#oath of the common man

[sesamenom]

browsing stormlight art on tumblr and ran into a post about how different dalinars life would have been with a somewhat healthier childhood and i think someone tagged it 'kaladin adopts young dalinar au' or something

anyways i propose a Make Everybody Worse au. teenage dalinar and gavilar get dropped directly into formenos and unofficially adopted by feanor a few years before the flight of the noldor. they both participate in the First Kinslaying/Oath/Losgar and then feanor dies. maedhros adopts them and then thangorodrim happens. maglor adopts them for a few years until mae gets rescued. they participate in the first few decades of the wars of beleriand, after which they get dropped back into the middle of alethkar.

on the noldorin side of things, m&m assume the random children they sort-of adopted (300some years before Secondborn were awakened) got killed somewhere in the battle. the kidnap fam situation now has the additional context of m&m having known even more pairs of children who died because of the Oath - one pair killed in the Second Kinslaying, one pair who presumably died in battle because they swore the Oath

on the alethi side of things, dalinar & gavilar are now Oathbound kinslayers who just lost five-to-ten parental figures and all their friends, and spent most of their lives being actively encouraged in war and military strategy. they also skipped the entirety of the navani-related conflict and are probably somewhat closer because of that. violence ensues.

[dykedvonte]

If Ulysses has a million haters, then I'm one of them. If Ulysses has one hater, then I'm THAT ONE. If Ulysses has no haters, that means I'm dead. If the world is with Ulysses than I’m against the world.

[swordmaid]

i FINALLY finished my tactician run with shri’iia and saw the epilogue ‼️ for this run she was full Oathbreaker paladin.. I would’ve multi-classes to fighter but I wanted this to be a rp run which is kind of a bad choice for my first tactician playthrough but we didn’t need action surge by the end when we’re doing like 90 dmg smites lmfao.

anyway. THE EPILOGUE !! it was sooo cute 😭 kind of reminds me of a way shorter citadel dlc but it was def more satisfying than the previous ending.

these are my favourite dialogues though and it’s such a satisfying ending to Shri’iia’s character arc -

Shri’iia starting out as a paladin of Lolth (who worshipped her to the point of zealotry) gets forsaken by said goddess, her Oath - which is an extension of her persons and soul atp - gets broken - goes through a crisis of faith and identity, like she devoted her entire life to the spider queen how could she be abandoned so easily?, decides to pursue this strange freedom she’s been left with or else she will really have nothing, learns what that strange freedom means - she’s not bound to any tenets or dogma and every choice is hers to make for better or for worse. there is no outside approval or validation to seek, and every consequences are hers alone … accepts that newfound freedom and vows to never be bound by anything again - and if there are others who are bound against their will she will help them be free but only if they make that decision first. she will not make a decision for anyone’s path just as she won’t be following anyone’s will without question. she’s forging her own path ! going her own direction ! now she spends the rest of the journey learning more about the world because there is so much to it than what the spider queen tells you, and learning that there is more to life than living with fear and paranoia, and there is more to herself than she would’ve known and her worth is more than what she can offer to a fickle goddess who will abandon her when the mood strikes.

Like it’s SO satisfying to me watching how her character turns from someone who is so needlessly mean and cruel to someone who’s relatively decent by the end. I still think that she has a mean streak about her, and sometimes she can be kind of deranged lmfao but there is purpose and principle behind every decision she makes. Like these dialogues describes her to a T tbh like Shri’iia is not nice but she can be kind -

And before all this, Menzoberranzan was the only home she ever known. Lolth is the only thing she’s ever known. Leaving it all behind was a decision she didn’t make lightly because where else would she go when the world that you’ve known has thrown you away? And will probably hunt you down and kill you if you ever go back to it… and this new world that you’ve been thrown into is unpredictable, you don’t have that certainty or security that comes with following what is expected, but nevertheless she moves forward… she spends those days exploring this strange new world with her strange new freedom. She’s grown accustomed to the vastness of the sky, she falls in love with the stars in the night since they remind her of the glowing faerie fire in the city of spiders. She learns what home means for her, and she eventually makes it for herself bc no one can take it away if it’s hers !! She learns to love someone without the fear of betrayal and more importantly she learns to trust them !!! this line makes me saur 😭😭 because it’s like the TWO biggest fucking liars of the group who will most likely betray everyone if the need rises fall for each other then learns how to trust and eventually sees home in each other -

like they both used the other for their own gain (shri’iia to distract from the fact that her oath is broken since she’s still in denial/astarion bc he wanted to manipulate her for protection) what they failed to take in account is that they’re both clowns lmfao and not used to sincerity so when the affections actually started to become genuine and sincere, and the casual fucking turns into not so casual, and you start to overthink the smallest gestures you weren’t even paying attention to before they’re like 🧍‍♀️🤡🤡 ‼️ cue act 2 confession scene. then they start actually falling in love….. and learning what being in love means for them…. then they both learn how they want to be loved and how to live freely … making a home in each other … what started out as a fleeting fancy turning into something more genuine and sturdy- something they would’ve never thought of having before.

this is so long but I’m so happy with her journey she is so asos jaime writing in the white book [ he could write whatever he chose, henceforth. whatever he chose… ] coded to ME ‼️‼️‼️🫶🫶

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Spring (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?

