over his head, waved his hand and laughed. Your crew booed and jeered at the idiot who clearly hadn't heard of your reputation and the luck you have brought for them. 

You ignored his jeering and took a step closer to the Pirate’s Captain, “Give me one month, and I can prove to you, I can bring you more money and luck you wish for. If not, feel free to go ahead and ask my parents for a ransom.” you tilt your head up confidently. Or try to act confidently. You were actually panicking and formulating alternative plans if he doesn’t accept the offer. Maybe you should have just swung your sword and chopped his head off just now when you had the chance. 

But some weird part of your heart told you not to do it. That intuition you always trust. 

This man might have some use to you later on. You decided. 

“So, what do you think?” you pushed him again. 

Nikolai stared at you with a serious expression on his face, calculating all the odds. 

“Alright.”

“You.. you agree?” you replied, with surprise in your voice. 

“Why are you so surprised?” he laughed at your shocking expression.  

You made an unlady-like face, “Because you are my enemy? The one who attacked us? A pirate?”

“You never have to be scared of me, Lady MacTavish, I might be a Privateer…”

“Pirate.” You reiterate it again. “You just ransack a merchant ship that is technically owned by The crown, so you are not a privateer.”

“Fine, Pirate. I might be a pirate, but I do have a set of  morals and standards I follow.”

“Is that so? Maybe you should be weary of me instead, Captain.” you smirked. “You never know if I might just poke your eyes out during your sleep.”

“You are not brave enough to do that.” he taunted. 

“Watch me.” you smiled, taking a step forward and jabbing his chest with your finger, deliberately digging your nail into his flesh. “What MacTavish promises, MacTavish will do.” 

Xxxxx

Johnny MacTavish waited at the port with excitement. He hasn’t seen his sister for a few months, and was quite eager to see her again. 

But what shocked him and his friends and fellow soldiers when they saw the Treasurer finally docked at the port days behind schedule, with no cargo to unload, only with a very dejected and injured crew walking off the ship.

Without you. 

Johnny rushed towards the Captain of Treasurer, who looked at him with an apologetic expression as he pushed a letter and ring into Johnny’s hand. 

“Please give this to Johnny, along with the letter.” You pushed the gold ring with the family signet along with a hastily written letter into the Captain’s hand. “You and the crew should be alright until you reach the port. The luck should follow with my ring. Not a worry there.”

“My lady…”

“Go. I will be alright. I’ll make sure of that. Oh, please make sure my poor maid is well compensated. I wouldn’t be surprised if the poor girl decided to run away from the job the moment she arrived at the port.” 

Johnny gripped onto the letter with a shaky hand. Pirates!! Pirates have taken his precious sister!!! 

“What is going on here? Where is your sister Johnny?” A gruff voice behind Johnny made him 

“Captain Price..”Johnny took a deep breath and turned towards his own Captain,with the rest of his crewmates following behind him. Johnny took a deep breath in, as calm as he could and slowly explain the situation to him, along with Captain of Treasurer. 

“... Did you say Nikolai?” Captain Price frowned when he heard the name mentioned.

“Of Chimera. Who claims he was a privateer for the Crown.” Captain of the Treasurer added.

“ … Shit.” Captain Price lowered his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “That muppet…” he mumbled. 

Johnny’s eyes flashed with surprise, but before he could ask the question, Kyle Garrick, the young soldier who became fast friends with Johnny since the day he joined, perked up, “Captain.. You know this Privateer.. Or the Pirate that kidnapped Mini?” he asked.

“Worked with him a few times actually. Under the command of the Crown. He is an extremely capable sailor and soldier. People often underestimate how destructive he could be. I am surprised Mini managed to strike a deal with him to let the crew leave with just losing the cargo. ” Price commented.

“Also with her.” Johnny growled. Glaring at the Treasurer’s Captain as he speaks.

“Not his fault Johnny. She made a valiant effort to try to reduce the casualty and losses to minimum. You should have seen her on the deck. Swinging the Claymore around like a true Scottish woman.” one of the crew walked past, trying to defend their Captain. 

Johnny let out a faint smile as he heard the crew describe how you challenged the pirate, the bravery, that's the stubborn Mini he knows.

Johnny shook his head. No, this is not the time to admire his sister’s bravery. Her life and also her… her virtue is in danger here! He looked pleadingly to his Captain, hoping he would come up with a plan or help him to rescue his sister, with or without Crown’s permission. 

“I want to say you should be worrying for your sister but..apart from that muppet shouldn’t have attacked a Crown owned ship.. It’s Nikolai that might be in more danger here.”

“.. HUH.” Everyone looked at Captain Price with confusion. 

“ I am actually more worried for Nikolai…he might have met his match.” Price mumbled cryptically. 

“... I .. I don’t understand, Captain?” Johnny asked, perplexed by his Captain’s words.

“Trust me on this one, Mini should return without harm.” Price patted Johnny’s shoulder. “But we still need to go chase after them.. Stupid idiots need to be reined in before this gets into further trouble with the whole British Isle.”

Oh Mini, what mess have you got yourself into? Johnny wondered. All he knows Ma and Da and their ancestors will be half proud of what you have done but also twist his neck off if he doesn’t get you back to safety fast enough. 

prompt used for 141 challenge:

Alternate Universe/AU

Enemies to Lovers

Dare/Bet

You never have to be scared of me

Tag list:

@homicidal-slvt @nrdmssgs @siilvan @roosterr @preciouslittlecreature @gamergirlbones @whydoilikewhump @alypink @ashwasherelol @okayyadriana @liyanahelena @miyabilicious @caramlizedtomatoes @celshideout @merkitty49 @abbeyrjm-blog @shyravenns @okamimarta @gazs-blue-hat

[doushitemacaron]

Unpopular Opinion: Izzy doesn't take shit from Ed

Izzy is frequently depicted in fanon to be kind of subservient or willing to put up with anything from Ed, which I think is really inaccurate to how he's portrayed in the show. Izzy is actually always shown to have really strong lines for what he will and won't take from Edward and from everyone else the whole time. People just get confused because the toe thing makes them think that he'll accept anything from Edward, but it's very untrue. That particular thing just doesn't cross one of Izzy's lines. Violence in Ed is something Izzy is deliberately trying to cultivate; therefore, it's not something he objects to even when it's directed at him. In contrast, he stands up to Ed multiple times when he disagrees, and is even willing to quit at one point, mostly when he thinks Ed is putting himself or the crew in danger, which is honestly not that unreasonable if he's trying to run a pirate ship and keep them all alive (including Ed.)