Warnings: Slightly less unreliable narrator (Cregan has come to his senses, reader is on the way) Mature language.

A/N: I really thought these two would get their mess sorted out in nine scenes, but I was far too optimistic. Lucky me, I had one season as backup! Also, thank you so, so much for continuing to read this series and your kind comments!

IT IS FUNNY, how wrong can Cregan be about people. He is no longer afraid to admit it. He had been mistaken about you. 

The utter viciousness you had displayed, bringing up his dead wife, had only been a source of anger for him at first. He had thought you an evil little bitch, unafraid of exploiting weak spots to hurt him. 

Then, he had seen you with Rickon. And his world had just… Shifted. As if every piece of furniture in Winterfell had been moved exactly one inch to the left, and no one had told him, leaving him stumbling around in his own home.

You weren’t evil or jealous. Or, more likely, you were, but not because of some petty reason, it was because you were insecure. The mere idea was laughable, why would a Princess of the Realm be insecure? But it made too much sense for him to ignore. 

Each time Cregan had cracked a joke that compared you to Arra, like commenting on the number of packages and dresses you had brought from the South, you had taken it as a personal criticism. You felt unappreciated, so you lashed out and avoided him at every turn. 

You were kind, smart, and capable. Just not in the way Cregan was used to women being capable. The northern women were considered capable because they were physically strong, able to wield bows, ride hard and long or withstand the terrible weather. 

You, instead, shared Prince Jacaerys’ strength. You were honorable, unable to leave a child in need, and kind, enough that you would comfort them until their parents reached them. But most of all, you had a brain suited for politics. 

Cregan had never noticed before because he had never bothered to truly look at what you were doing, but your charities were to make your mother’s cause more popular with the smallfolk. He had heard your mother was doing a similar thing in the capital, delivering food to the starved population due to a blockade of the own Blacks’ making. Not that the commoners cared about the last part. They only cared about those who put food on their bellies. 

And perhaps the Queen dowager and Princess Helaena were popular in the South because of their involvement in the Septs, but you were exploiting the lack of those here. Without Septs, there were no Septas or Septons tending to the sick and poor. You were. And the North would remember, when it came time to march for your mother’s banners. 

Cregan would bet Ice that you were having tea with the northern ladies not to gain friends. The Old Gods knew you were an introverted creature, painfully awkward at niceties, much like he was. It explained why the two of you were so uncomfortable with each other. You were probably entertaining the northerns to win their loyalties, knowing the combined pressure of Cregan’s oath and their wives would make his lords more eager to drop coin and men for your war. 

Oh, if Cregan got you on his side, the two of you would be a force to be reckoned with. He could already see how much security you could bring to the North, how well fed you could be during winter, if you decided to work with him and not behind him. 

You were a wonderful woman. Kind and tender to his son, smart as a whip, utterly terrifying when crossed. You would make a fine wife to any lord, and Cregan couldn’t believe how stupid he had been not to see it. You just needed to be encouraged, and Cregan, dumb as a rock, had been doing the exact opposite. 

While you hadn’t exactly been trying, Cregan was man enough to admit that part of the blame laid on him. He had been pushing you away without even realizing it, comparing you to Arra at every turn, without considering how that might come across to you. 

That ended today. He would prove himself worthy of your love and loyalty, and win you over. Cregan wasn’t a man of half measures. He would woo you or spend the rest of his life trying. 

Set in his decision, Cregan walked to your chambers. He waved off the guard’s attempt to announce him, casually strolling in. 

You were seated next to the fire, the leather-bound book you usually carried around spread over your lap. It was a heavy tome, bound in brown leather with golden engravings. It was written in High Valyrian, a language for which Cregan had little use, so he had never learned it beyond recognizing the alphabet. 

There was a striking beauty to your expression when you were at ease, the peaceful expression you wore becoming you much more than the usual frown you directed at him. Cregan found himself wondering how beautiful you must look smiling, if you looked this radiant when at peace. 

You had the sort of face to be lit up with happiness, he could already tell. His heart ached to be the one that finally coaxed it out of you.

“Princess,” Cregan calls, softly. You set your book aside, ready to get up and curtsy, but he halts you. “No need for that, wife. My ego is not so fragile I need my woman to bow to me.” 

“Lord Husband.” You reply, for once not frowning. Your face remains carefully neutral, which Cregan considers a victory. He would attribute it to his remark about his ego, but it is more likely due to guilt. He will take it regardless. 

“No need for that either, much less today.” Cregan smiles at you. “You may call me Cregan, if you wish. I am here to thank you for caring for my Rickon while I was away.” 