[cherrybombfangirlwrites]

Your Kisses Burn Into My Skin (Only Love Can Hurt Like This)

CHOO-CHOO! ALL ABORD THE ANGST TRAIN :DDDD!!! Hope you all brought tissues. This is the potential last chapter I have for draft 0 of The Little Pirate, starring our two favorite sapphic pirates Cassandra and Erica of course. Buckle up folks :))). Cassandra (due to past trauma) thinks that Erica betrayed them, can she learn the truth before it's too late?

Wordcount: 1360

Warnings: fantasy violence, brief gore (someone's hand gets cut off), blood descriptions, major character death :))) (and a very angsty one at that), angst galore, due to trauma there's a little bit of miscommunication but it gets resolved, many feels, also most likely inaccurate depiction of how a volcano acutally works (it's not about realism its about the visuals and drama ok), lack of editing (i only did grammar edits)

The Little Pirate, Draft 0 - Character, Dynamic, and Plot Exploration

Inside the volcano was sweltering hot, visible heat waves rising from the black rock and sand. As they made their way deeper inside, they found the center of the volcano, where a large pool of lava bubbled. The lava didn’t rise or fall, which was a good sign. Across the pool, there were some rocks peeking out of the fiery liquid, creating craggy and unstable paths.

Erica gently grabbed Cass’s arm. “What’s wrong?” She signed slowly, trying to get the motions correct.

Cass stood there for a second, staring at her. Even in the rising waves of heat and boiling temperature, she was beautiful. 

Erica blinked, knitting her brow. “Why are you looking at me like that? Cass?”

Salty tears burned in Cass’s eyes. She signed, sharply and deliberately, “Did you lead him to us?”

She stared in dumbfounded shock, mouth slightly open. “What?” Her signs became sharper and more deliberate as well. “You think I’d do that?”

“No, but how else did he follow us?”

“I don’t know how he followed us, but it was not me!” Erica signed the last part again, harder. “It wasn’t me!”

Cass took a step back, shaking her head as tears started to leak out. Her hands started to shake uncontrollably as she signed. “How can I trust you?”

Erica stood there for a moment, staring at Cass with a wounded look. Finally after a minute, she said, “I would never hurt you. I would never lead them to us. I love you, Cass!”

Those words. Those three beautiful, cursed words.

She swallowed, breath catching in her throat like a bubble that wouldn’t pop. “No one loves me. Not like that. No one can.”

Tears streaked down Erica’s face as she stared at Cassandra with a stricken look in her infinitely beautiful dark brown eyes. “I do. I love you.”

“No. I’m not worth it.” Her hands wavered now as she signed. Tears rolled down Cass’s face in burning trails, she couldn’t stop them now. She had to swallow another lump in her throat.

“You are to me.” Erica stepped closer, and this time Cass couldn’t pull away as she reached out and gently cupped her cheek.

“But everyone leaves me, I’m not worth staying around for.”

A big tear rolled down Erica’s face as she signed almost perfectly, “Not me. I won’t abandon you. You are worth staying for.” She leaned forward, gently pressing her forehead against Cassandra’s.

Cass shuddered, wrapping her arms around Erica and pulling her closer.

Then Cass felt vibrations under her feet of quickly approaching footsteps. Lots of footsteps.

She quickly signed to her crew, “They’re here! Get ready for a fight!”

She and Erica both drew their swords and the rest of the crew drew their weapons as well, as they all retreated across the unstable paths over the lava.

Gar Face’s crew exploded into the cavern, following them onto the rocky paths.

Cassandra blocked the first sword that was swung at her, pushing her opponent back and sending them into the lava. 

Two more came at her as she felt the unstable path under her about to crumble away. She quickly stepped back, and when the two pirates stepped onto the crumbling section of path, it gave way and they both fell into the lava.

Behind her, Erica took on three pirates, throwing two off the path. Cassandra felt the path under Erica starting to crumble, and grabbed her arm, pulling her back.

The third pirate fell into the lava as Erica leaned against her. They both smiled, and stood back to back as more pirates charged at them from the remaining paths.

Cass blocked swords with hers, and threw one pirate after the other back into the lava.

No more pirates were charging up the paths on her side so she turned to help Erica.

As she did, she saw Gar Face charging up the path at her, lunging with his sword. Cass raised her sword, and blocked his.

They pushed against each other, swords scraping against each other. Cass could feel the scraping vibrations all the way down in the handle of her sword.

His momentum pushed her back until her heels were at the edge of the lava, but not for long. She used her size and strength to push back, pushing him to the edge, ready to throw him off.

He whipped a knife out of his boot, slashing at her legs. 

Cass stumbled back, gripping her sword tighter as she glared. She should’ve known he’d play dirty.

He slashed again, too fast for her to counter. Pain flared in her arm as the knife slashed her forearm, almost making her drop her sword.

Cass grit her teeth, determined to keep a hold of her sword, even as the blood dripping down her arm made the handle slick.

He came at her again, and this time she swung her sword in a deadly arc, slicing through Gar Face’s wrist. The now disembodied hand holding the dagger fell into the lava as his mouth opened in a shriek she could barely even hear.

His face became red with pure rage, and he lunged at her, swinging his sword.

Cass attempted to block, but the handle started to slip out of her grasp. His sword connected with hers, and her sword went flying. The blade clattered onto an isolated rock over a river of lava that would be far too wide to try and jump across.

Gar Face grinned maliciously, his mouth moving and saying something that Cassandra couldn’t hear. Probably some prideful speech about how he won, and it was all over- or something like that. Felicity told her they were all the same.

Then with a shark toothed grin, he pulled his sword back to stab.

To her side, there was a muffled yell, and before she knew it, Erica was pulling Cass behind her.

Cass watched in horror as the sword pierced through Erica’s stomach and then back instead of hers.

Gar Face ripped his sword out and threw his head back, mouth open in a wide cackling laugh. The rock under his heels crumbled, and he fell backwards into the lava, mouth open in a terrified shriek. His body quickly disappeared into the lava, leaving only bubbles of molten rock.

Erica stumbled back, hand flying to the wound instinctively. Cass let out a silent gasp as she caught Erica and sunk to the ground with her. Blood was pouring out of both wounds quickly. Too quickly to do anything to stop it.

She desperately pressed down hard on the one in front, trying to stop the blood loss. She cradled Erica close to her, tears burning down her face.

Erica tried to push her hands away. Cassandra frantically shook her head, trying harder to slow the blood, but her hands were slipping and her trousers were already soaked with more blood where she knelt with Erica in her lap.