You look far more confused than you did before. You look like you want to approach him and run at the same time, your wool gown fluttering as you squirm in place, undecided if you are approaching or not. 

“I simply did my duty, my lord.”

Cregan’s smile widens, amused by you. 

“Singing him was part of it? By the Gods, I thought I had a wife and not a minstrel?” And the dry, northern humor doesn’t seem to suit you because you frown slightly. Cregan fights the urge to curse, instead making a mental note. You dislike being mocked, even in jest. He wonders what sharp words you had to endure in the South to be like this, and feels a wave of pity. Dark of hair and no dragon to shield you? Perhaps that was why you were far kinder to Sara than to him. He gives a tasteful cough. Or at least, his attempt at it. 

“I only meant to say you went beyond your duties, and I thank you for it. You didn’t have to, but it meant the world to him.” Cregan tries again, and you blink at him, as if he were unable to understand anything at all. 

“He is a child.” You say, slowly.  “No person would leave a child in need.” 

“You would be surprised.” Cregan thinks of how his own mother had treated Sara when she had arrived at Winterfell, treatment that hadn’t improved when his aunt took on as the Lady of the household. His sister had only known freedom after Cregan had taken over his seat, and she was still judged by the rest of the North, even though in a much subtle manner. 

“Mmm.” Your reply is noncommittal. 

“He has been asking me lately why he doesn't have a lady mother.” Cregan attempts again. He is not above using Rickon to have an excuse to spend time with you. And to his amusement, it does work. You pity his son more than him, it seems because you begin to pay him more attention.  

“What did you tell him?” You tilt your head to the side, curious. It’s a surprisingly cute gesture for the unshakable princess that you are. 

“I do not know. I have not answered him.” Cregan searches for somewhere to sit, but apart from the loveseat in which you are soaking up the warmth of the fireplace, there is none. He grabs the stool by your writing area, and brings it over. 

He sits on the stool across from you, wiggling a bit with how uncomfortable it is. It feels like his knees are on his chest, by the Gods. It’s clearly meant for a shorter person. Your rooms are not made for receiving visitors, he should have thought of that earlier. You need a space to receive people that isn’t the sitting room. What if you wish to have more private conversations?

“Surely he knows she is dead?” You are too caught up in your disbelief to protest that he is rearranging your furniture. Good. 

“He does, but doesn’t quite grasp what dead means.”  Cregan is being honest. Whoever has the heart to explain to a child of two namedays what death is, is a braver man than him. 

“Perhaps you could say she is in the Seven Heavens?” Your frown comes back, but this time it isn’t angry. Instead, it’s puzzled. You are trying to help him, and it makes him fight the urge to smile. He doesn’t want you to think that he is mocking your suggestion. 

“We do not believe that here.” 

“Neither do I.” And this time, there is the barest beginning of a playful smile on your lips. Oh, you minx! Cregan smiles to himself, charmed. It emboldens him to continue. 

“Just, I would like it if you saw him more often. With me. Perhaps… He has asked about you, and I am not asking you to replace her but I… He sometimes needs a more feminine touch.” 

“Of course.” You agree. And he can see in your eyes you think he might be trying to use you as a stand in for Arra, not truly believing his words, but that is alright. Cregan will show you. Or at least, he is going to do his very best attempt. 

YOU MAKE SURE there are enough pastries and hot water available before you stand up.

“I am afraid I must leave you, my ladies. But you are welcome to continue enjoying the hospitality of Winterfell.” The sitting room is filled with northern women. You have begun inviting them for tea twice a moon, trying to ensure your mother will have all the support she needs when she takes King’s Landing. 

It has proven to be quite the difficult task. Northerns are often suspicious of outsiders, and from what you have learned through these gossip sessions, they rarely marry southrons. The only ones who do are the most important Houses, like the Starks or the Boltons. It means that most of your ladies are northern by birth, and not through marriage as you are. 

“This early?” Lady Mormont asks, bluntly. Her bluntness had discomfited you during your first meetings, but you have come to find it refreshing. “Princess?” She tacks on, remembering she is supposed to mind her courtesies with you. 

“This early.” You confirm, with a smile. You have planned the time of this tea with precision for this same motive, knowing it will appeal to their loyalty, but also allow you to escape the socializing. “I have a play date with my Lord Husband and little Rickon.” 

One of the ladies coos. Lady Mormont barks out a laughter. 

“Ah, to be a young woman with that many suitors.” 

“Only the very best.” You smile, and leave them to feast on the pastries. 

You make your way to Cregan’s solar at a leisure pace. The crushed velvet gown you are wearing is in a blue so pale it almost looks like the gray of House Stark. It is one of your old ones, meant to evoke House Velaryon’s colors. It fits you again, having gained a bit of weight during your time in the North. You hope it is a gown suitable for playing with a toddler. 

As you enter, you notice Rickon is arriving as well, tugged along by a maid. He chirps a greeting to you, a mix of your name and title that sounds more like gibberish. Yet, you are helpless to him.

“Rickon!” You kneel by him, as he runs to be picked up. You indulge him, smelling his hair as you lift him. He smells of sweet innocence, and a bit like Cregan. You hate that you cannot hate him or be indifferent any longer. The little boy has stolen your heart. 

Rickon gives you a toothy smile, his hands clumsily going to cup your face. Who can resist him? Not you. 

“I see you found each other.” Cregan leans against the door, smirking. He holds two cups. “Warm milk with honey. For the cold.”

You cannot help but smile a little. 

“Our knight in shining armor!” You tease, more for Rickon’s benefit than him. “Let us in, good Ser. So I can place my little wildling down and he can drink it.” 

Cregan laughs and moves aside to let the two of you pass. As you do so, you cannot help but notice how much space he takes up, tall and wide. Your eyes linger on his shoulders. You have not seen him wield Ice yet, but you have seen the sword. He has to have considerable strength to do so. 

The thought is strangely thrilling. Your stomach does a somersault, but before you have time to analyze it, Rickon begins to squirm in your arms. 

“Down! Down! Doggie!” He pleads. You look to see what has caught his attention and notice that Cregan has moved the rug so it lays by the fireplace, and placed some of Rickon’s toys there, including his more favored one: A soft cotton white wolf. 

You set Rickon down and take one of the cups from Cregan. Both of you sit down on the rug as well, and watch Rickon play with his wolf, ignoring his cup of milk. You have come to learn that playing with an only child is much different than playing with your younger siblings, Rickon mostly plays alone and wants you there to show you things. 

It forces you to keep conversations with your husband, if only because the silence would be too awkward otherwise. 

“I have arranged for us to have tea when Rickon tires.” Cregan informs you, a bit stiff.

“Oh, I already had tea with the…” You start, before Cregan interrupts you. 

“You are far too thin still. Besides, I know your tea spreads are made of mostly northern sweets. I asked the cooks to make one of your favorites, Prince Jacaerys was kind enough to set up correspondence for me with the cooks of Dragonstone.” 

It’s awfully thoughtful of him, and you will examine it later because your mind is still stuck on one tiny detail. One that infuriates you. 

“You are corresponding with Jace?” You ask, trying hard not to sound violent. After all, he has been very kind to you as of late, and guilt has begun to creep in for your careless words about his late wife. Not that you will apologize or anything. You intend to pretend nothing happened and be extra nice to Cregan, indulging Rickon and him on all the tea and play dates in the world. 

“I am. He would be very pleased if you stopped burning his letters.” His tone is chiding, though gentle. You take a deep breath in. Jace, the traitor. Cregan keeps his tone kind. “He still grieves your brother, Princess. Do not make him mourn a sister in life.” 

“Does he think I shall never forgive him?” You ask him, baffled. Rickon begins building a tower with blocks on the rug, insisting that the two of you aid him in building Winterfell, so Cregan’s answer is delayed. As you place some blocks to make the entrance, you have time to think over his words. 

All alone in Dragonstone, Jace must be feeling as lonely as you are. Only more because he has no Cregan and Rickon to stand with him. 

What he had done was a deep betrayal in your eyes, but was it truly? You had known you would have to marry eventually, and it probably wouldn’t be a love match. Jace had done the best he could in the terrible circumstances you were in. Moved by his fear of losing another sibling, he had entrusted you to Cregan because he thought you could be happy here. Safe. 

And you were. There was no fiercest protector for you apart from your husband. After marrying him, no one had dared even to breathe the rumors of your bastardy, and he even worried about what you ate, by the Gods’ sake!

“You can hold a grudge.” Cregan says, cautiously, when Rickon is distracted by his cup of milk and begins to attempt drinking it. Usually, drinking his milk is followed by passing out, so he is careful to support him in his lap. The sight makes your chest feel oddly warm. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

This was bad. 

You were falling in love with Cregan. 

“Perhaps I don’t want to any longer.” You say, looking into his eyes. You are no longer speaking of Jace. 

Cregan seems to catch on your meaning because he reaches forward and takes your hand in his. Fixated on how big and warm his hand feels against yours, you almost miss his soft words. 

“Neither do I.”

SARA’S EYES, GREY and so much like his father’s, are fixed on him. Cregan tries to ignore her, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of appearing uncomfortable. But before the hour passes, he is squirming in his chair, unnerved by her silent stare. 

Sara continues to stare. Cregan refuses to speak to her. After a while, she sets down the book she has taken from his shelves, a dreadfully boring account of the battles fought by the Kings of Winter, and perches her chin in her hands. 

That way, her staring is much more obvious. She is comfortably laid back in one of the armchairs he has in his solar. Cregan likes company when he works, and it’s easier to ask for her opinion if she is right there. Unfortunately, it also means she can stare at him for hours on end if she so wished.

“What?” Cregan asks, when he can’t take it any longer. He pushes away the reports about the safety of Wintertown and how prepared they are for winter, and looks up at her. She still doesn’t speak. “Sara!” 