Hand shaking, Erica signed in broken fragments, “Can’t stop it- no use- too much-”

Cassandra shook her head harder, starting to sob. The last time she cried this hard had been five years ago, on a beach as she watched a boat sail away without her while her throat and legs painfully burned with what she’d given up to get there.

This time was almost worse.

Erica signed again, barely able to finish words, “I’m sorry- I said I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t- leave- I’m sorry- Cass-”

Cassandra gave up on the wounds, cradling Erica’s head with both hands and kissing her, desperately hoping it would keep her tethered to the earth. She leaned her forehead against Erica’s, clinging to her as she cried.

Erica reached up with a shaking hand, and brushed a lock of hair out of her face. Her lips were moving, forming words Cassandra almost recognized.

“I love you.”

Erica’s eyes closed, and Cassandra could no longer feel her breathing, she couldn’t feel her heartbeat.

She shook Erica, trying to wake her up, bring her back. Cassandra’s mouth opened in a silent scream, small noises escaping her throat as she leaned her head on Erica’s shoulder and sobbed.

[bloodpen-to-paper]

Review Blurbs: The Sea Beast

General:

-This movie is a huge love letter to pirates. They made a point to use accurate accents from pirates in that time period and region, even making a dig at the inaccurate depiction of pirates saying "argh" that is popularly known

-On that note, it has a huge core theme of being critical of history, and the idea that "history is written by the winners". As a history buff I am begging you to get more into this topic, you have no idea how bad the inaccurate depictions of history go (some people still believe in the Thanksgiving story...)

-Sarah Sharpe is the best character I take no criticisms (and I lived for every time Ms. Merino's job was to just shout at people, I support her with my life)

-Minor detail but I noticed that the town is a matriarchy; the Queen seems to call the shots more often with her "King" either having equal power to her (and not more than her) or being a prince consort under her power. The "King" talks almost like a consort with giving debriefings and run downs of known information while she handles the real conversations and decrees, which is a cool detail to put for the world-building

-The movie's generally very racially diverse and has lots of diverse women (I'm talking in body type, facial animation, personality, occupation, etc.) in the pirate world and among the townspeople. Even the monarchy general was a woman, which makes sense when you consider the kingdom is actually a queendom

-There's seemingly no racism or sexism in this setting, but I feel the implication is there; Captain Crow has women and POC everywhere in his crew but he himself as a white man made Jacob, another white man, his heir without having to think too hard (many times these "draws" people have to those of their own archetype are subconscious). He also doesn't listen to Sarah much of the time (this is during his grieving process which could be chalked up to that but he also shows a distinct interest in what Jacob has to say more than anyone), and refused to listen to Maise about cutting the rope, even almost killed her for going against his orders. The monarchs are also white, which felt intentional (diverse society's can still be privy to racial bias, which you will see when you look at the demographics of the working class vs. the elite, in this case pirate society vs. the monarchy)

-Maise mentions when she's telling Jacob about how wrong their history is, and that the beasts attacked human ships after humans attacked them and encroached on their territory. Humans have done this to animals since we were first able, and the movie takes a strong stance towards wildlife preservation in the form of telling people we need to leave the wildlife alone, which I immensely appreciate and you should too

-The symbolism of Sarah Sharpe giving Maise the knife that started the whole journey. She first gave it to Maise as a precaution ('you're on a pirate ship, you need to be prepared' kinda deal) and Maise used it to cut the ropes that got her and Jacob flung off the ship and eaten by Red. This paralleled so nicely during the final act with Sarah telling Maise “I should’ve given you a bigger knife” and siding with Maise in cutting the rope and freeing Red. Its a subtle but very beautiful detail of a black woman supporting a black girl, particularly in breaking the rules made by a white man, stating her only regret was not encouraging her to have greater ambitions (the “bigger sword”), and eventually helping the girl on her path to achieving them

Criticisms:

-Since its the core theme, it felt kind of glaring to me that the movie doesn't quite treat animals like animals. Red is made to be “friendly” and hyper-sentient in understanding humans, which is not accurate to real animals. The reason I harp on this is because people have a harmful habit of trying to humanize animals in order to give them value (i.e. "we shouldn't hurt the environment because animals are cute"). Its a good standpoint for getting people to sympathize away from extremist beliefs (Manifest Destiny/"animals are inferior so humans can do whatever we want to them" type ideology), but at this point I think we're ready for broader conversations about being actually accurate in our perception of wildlife, in that they are nothing like humans and don't need to be to deserve to be left the hell alone. They exist, and we should respect that.

-I honestly would've removed Blue, the movie felt harder to take seriously with this character that's very much meant to be the "fun and lovable companion that the kids will like and maybe even buy merchandise for" insertion. Not accusing anyone of that last bit, but my point stands; you don't need to have "that" character for a kid's movie to be enjoyable to kids, and this movie is already more mature than most kid's movies so I would've removed them

Final Thoughts:

The Sea Beast is a very cute movie that's a love letter to pirates and history, and especially now in this era of critical analysis, its more important than ever to not only know our history, but to make sure our history is accurate. Definitely watch this movie if you love history, pirates, pirate history, or just cute stories about people finding their own unconventional families within each other (and some animals).

[hanjsquokka]

*ੈ🏴‍☠️‧₊˚ the sea of monsters.

3racha × fem!reader — badass pirate captain! reader, pirate thief! jisung, pirate! changbin, pirate! chan, greek & roman mythology au, enemies to lovers with a twist, childhood friends to lovers, best friends to lovers, slowburn, found family, poly relationship, pirate au, based on the myth of jason and the argonauts & the percy jackson series, fluff/angst/smut

⸻ 𝕿 he city was dying. the king could care less. you were the only hope in the midst of the cruel pirates that robbed your city of its glory. set aboard haven, you had one job- find the golden fleece to save your home or die trying. the only problem was, no one knew where the artifact disappeared after the fall of the romans. no one expect one extremely skilled and insufferably cocky thief whom you never wanted to see in your life again.

warnings — mature language, alcohol consumption, explicit sexual scenes (warnings in each chapter), sexism, harassment/assault, filthy pirates, mentions of many greek gods and heros from the myths, violence, gore, monsters from mythology, blood, death, past trauma, poly relationship between 3racha and reader, just very very very angsty and dark themes, if you like fluff and sunshine- this is not your cup of tea

word count — 10.1K ( ongoing )

soundtrack — listen here

author's note — this series is my baby. i've been working on this since april. i love percy jackson, so this is a result of my long term obsession with the series. i've tried my very best to make things accurate according to the timeline in which the story is set (early 18th century) and the areas where it is set. this is all fiction, please remember that!!!