“Apologies, brother.” By her smile, she is anything but sorry. “I just find it fascinating.” 

Cregan sighs. He doesn’t really want to bite, but if he doesn’t, Sara’s teasing will get worse and worse.

“What is fascinating?” 

“How you have managed to turn into a spineless southron in less than two moons.” Cregan can only gape at her. What is she going on about? “Not only have you turned timid, you are also a moron. And cunt struck. Well, are you? I know you are not getting any, does one need to actually be bedding the woman to be cunt…” She doesn’t even finish her words, cackling with laughter.

His face grows hot, burning with embarrassment. 

“I should have married you to an Umber and be done with it.” He mutters, under his breath, which only makes her cackle further. Both of them know that Sara would never be married off as if she were some cattle. Cregan loves her too much for it, and she is a deeply independent woman. 

“Who would advise you, then?” She asks him, brazenly. “Your sweet little wife? While she is great at wrangling lords and ladies, I doubt she has the stomach for warfare.” 

“There is a certain innocence to these Velaryons, yes.” At his words, Sara glares. She hates to be reminded she had not been as immune as she liked to think she was to Prince Jacaerys’ charms. “But if the worst comes to pass, I actually intend to have her hold Winterfell alongside you and Rickon.” 

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Sara approves. “Shall you march south, Rickon and I will suffice.” 

“I wish to begin teaching her, when she no longer seems willing to murder me.” 

“I think she isn’t willing to murder you any longer.” And it is as good of an endorsement he will get from Sara. 

“She still seems to think I do not love her.” Cregan whines. 

“Because you mention Arra all the time. I have heard it’s in bad taste, but what would I know?” Sara rolls her eyes. “I am just some bastard girl.” 

“Are you simply going to complain or will you help me?” Cregan looks at her and tries giving her his best pleading look. Then, he decides to stroke her pride. “You know I always seek your council, even above other lords.” 

“Even above Lord Cerwyn?” Her mouth purses in a dubious pout. Fuck. His sister or his best friend? In the end, the choice is easy. Sara is here now, after all. 

“Of course.”

Sara positively beams. 

“You should tell him so.” Her rivalry with him had never made any sense to him, they had known each other since childhood, too. The man didn’t even care about who her mother had been and never took insult with her… Well, insults. Plural. Always thrown at him by Sara. Now that he thought of it, his friend always sought excuses to see Sara. Odd. “Loudly. But I am feeling generous and not demand that you do so immediately. I shall gloat in my victory, and it will be even sweeter if he doesn’t know.” 

“Your advice?” Cregan asks, tiredly. The Gods knew that she would talk circles around him if he let her. She was honest, but she also had a gift for courtly speech that Cregan despised. 

“Women like gifts. Or I do. And I am a woman.” Sara shrugs. “She is a Princess, of course she does too. And don’t just gift her anything.” 

“I would never be…” That stupid, Cregan wishes to add, but Sara is still speaking. 

“Gift her something special. Something unique, tailored to her. And especially, something that you wouldn’t gift practical Arra.” 

Cregan stares at Sara. Sara stares back. Then, very pointedly, she picks up her book and continues to read. The message is clear. He will not get any further help. 

Still, her advice lingers. In the coming days, Cregan cannot shake the thought, regardless of what he is doing. As he inspects his men, as he reads during his spare time, even as he bathes. All Cregan thinks of is you, and a gift that would please you. 

He even dares ask Rickon. His suggestion of a direwolf isn’t exactly bad. It’s just difficult on its execution, and not something Cregan would choose when thinking of a gift for you. 

He discards many more ideas, from rolls of myrish lace to donations to your charities. You ran far too cold to wear the former, and the latter wouldn’t truly be a gift to you. He wastes nearly a week coming up with a suitable idea, and two more corresponding with the Prince, the Maester at Dragonstone, and securing the goods he needs. 

It’s all worth it, when he takes a look at the finished present and can know that you will love it. 

[writing-mlm]

Will you love me again?

Summary: Simon’s returned home after 20 years but the suitors have finally grown restless of waiting for you to pick a new King of Ithaca. Pairing: King!Simon Riley x King!Ftm!reader Wc: 6.1k Tags/Warning: Canon-level violence, talks/planning of S/A, Epic the Musical Ithaca Saga spoilers! Most of the words are literally lyrics so ig song fic, oral (r!receiving), fingering, stomach bulge, reader has a vagina, no protection, creampie

His skin remembers the touch of your lips, the way they’d press against his tense muscles, the way they’d kiss his scars and carry soft whispers and songs. How your hands would touch him, run up his arms, cradle his face, and remove his helmet. He remembers the sound of your voice, how you’d talk to him while weaving against the window, your kingdom standing below your castle. 

The castle he’d built all those years ago as a declaration of his love for you. A castle that grew colder as the years stretched on since he’s been there; taken away for a war. 