3racha are the loves of my life, and even though it was initially supposed to be only jisung (are we surprised? no), as i wrote, i saw so much potential in it being a poly relationship. lots of drama 🤭

and lastly thank you so much to my lovey mars ( @stayconnecteed ) for fueling my pjo au obsession.

*ੈ🏴‍☠️‧₊˚ chapters.

I. POSEIDON'S BLOOD

II. THE FRIVOLOUS THIEF

more chapters coming soon . . .

*ੈ🏴‍☠️‧₊˚ disclaimer.

→ this takes place in the early 18th century in the mediterranean countries following both greek and roman history. none of the places depicted have this kind of history- it is all fiction. i am not a sailor, i do not know the exact time it takes to travel the seas, i wrote this keeping in mind the convenience of the story- it is not accurate. the myths depicted are taken both from history and from the percy jackson series by rick riordon. please enjoy reading this as a story, do not come at me saying that something is incorrect or is historically inaccurate. i repeat, this is all fiction!!!!!!

→ while i know in the pjo series, there are some godly parents' children that do not have romantic relationships with each other because they're "related", keep in mind that the characters in this story are mostly legacies (descendants of demigods) and the gods do not have blood- so no dna, and it's my story so i can do whatever i want <3

→ there are mentions of other kpop idols in this.

→ these are all fictional characters with fictional personalities, they do not reflect on how they are in real life.

*ੈ🏴‍☠️‧₊˚ series taglist. ( open )

please send an ask/dm me/comment on this post to be added to the taglist. to be tagged you must follow my blog rules (have an age indicator, a profile photo and reblogged at least one post). if you want to be tagged, then please interact with reblogs with comments/tags (or) comments.

☆ you can also fill out this form!

@stayconnecteed @starlostastronaut @ta3baee @caitlyn98s @bbokari711 @manuosorioh @oddracha @n1nme4r @dprkbyn @sleepyleeji @realrintaro @starlostseungmin @shuporanporang @baby-stay92

@wordsofkpop @bowsnbang @tirena1 @drunkewok @yeosayang @fixation-dump @reiheis @j-0ne25 @hyunebunx @leetoes @hrskt @kayleefriedchicken @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @paborachaslvt @peterparkoure @luminouskalopsia @myjisung @frequentlykit

©hanjsquokka | copying, translating or republishing my work is strictly prohibited

[enwrcorsetry]

Artifact: 1874 Lecture by Dr. Safford-Blake (requires NetBadge login)

(Note: this source is accessed via Gale Primary Sources, which requires NetBadge login. After logging in using UVA credentials, if you are not redirected to the article, click on this link again)

The linked document above is a book containing the transcripts of multiple lectures on the topic of women's dress, delivered in Boston in 1874. The lecture of focus in this artifact is the first, by Mary J. Safford-Blake, M.D. As indicated by the title, the lectures center around the health effects of dress, however that will not be the focus of this analysis. Instead, one short, almost throw-away line from Dr. Safford-Blake's lecture forms the center of this analysis, for this line reveals and reflects an incredibly important rhetorical trope used in many anti-corsetry artifacts: the tendency to (over)emphasize the immobilizing nature of corsets to such an extent that the actual work regularly performed by historic corseted women is ignored or overwritten.

When discussing contemporary corset-wearing, Dr. Safford-Blake appeals to stereotypes of the past:

I cannot believe that the earnest, thinking women of America will ever cease to demand it as a right and a privilege to dress so that they can meet unfettered the duties that they assume or that are thrust upon them. Now, health, strength, and energy are exhausted in the friction that results from carrying superfluous burdens, – burdens which have been handed down to them from an age when women were passive instead of active members of society. The trailing and décolleté dress of the salon is historically one of the relics of the period of lust, when women were shut out of the kingdom of thought, and were linked with men only in bonds of sensuality. (Safford-Blake pp. 37-38)

The important rhetorical work of this section centers around the statement that, in the past, "women were passive instead of active members of society," implying that historic women (that is, women that were already historic in Dr. Safford-Blake's time) were not actively performing labor and work, but were instead "passive" and immobile. Regardless of Dr. Safford-Blake's feminist intentions (she wishes to liberate her fellow women), her rhetorical choice in constructing a "passive" stereotype for historic women is itself anti-feminist, as it erases and ignores the actual work regularly performed by women in the past.

This contemporary move to erase historic women's contributions is implicitly reverberated in modern depictions of corset-wearing women, including those of Dr. Safford-Blake's era. For example, in the previous artifact from the Pirates of the Caribbean, Elizabeth Swann's complete immobility, combined with an assumption that many historic women were similarly immobile due to their corsets, makes room for the dangerous assumption that women of the past were so immobilized by their corsets that they could not, and thus did not, perform labor, an inaccurate and anti-feminist conclusion.

This tendency to emphasize the immobilizing nature of corsetry to the detriment of the legacy of working women will be a central theme for these artifacts going forward; as discussed in the Mapping Document, it will be referred to as the Delicate Doll Trope, because this trope narrows down the supposed capabilities of corseted women, erasing the capacity for labor until a historic woman is viewed as nothing more than a delicate doll placed on a shelf.

Click here to return to the mapping document.

[sero-pairo]

Moonlight

by Kio_Keyvo

True monsters filled with bastard loves. A siren of pure joy for the suffering of others and a human of pure joy for blood.

IE: horns siren meets Horny human and they absolutely hate each other

Words: 4273, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: F/M, Other

Characters: Bakugou Mitsuki, Kirishima Eijirou, Ashido Mina, Sero Hanta, Kaminari Denki, Jirou Kyouka, Midoriya Izuku, Uraraka Ochako, Todoroki Shouto, Iida Tenya, Asui Tsuyu, Yaoyorozu Momo

Relationships: Ashido Mina/Sero Hanta, Bakugou Katsuki/Reader, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Midoriya Izuku, Kaminari Denki/Shinsou Hitoshi, Jirou Kyouka/Yaoyorozu Momo, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic

Additional Tags: Sirens, Inaccurate Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Smut, Eventual Smut, Shameless Smut, Pirates, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Enemies to Lovers

from AO3 works tagged 'Ashido Mina/Sero Hanta' https://ift.tt/BPhD5nu via https://ift.tt/kF9MQZd

[bambisspeckles]

Trapped ✿ Poly Pirate!141 x Reader -- Part Two

A continuation of Stowaway...

*pics for aesthetics only!

Summary: Your first day aboard the 141 CW: Inaccurate depiction of pirates, poly!141, fem!reader, ghost and price are kinda assholes (for right now), soap is well soap, gaz is an angel sent from heaven, reader is held captive (ish), stockholm syndrome core but like in the way beauty and the beast is, no romance w reader yet (sorry, but don't worry it won't really be a slowburn), implied ghoap (its such a small implication I'm sorry) self-edited! WC: 1.9k

Sleep escapes you through the night. The cellar is small and uncomfortable, at times the ship gets rocked so hard you get tossed around, and the wooden floorboards are hard and splintered. You lay there, curled up into a ball, tears threatening to spill from your waterline. It's cold and you're so hungry you can almost hear your stomach growling over the sound of waves crashing against the ships hull. You feel pathetic and weak, and you only have yourself to blame for the predicament you're in. At the very least you should have been offered some food or a spare blanket, a thought that in retrospect is foolish. These aren't gentlemen, they're pirates. They take and pillage until they can take and pillage no more.

You lay there for hours, staring into the darkness with only the sound of the ocean to keep you company. Your eyes are heavy but you can only sleep for a few minutes before you are, quite literally, jolted into consciousness. You go through this back and forth battle for hours until the door opens and morning light shines through the frame. Gaz steps through, his eyes widening in panic when he sees you on the floor.

"Jesus fuckin'- Are you alright? Are you sick? God n' you're shivering…" He rushes to your side, giving you a once over before attempting to place the back of his hand on your forehead. You flinch away from his touch and he awkwardly scrunches his before moving his hand away.

"I'm… I'm fine." You say, you lie. You know he doesn't believe you but you're not sure you care.

"M' sure you're famished, I can bring you somethin' to eat." At the thought of food your stomach growls and Gaz chuckles, shaking his head at you softly. "I'll bring you something love."

As he stands from the ground and turns back towards the entrance, you reach out to grip his wrist, pulling his attention towards you once more. He tilts his head at you curiously, brows slightly furrowed as he waits for you to speak.

"I… Can I leave here, please? It's not like I can run off anywhere and it's stuffy in here." Gaz bites his bottom lip, chewing on it thoughtfully for a moment.

"I'm not sure, Captain hasn't really been clear on what exactly he wants to do with you. Honestly I think it's best you stay here till we dock tomorrow. That way at least you'll be out Price's line of fire… And out of Soap's paws, and it's definitely in your best interest that we keep you away from Ghost." You wince at the mention of Ghost, you swear you can see his dark hooded eyes everytime your eyes close.

There's a part of you that wants to fight back against Gaz, but you know that he's honestly working in your best interest, which you're both suspicious of and grateful for. Instead you decide to back down, sucking your bottom lip in and nodding obediently.

"Okay… Okay, I'll stay."

Gaz smiles at you pitifully, something you wish he'd stop doing. His sympathetic smiles don't free you from this cellar, or from this ship you've foolishly trapped yourself on.

"I'll bring you something to eat," He pauses, noting the curled up position you're in. "And some blankets. We should have done that last night, sorry." He gives you one last sheepish look before turning on his heels, once again leaving you alone.

You're getting antsy.

Gaz has been gone for, well you're not sure exactly how long, but it feels like it's been quite awhile since he promised you food and blankets. You're getting light headed, and pairing that with the cold just isn't helping. Anxiously, you look back and forth between the cellar door and the splintered wooden floor, the idea of just going above deck and looking for Gaz yourself rolling around like a marble in your head. It's a bad idea, you know it is, but your stomach is so painfully empty that you feel ill, and you don't think there are anymore goosebumps to be raised on your skin. You mull over the options in your head.

One, stay in the cellar and hope Gaz hasn't forgotten about you. Or two, leave the cellar and possibly run into the Captain, or worse, Ghost.

Bumping into Johnny wouldn't be so bad. I mean sure, his stares linger too long and that toothy grin of his is less than inviting, but at least he won't throw you overboard when he sees you. At least you think he won't. After a few more minutes of waiting and suffering, you decide to head up to the deck and look for Gaz. You don't know how much longer you can wait for him to come back before you pass out. So, on very wobbly legs, you push yourself off the ground and make your way to the cellar door.

The sun blinds you as the door opens, the smell of the sea smacking you in the face. Truthfully, the bite of the chilly air is refreshing after be locked in that stuffy cellar, despite how cold you are. You climb the steps all the way to the main deck, quickly taking in your surroundings. No one seems to be out on the deck which is both good and bad news for you. As much as you'd like to find Gaz, you're not too sure how the Captain would feel about you aimlessly wandering about the ship, especially when you're sure he doesn't want you on it to begin with. Your stomach growls and you slowly walk towards the ships railing, gently draping your upper half over it, the mist from the waves hitting your face. You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of the ocean. You take a moment to breathe, to process. Your stomach growls in protest at your lack of movement, but you can't bring yourself to care much when this is the first time in hours you've been able to breath the fresh sea air. You're fighting the urge to drift off when suddenly you're yanked backwards by the waist.

You let out a squeal, you're body flailing as you attempt to loosen the grasp of whichever crew member grabbed you.

"Stop bloody movin'." The voice practically barks out.

"Oh." You think wryly, your body going still.

Once again Ghost had been the one to catch you. How cruel, he was the last person you were wanting to run into.

Ghost flips you to face towards him, his body somewhat pining you against the railing. It vaguely crosses your mind that if he wanted to throw you off the ship, now is this most opportune time for him to do so.

"Wha' are ya doin' out your cage." You furrow your brows at the word 'cage'. Sure, there may be a part of you that does agree it feels like a cage, but it's not. Pets go in cages and you're no pet.

"It's not a cage…" You mumble, lip pouted and brows still furrowed. "And I didn't- I was going to stay in the cellar but Gaz never came back."

Ghost cocks his head slightly, the movement voicing his obvious confusion.

"Gaz never came back for wha'?" The way he asks sends shivers down your spine and you have no idea how he can make such a simple question sound so dark and sinister. You swallow thickly, eyes darting away from his.

"He was going to bring me food and some blankets." Your voice is quiet, timid as you speak to him.

Ghost only grunts in response before grabbing your wrist, rather tightly you may add, and dragging you god knows where. He drags you down a short hallway before stopping in front of a door. Behind it, you think you hear voices, and your suspicions are confirmed when Ghost swings the door open and you're greeted by the faces of the three other men.

"Aye, well would ye look at tha'!" Soap is the first to speak, a nasty grin plastered on his face. "Was just wonderin' what ye were up to kitten." You grimace at the pet name, something you know he finds amusing when he chuckles under his breath.

Before you have a chance to speak, Ghost pushes you further into the room before shutting the door behind him. Price gives Ghost an expectant look, before his eyes dart towards you. He takes that as his queue to speak, his grip still tight on your wrist.