A war, born from a greedy man kidnapping your cousin. A war Simon hadn’t wanted to participate in because, despite his oath to your cousin's husband, the Trojans have never helped Ithaca in their times of need. And even more so, he had you, his husband, and your newborn to watch over. To protect. He’d only agreed to help after he’d been tricked. 

A war that was supposed to be no more than five years had turned into a twenty-year journey. He’d left a twenty-year-old, rising to power in Ithaca with a newborn son. Now he’s forty, his home just out of sight, and his son would be twenty. He imagines how you must look now. How your hair must’ve greyed, how you picked the hyacinths and bluebells from the garden. 

He wonders how his son is doing, what he likes, and what he’s accomplished. How he’s missed his whole life. 

Simon strains as he pushes the raft from the island, the goddess he left on the sandy shores crying for him. Begging him to stay; she loves him. He loathes her. He loathes the years he’s stayed trapped on that island, how she’d been persistent on loving him. Gods, provided she wasn’t a goddess, he would’ve killed her the first time she even hinted at such. 

His head hurts when he remembers his fallen friends; Gaz, Price— and Johnny. He’d gotten his brother killed, he let all of them, all six hundred men die under his watch. The cyclops, Scylla, Circe— Zeus, Poseidon. He recognizes the pain turning into red-hot anger as he pushes past Charybdis. These past years cannot have been in vain. The souls that haunt his dreams won’t have died in vain. 

He’ll make it home, he’s sure of that. 

—

You stare at the suitors gathered at the palace gates, angry men eager to become the next king one way or another. All the while your son, Johnny, stands in front of them with a spear and your old armor. You know that look in his eyes, that Athena's determination he has because Simon had it, too. 

You sigh, undoing the threads you’d made the day before. For the funeral shroud you’ve been making for ten years with the promise that once it’s done, you’ll pick from the suitors and give Ithaca a new king. You almost laugh when you remember how many years ago that had been now. How foolish the suitors had been to agree to your demand. How you fear you’ll have to finish it one of these days. 

You look at your sword hung in the corner of the room. You remember your newly made armor, tucked in your closet, the new bow and arrow next to it. You remember the feeling of warm blood on your hands. 

Even if you must finish the shroud they’ll never get their wishes. No one will rule alongside you and if you must, you’ll take a queen. Perhaps some common woman with nothing better to do; drown her with all the things a queen would desire all the while you continue your duties as king. 

Standing, you close the curtains to the window and grab your sword. It feels like home in your hands, reminders of your time as a warrior of Sparta and then Ithaca. You’ve never forgotten your lessons, the teachings so ingrained in your very being they feel like second nature when you swipe the air. 

It’ll need to be sharpened before tomorrow. 

That night a storm rages on the coast of Ithaca. You watch from the balcony, the wind blowing your hair and clothes as you try to see inside of the storm. Poseidon fights, you can tell that much, and gods, you know in your bones. You know it’s time to set your plan in motion. 

You call a maid to send the news; the Challenge you’d set up after five years of Simon being gone was happening. You rush to gather Simon’s old bow, carefully undoing the string while the servants gather twelve axes from the armory. 

—

“I’ll be back soon,” Johnny promises the next morning. You stand at the pier, watching as he loads onto a boat; about to head off for a mission for the kingdom. 

“I know you will,” You smile, giving him a dagger that he places on his thigh strap. You don’t pretend to notice the group of angry suitors hiding behind ships, watching as you watch your son leave. Leaving you alone for who knows how long, the mission shouldn’t take longer than a day, though. 

As the ship leaves, you look at where the storm had raged, sure that you see a small object floating towards Ithaca shores. You smile, hanging your head before thanking whatever God had allowed him home and return to the castle. The suitors follow, ready for the challenge you’d sent messengers to talk about that morning. You ride your horse back, letting them climb the mountain to the castle as you prepare for what’s to come. 

Their footsteps are heavy, echoing in the halls as a maid guides them to the throne room. You sit at your throne, the half-finished shroud draped over Simon’s throne. His crown sits under it, shining like the first day it was made. A reminder to them and yourself that your husband is out there, that they’ll never sit on that throne as long as you’re alive.

As you look around, you inhale and look over the crowd of men. There are dozens of them, some bigger, some smaller. All of them hungry for power, all of them greedy in a way that makes your stomach turn. 

You stand, shoulders back and head held high as hold back a deep, etching frown. 

“The Challenge,” You start as the murmurs die into a silence that had overtaken the castle all those years ago. You grip the bow, raising it in the air for everyone to see.  “Whoever can string my husband's old bow and shoot through twelve axes cleanly,” Your gaze travels to the axes, lined up in a straight line, the hole only just big enough to allow an arrow to slide through. “Will be the new king and rule with me.” Cheers echo through the halls and you hand the bow to the first suitor before you take your seat. Your throne.