"Found er' sniffin' round' on the deck." Ghost states simply, his voice rough and gravelly.

"I was not "sniffing' around anywhere! I told you, I was simply-" Before you have a chance to finish speaking, the Captain interrupts you.

"Stowaways don't speak out of turn." Price's words are laced with something dark and dominating, the aura of them shutting you up with a quiet whimper.

His eyes scan your face, jaw ticking thoughtfully before he sighs, leaning forward on his desk and putting his weight on his elbows.

"Why were you on the deck?" In the short time you've been here, and with the very limited interactions you have had with Captain Price, you have some understanding that when he asks a question, he wants an answer, and he wants it quickly.

"I- I was looking for Gaz." You mumble curtly, your eyes darting around the room to avoid eye contact with Price.

All eyes turn to Gaz, his head cocked to the side in confusion.

"Me? Did you need somethin' love?" You chew on your bottom lip, nodding softly at him.

"I'm hungry, and rather cold… You said you'd be back but you never came." Gaz looks even more confused than before, his brows dipping further down his face.

"Soap didn't bring you some food and blankets?" He asked.

You shake your head at him again.

"Um, no? Was he supposed to?" Gaz rolls his eyes, turning his head towards Soap who's rubbing his neck sheepishly.

"I told you to bring her the stuff I gave you," His voice raised slightly. "You've left the poor girl starving and cold."

Soap chuckles awkwardly, his eyes darting towards Ghost.

"I ken! I ken… Jus' got a bit distracted." Gaz groans at the implication. "Dinnae hate me too much for it." Soap then turns towards you, crowding you against a wall.

"M' sorry kitten, didnae mean tae forget about ye… Can ye forgive me?" And something about the way he asks makes you fidget.

You squirm against him in an attempt to break free from his grasp, but all he does is smirk and press harder. After a moment of your struggle, the Captain clears his throat.

"Alrigh' nough' of that Soap." The scotsman chuckles softly before finally moving away from you. Price stands from his desk, prompting the whole room to look at him, including you. "Dinner is soon. S' Ghost's night for cookin' so you, stowaway, you'll join us for supper."

His eyes scan the room quickly before nodding towards the door.

"Everyone out of my room."

As fast as he gave the order, everyone was out, standing outside his room like lost cattle. You feel a hand on the small of your back, and when you look behind you, you see Gaz.

"Dinner will be ready soon, just hold out a bit longer. I'll grab ya some blankets to keep ya cozy while waiting." He smiles softly at you and to your surprise, you smile back, an involuntary movement that has him giving your waist a gentle squeeze.

He leads you back to the cellar and once you're alone again you have only one thought.

"I hope Ghost doesn't poison my food."

[triflesandparsnips]

Yes, yessss, parallels.

Though! I shall maintain until my dying day that the Captain Kidd woodcut was an intentional Easter egg. AND WHETHER THAT MEANS THAT, coincidentally, these two historical assholes have facing pages and squish up against one another in the book Stede flaps around with in a historically inaccurate pretty teal binding, well damn, we may never know.

...also, our images for Captain Kidd, both contemporaneous and later Victorian imaginings, are either a) bitchin':

Figure 1. Captain Kidd apparently burying his bible, one foot, no fucks.

b) weirdly dramatic;

Figure 2. Standard way to deal with mutinous gunner: one and done BUCKET to the HEAD.

or c) a warning.

Figure 3. The wages of sin is death (in overly elaborate ways and also is that a UFO on the right hidden in the clouds).

Which, theoretically, means we have a lot of room for using those as models for Stede's pirate depictions in the future.

Or not. WHO KNOWS. (tbh I'm still having a nice time with conversations that went into having the Blackbeard and Bonnet pics spoon.)

Something something Ed seeks out or is confronted by his own reflections three times in ascending order of violent emotions (the hand mirror, the salver, the knife)--

And we see Stede being painted twice in his old life, not looking at the painter or the painting but at some distant other thing, and then finally seeking to see himself in the third appearance of his portraiture-- only to find he's been painted out.

I wonder if Stede will someday ask to be drawn, and how, and whether he will look at the artist while they work, or the other people in it (if any), and seek out the finished work and be happy to see himself reflected in it.

...and I wonder if Ed will avoid reflections now (remove the mirrors, avert the eyes, but sometimes he'll catch himself in still water and flinch away--) because he knows what he is, he made himself this way, he knows how others see him and he can see it in their eyes without needing any further proof (except what he sees in Stede's eyes doesn't seem to match, so better not look there, fuck, fuck--)

Stede will look so, so hard now, and Ed will look at anything but-- a switch now, from their season 1 selves, lasting, perhaps, until they can finally see themselves -- and each other -- fully.

(And maybe, after that, they'll be able to see themselves together.)

[unfriedough]

‘Ember Island’- Zuko x (Waterbender)female!reader

Masterlist <3

An: so, this took forever, and for that I’m sorry! I’ve been super busy and this piece was really difficult to write (i couldn’t think of how they portrayed YN badly) , so I’m sorry if it’s not up to standard :( (PS: Being a bender is only mentioned like once, so you could totally be whatever bender you want !)

Thank you for the request though! I’m very grateful for you! ❤️‍🩹

Summary:

@ilovegirlsgeneration

“So an already established relationship with Zu, and it's the day of the Ember Island Play. Reader thought it would be cool and then woops the play basically makes them look like a terrible person and they freak out and Zuko is there to comfort them!”

I changed it slightly so keep the summary as a rough outline :)

Warnings: I don’t think there’s any, let me know if there are though!

You sat next to Katara on the step in front of the fire nation’s royal family beach resort, observing the avatar and his mentor (more commonly known as Zuko) train tirelessly. Toph laid down on the opposite side of Katara, a relaxed pose adorned by the young earthbender. Not too long after, the teens training bowed to each other, Zuko stretching his arms as he walked off.

“Doesn't it seem weird that we’re hiding from the firelord in his own house?” the waterbender said, looking around the overgrown building walls.

“I told you, my father hasn’t come here since our family was actually happy,” Zuko replied from his spot on the barren fountain, wiping the sweat off of his body with a rag, “And that was a long time ago. It’s the last place anyone would think to look for us.”

You smiled at the firebender, drinking in his appearance - you should watch him train more often. Your moment of serenity (and rather shameless staring) was interrupted when Sokka and Suki joined you guys, the boy holding a scroll in his hands. 

“You guys are not gonna believe this! There’s a play about us,” he said, smugly.

-

“We were just in town and we found this poster,” Suki signalled with her hands, and Sokka opened the scroll wide, revealing a poorly drawn (and semi inaccurate) depiction of Aang, Katara, Sokka, and Zuko in the background - along with some writing which you struggled to read due to the distance.

“We were just in town and we found this poster,” Suki signalled with her hands, and Sokka opened the scroll wide, revealing a poorly drawn (and semi inaccurate) depiction of Aang, Katara, Sokka, and Zuko in the background - along with some writing which you struggled to read due to the distance.

“We were just in town and we found this poster,” Suki signalled with her hands, and Sokka opened the scroll wide, revealing a poorly drawn (and semi inaccurate) depiction of Aang, Katara, Sokka, and Zuko in the background - along with some writing which you struggled to read due to the distance.

“What? How is that possible?” Katara moved to get a better angle, icy blue eyes blown wide.

Toph neared the group too, meanwhile you went and stood next to Zuko.

“Listen to this: ‘The boy in the iceberg’ is a new production from acclaimed playwright pu wang ten. He scattered the globe gathering information on the avatar. From the icy south pole to the heart of ba sing se. The sources include singing nomads, pirates, prisoners of war and a surprisingly knowledgeable merchant of cabbage.”

Your eyebrows furrowed once he reached the sources, how did they even know your team has spoken to these people?

“Brought you by the critically-acclaimed Ember island players.” Suki read the fine print outloud.

Zuko visibly cringed, groaning, “My mother used to take us to see them! They butchered ‘love amongst the dragons’ every year.”

The group stared at the annoyed bender for a second, before the waterbender turned to her brother, “Sokka, do you really think it’s a good idea to attend a play about ourselves?”

He replied, eccentrically, “C’mon, a day at the theatre? This is the kind of wacky, time wasting nonsense I’ve been missing!”

“What do you guys think?” Suki asked.

Zuko looked up to you from his spot, waiting for you to voice your opinion, “I mean, why not? It does seem pretty fun.”

“If you say so.” Katara replied.

“Sure,” Toph shrugged.

“I guess so.” Zuko smiled at you, imagining a romantic time at the theatre together.

“Get a room.” Toph fake gagged, sensing your heart beats.

“You can’t even see us!” you yelled back playfully.

The group had a good laugh at that, Toph still claiming it’s gross.

Shortly after the sun took its leave, and the moon settled between the fluffy clouds, you all made your way to the play. The walk there was peaceful, the sounds of grasshoppers filling your ears. Zuko took it as an opportunity to hold your hand, which you took, gratefully. He didn’t always initiate PDA, so it was definitely a surprise. Once your hands interlocked, he looked at you, a blush illuminating his face. You bumped him with your hips, wordlessly asking him “Why are you shy, stupid?” at which he stuck his tongue out at you. 

Upon arriving, you all clammered inside, getting past the herd of people just barely in time for the beginning. The curtains were still shut as you all chose your seats. Toph took a corner seat, followed by Katara right by her. Aang sat next to the waterbender, a grin on his face. You and Zuko took the seats on the higher level, sitting on the outer edge since the other couple took the inner one. Once comfortable, Zuko wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer to his body.

“Comfy?”

“Yeah.” you pecked his cheek, eliciting a chuckle from him, which shook your body, causing you to laugh too.

“Why are we sitting in the nosebleed section? My feet can’t see a thing from up here!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell your feet what’s happening.” Katara assured Toph.

Just then, the lights dimmed, and the curtains began to open. You drummed your hands on your thighs in anticipation. Zuko smiled at your childlike excitement. 

On the screen, awfully recreated versions of Sokka and Katara appeared, rowing a boat. Sokka quickly stood, pointing to him and Katara excitedly. Unfortunately, he bumped into Zuko by accident, who bumped into your head.

Your boyfriend gasped, cupping your head, “Sorry, Sokka bumped into me.”

“Don’t worry about it, it didn’t even hurt.”

He looked at you with a saddened expression, and you squeezed his hand in return.

“I’m starving!” you heard Sokka’s knock-off shout, the crowd erupting into hysterics.

The water tired siblings looked at one another in complete shock and annoyance.

“Is food the only thing on your mind?”

“Well, I'm trying to get it out of my mind, and into my mouth. I’m starving!” 

“This is pathetic, my jokes are way funnier than this!”

You turned to Zuko, smiling, “Okay why was that actually funny. I didn’t expect him to say that.”

“That was far from funny.”

You gasped, clutching your heart. Just before you spoke, Toph began, laughing: “I think he’s got you pegged!”

“Every day, the world awaits a beacon to guide us, and yet, none appears.” Katara’s actor said, emotionally. “Still, we cannot give up hope, for hope is all we have! And we must never relinquish it, even,” she fell, sobbing. “Even to our dying breath!”

You looked back at Katara, “Well, that’s just silly. I don’t sound like that.”

Sokka and Suki were struggling to conceal their laughter, meanwhile Zuko just smirked, finding it funny. You covered your mouth with your hands, giggles escaping against your will.

“Oh man! This writer’s a genius!”

Suddenly, the screening darkened, and a blinding beam of light clouded your vision. You brought up your fingers to cover your eyes, only slightly helping you see.

“It appears to be someone frozen in ice. Perhaps for 100 years!”

You facepalmed, “No one would just guess that.”

Zuko shrugged, “I mean, I guessed it was the avatar then, and I was aware he was gone for 100 years.”

“Yeah, but they weren't.”

“Fair enough.”

“But who? Who is the boy in the iceberg?”

Aang excitedly leaned forward, practically vibrating at the excitement of his soon to be appearance.

“Waterbend! Ha-Ya!” Katara groaned at this, that’s not even how bending works!

After the actress made a choppy hand motion, the ice broke in half, smoke continuously oozing out. Just then, a lady in a bald cap emerged, winking comically. Aang did a double take, convinced his eyes were deceiving him.

“Who are you, frozen boy?”

The avatar’s actress giggled, “I’m the avatar, silly, here to spread joy and fun!”

“Wait, is that a woman playing me?”

You couldn’t help but notice the smile on your boyfriend’s features, raising a brow at his lack of compassion.

You jumped as a sudden beast popped up behind them, Zuko laughing at your reaction. Appa’s theatrical recreation was appalling, much like the play itself. You furrowed your brows as the creature made loud noises and jumped around.

“An airbender,” the waterbender’s performer exclaimed, “My heart is so full of hope that it’s making me tear-bend,”

“That’s a thing?” you asked your fellow waterbender, who shook her head in annoyance, barely hearing you over the sounds of the false sobs.

“My stomach is so empty that it’s making me tear-bend.” he also fell weeping, “I need meat!”