You hope Simon knows that you’re buying him time; that you’ve bought him twenty years of time to return. That he’ll climb the mountain from the shores to the castle before they grow behind restless. Bloodthirsty with one goal on their mind. You hope your son doesn’t come back to see you in such a state if Simon doesn’t make it on time. 

They grow more frustrated as the hours tick by and they find that no one can string the bow. Eventually, the sun sets and you tell them they can try again tomorrow. They all agree, with some grumbles and you take the bow back from a suitor who bares his teeth at you. He resembles a beast, a beast that you don’t dignify with a reaction. 

—

“Screw this competition,” A man that Simon knows all too well, Graves, snarls as he tosses his old bow to the ground. “We’ve been here for hours. None of us can string this; we don’t have the power. Screw this damn challenge!” He rakes his hands through his hair, the stress clear in his actions that make Simon proud. Of course, you’d set up something only he could do, of course, you’d waited all these years for him to return.

“No more delay. Don’t you see that we’ve been played?” Grave’s eyes travel amongst the men crowded around him. Men that are so easily swayed by simple words that it makes Simon seethe. “This is how he holds us down as the throne gets colder. Hold us down as we slowly age. Hold us down while the boy gets bolder.” Grave continues, daring to even hint about Simon and your son. “Where the hell is our pride and our rage?” A couple of the men agree, egged on by each other's stupidity. 

“Here and now,” Another man says as Grave smirks; clearly his plan is working. Like a moth to a flame, they take his bait. “There’s a chance for action; we can take control. Here and now we can burn it to ashes.” Too big for his pants, Simon assumes. 

He leaves for a moment, gathering their weapons and hiding them in the armory, making sure to leave it unlocked before he returns to their conversation. By that point more men had gathered; you’d long since left the throne room so Simon didn’t worry about you hearing their voices any longer. 

“Haven’t you noticed who’s missing? Don’t you notice the prince is not around? I heard he’s on a diplomatic mission and I heard today he's coming back to town.” Grave continues, and crosses his arms over his chest. Simon’s eyes dart down from his place in the room, overlooking the shores of Ithaca as a boat slowly approaches. 

“So…?” A different man speaks from somewhere in the crowd. 

“I say we gather near the beaches. We wait till he arrives, then when he docks his ship I say we breach it. Let us leave now, today we can strike!” Grave doesn’t feel the sharp glare that hits his head as he speaks. Unaware that his words have just set his fate into motion; a fate that Simon has become oh so familiar with these past twenty years. 

“Hold him down, till the boy stops shaking.”

He counts the men; seventy in total. 

“Hold him down, while I slit his throat.”

He’s taken down worse. More. 

“Hold him down, while I slowly break his pride, his trust, his faith, and his bones!”

He can’t wait to watch them bleed. The feeling of their blood on his hands; something he hadn’t realized could feel so good until now. He wanted to chase it like they plan on chasing you and your son.

“Cut him down into tiny pieces. Throw him down in the great below that way when the crown wonders where the prince is only the ocean and I will know.” 

Watch their light leave their eyes; hear their screams. Beg him to spare them. The gurgling sound as they choke on their own blood.

“And when it’s done,” Grace smirks. “The king will have no one to stop us from breaking his bedroom door. Stop us from taking his love and more. And then we’ll…”

He’ll savor Graves the most, he quickly decides. He won’t dignify him with a fast death. He’ll hurt him, hold him down, and break his bones. He’ll drag him by his legs into town, parading him around to not only show he’s home to his throne, to his husband and his son but to show that anyone who had thought any different will face the same consequences. 

“Hold him down.”

“While the gate is open.”

“Hold him down.”

“While I get a taste and we share his spoils. I will not let any part go to waste.” 

He rises from his spot, his hand a deathly grip on his knife as the men try to leave the halls, one of them pointedly staggering behind. Drunk on wine. The perfect way to announce himself. 

He doesn’t waste a second, stabbing the man in the throat and he watches as he gurgles on his own blood as he returns to his perfectly hidden spot. He watches with glee as the light leaves his eyes, staring down at him as his body goes limp. 

The men stop at the door, having heard the noise. When they turn they only see a dead man and then nothing around him. Quicker than they can react, the torches around them snuff out one by one, and then the door behind them locks. Like rats they scramble, searching frantically on the ground for anything they can use to defend themselves. 

“Twenty years,” Simon growls. “I suffered from the wrath of Gods and monsters to the screams of my comrades. Watched my men die like cattle. I come back to my palace, desecrated and sacked like Troy. Worst of all,” He reaches into the darkness, grabbing a random man who shouts, tugging at Simon’s wrist to be let go. 

“I hear you dare to touch my husband and hurt my boy! I… have had… enough.” He snaps the man’s neck in three motions before stepping over his now limp body as he watches the men scramble in the dark. He supposes he should thank Calypso for living on such a dark island, now he can watch them as they scramble for torches. Lighting them with the nearby lighters. 

He grabs his bow, stringing it with ease while the others run in the castle. The darkness that shrouds them is emphasized by the setting sun. Simon struts after them, listening to their footsteps and breathing like a predator. 