Aang’s stag player gasped, pointing somewhere in the distance, “But wait, Is that a platter of meaty dumpling?”

The avatar’s face was priceless, his head leaning on the safety bar.

“Oh! Where? Where?”

The performer laughed, an extremely fake sounding laugh, “Did I mention that I’m an incurable prankster?”

The crowd erupted into a, yet again, hysterical laughter, at a quite literally anti-funny punch line.

“Aren’t jokes meant to be funny?” Zuko whispered, jokingly confused.

You giggled, nodding at his comment.

“I don’t do that! That’s not what I’m like,” the young avatar said, exasperated, “And I’m not a woman!”

Toph snickered, “Oh! They nailed you twinkle-toes!”

Aang frowned.

Just then, a boat with an old fellow and a younger one with a high ponytail appeared sailing on a fire nation boat. 

“Prince Zuko, you must try this cake.”

“I don’t have time to stuff my face, I must capture the avatar to regain my honour!”

Zuko winced, not enjoying this outside perspective of him.

“Well, while you do that, maybe I’ll capture another slice.” he ate loudly, the chewing noises loud and gross.

“You sicken me!”

Zuko folded his arms, “They make me look totally stiff and humourless.”

Katara, from her spot, replied, “Actually, I think that actor’s pretty spot on.”

“How could you say that?!” The actor for uncle Iroh’s voice boomed, “Let’s forget about the avatar and get massages.”

“How could you say that?!” ‘zuko’ responded loudly.

You giggled at your lover’s defeated face.

For a while, you lost focus on the play, but apparently, during that period, Aang found momo, Suki and Sokka met, they met king bumi, the trio was surrounded by pirates (because Katara stole a scroll).

Then there was that scene where the blue spirit saves Aang, which Zuko seemed uncomfortable watching, And of course then there was that whole Jet incident. Honestly, it was getting boring waiting for yourself to be introduced.

After many, many, more events, the intermission started.

“So far, the intermission is the best part of the play.” you shrugged, agreeing with the firebender.

“Apparently, the playwright thinks I’m an idiot who tells bad jokes about meat all the time.”

“Yeah, you tell bad jokes about plenty of other topics.” you giggled at the kyoshi warrior’s response.

“I know!”

“At Least the Sokka actor kinda looks like you, the woman playing the avatar doesn’t resemble me at all.” looks like he was taking this personally.

“I don’t know. You are more in touch with your feminine side than most other guys.”

He groaned, looking as if he was about to start a fight.

“Relax, Aang. They’re not accurate portrayals. It’s not like I’m a preachy crybaby who can’t resist giving over emotional speeches about hope all the time.”

Everyone started in silence, “What?” Katara asked.

“Yeah, that’s not you at all.” The avatar said, half heartedly.

“Listen friends, it is obvious the playwright did his research. I know it must hurt, but what you’re seeing up there is the truth.”

Just then, the call for reentering beckoned you all to go back to finish this atrocity. Your hands interlocked with Zuko’s as you walked, bodies even closer together this time around.

“Well here we are in the Earth Kingdom.”

“I’d better have a look around to see if I can find an earth bending teacher.” ‘Aang’ flew around. 

“This is it! This must be where I come in!”

“I flew all over town, but I couldn't find a single earth bending master!”

“Here it comes!” toph yelped.

“You can’t find an earth bending master in the sky, you have to look underground.”

Everyone erupted into hysterics, Toph still in shock.

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Toph, because it sounds like tough, and that’s just what I am.”

“Wait a minute, I sound like a guy. A really buff guy”

“Well Toph, what you hear up there is the truth. It hurts, doesn’t it.”

“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t have cast it any other way. At least it’s not a flying bald lady.”

Aang looked as if he was about to blow a fuse.

The actors had more talk with the Toph player, ending in him screaming for some reason.

You sat up straight again once you realised this should be when you come in.

“Your turn, Yn.” Sokka said, laughing.

The false gang were walking around some shops, exactly when you came in. Or, were supposed to. You furrowed your brows as the scene played out, and yet, you weren’t even there. 

Katara looked at you, trying to get a feel for your mood - yet you were unreadable. Without a warning, you got up, Zuko’s arm falling down into the empty seat. You walked out before anyone could say anything to stop you, this was beyond humiliating. It wasn't a bad portrayal, it was worse - you weren’t even recognised as a member of the team. You sighed, arms crossed as you walked out onto the beach, soles of your shoes dipping in the clean sands of the Ember Island beach. Your face felt warm, a contrast to the freezing cold weather. Tears pricked your eyes as you recapped the thoughts, Am I that irrelevant? Boring? Why’d they cut me out? Immersed in your thoughts, you hadn’t felt the hot tears stream down your flushed cheeks. You were embarrassed, belittled, and excluded. Does everyone see you as an outsider to the gang? You huffed, roughly wiping the waterworks that never quite seemed to stop. 

“Yn!” you heard a familiar voice call.

You shook your head, picking up the pace.

“Can you please talk to me?” Zuko called again, exasperated and clearly stressed.

You stopped walking, a pout on your face as he caught up. He stood behind you and lightly grabbed your arm, turning you to face him. Immediately, the firebender’s face softened, his calloused hands reaching up to wipe your tears. You leaned your  face into his palm, and he pecked your cheek. You let out a deep breath, pushing yourself into his arms.

“What’s wrong darling?”

You shook your head ‘no’, “It’s not a big deal. Just being dramatic.” you let out a forced laugh at the end.

He knew you to be the type of person to respect others feelings, no matter how miniscule. But when it came to yourself, you always invalidated your own emotions, it hurt him to see you be so careless with yourself.

“It’s not dramatic if you're upset,” he spoke intently.

You sighed loudly, shutting your eyes, contemplating what to say -or actually, how to say it, “It- It’s like I’m not respected, or or even important enough to be recognised. I feel left out.”

He paused, waiting to see if you would continue, but you mistook his silence as judgement, and immediately pushed yourself away. “I know it isn’t as bad as anyone else’s it’s stupid but it’s like-” 

“It’s not stupid. And it’s pretty bad.” he cut you off. “You are respected, at least in our group. Clearly the playwright made a mistake not including the funniest, prettiest,” he teased, stepping to you and pinching your sides, causing you to squirm. “Most amazing member.” Zuko kissed you quickly, more of a peck really.

You laughed, pulling him into a deeper, more passionate kiss, hands tangling in his messy hair. You rested your forehead on his, lips separating. 

“I love you,” his cheeks glew a crimson red, making you snicker.

“I love you too,” 

An: I really want to bite Zuko’s nose