“We have the advantage; we’ve the numbers and the might.” A man says, clearly not knowing who he’s up against.

“No!” Shouts a man who does, he wonders if they fought together before. Somehow that makes him all the more angry as he grabs an arrow from his quiver. “You don’t understand! This man plans for every fight.” An arrow flies through the air, stabbing him through the neck and the others shout, watching as he drops and the torch rolls away from his limp hand. Everyone scrambles away, fleeing down the hall. 

“Where is he? Where is he?” Someone shouts, his eyes as wide as they can go and he looks into the darkness. 

“Keep your heads down, he's aiming for the torches!” Someone else hisses and they all duck, holding the torches as high as they can manage without dropping it. 

“Our weapons! They’re missing!” Simon grins at the fear in the man’s tone, stringing another arrow. 

“We’re empty-handed,” Someone says, the realization that they’re fucked dawning on him. “Up against an archer.” He mutters, looking around the dark room. 

“Our only chance is to strike him in the darkness. We know these halls our odds can be titled.” Someone tries to comfort him before flinching at the sound of Simon’s snicker. 

“You don’t think I know my own palace? I built it!” Another arrow flies, hitting a man in the head. He walks after them as they run away. 

“It’s the old king!”

“No! Our leader is dead!” 

“Old king forgive us!”

“Let’s have open arms instead!” He stops walking, notching yet another arrow as he’s reminded of Gaz. His chest tightens when he remembers his friend, his brother. 

“No,” The arrow flies, he doesn’t care to see who it lands inside of. He knows Graves isn’t with this group and heads the other way; towards where he’d hidden their weapons. He’ll deal with the others later, for now only one person has a giant target on their back.

“Dammit,” Grave hisses as he opens the door to the armory. “He’s more cunning than I thought. While we were plotting he hid our weapons in here.” He waves the torch through the room, each weapon highlighted by the burning flame. 

“I find it hard to believe that the sharpest of kings left his armory unlocked,” A man mutters, his frantic eyes looking outside of the room because he knows what’s out there, waiting for him. 

“So what?” Grave scoffs as he grabs his sword. “Let’s make the bastard rot.”

“Behind you!” He spins, watching as Simon stabs a man through the chest with a sword, his piercing eyes glaring at Graves over the man’s shoulder. The man collapses to the floor while Simon takes the sword out, flicking the blood onto the walls. 

“Put the weapons down and I’ll spare you,” He tells the men and immediately they do but Graves doesn’t. Simon tilts his head, eyes flickering to the ten men around Graves. 

“How do you dare? Haven’t you seen what he’ll do to us?” Someone asks him, his hands held up in fear.

“The prince!” Someone shouts and Simon makes the mistake of looking behind him. The men in the armory jump on his back without hesitation, shouting to attack the prince that way he’ll have to stand down. Simon struggles against them, his sword clattering to the ground when he sees the torches illuminating his son. 

He chokes as he sees his son falling to the ground, scrambling to his dagger that had gotten thrown in the fight. 

“Stop struggling and we’ll show you mercy,” Grave whispers in Simon’s ear, holding his hair in an iron-tight grip. 

“Mercy?” A voice cuts and Simon feels blood running down his cloak. He hears the sound of someone being impaled and then another in quick succession. The weight on his back lessens and he charges forward. 

“Mercy?” Simon bellows, taking harsh steps toward the now-fallen Graves. Unable to find his footing again as more men die around him. “My mercy long since drowned. It died to bring me home. And as long as you're around my family's fate is left unknown. You plotted to kill my son.” In one motion he scoops Graves up, bringing him to his feet and then against the wall. The tip of his blade presses against the man’s neck as his eyes squeeze shut, feet trying to find purchase aside from the tips of his toes on the cold marble floors. 

“You planned to rape my husband! All of you are going to die!” He stabs Graves six times, huffing as the body slumps against him and then against the wall when Simon shoves him away. 

He stands tall, listening to the shouts of the scared, trapped men as their fates quickly find them. He knows who is fighting at his side; he knows so well but he doesn’t register it until everyone is dead. Until the torches line the walls and he sees his foes splayed on the floors. 

“Father?” The sword in his hand clatters to the ground as he spins around. Johnny stands where he was once pinned down, blood dusting his tunic and his face. None of which is his own, Simon thanks the gods for that fact.

“Son,” His voice cracks as he takes a step forward. His chest heaves as he looks at his boy, and how he’s grown into a man. Johnny rushes forward, pulling him into a hug. 

“I’ve waited my whole life for you. Twenty years,” He cries into Simon’s chest, his sobs growing as he feels his father's tight embrace. 

“Oh my son, look how much you’ve grown,” He whispers, fighting back his own tears. “Oh, my boy. My sweetest joy. I captured the wind and sky for you.”

“My son, I'm finally home.” He finally cries, looking at his son's face for the first time in twenty years. He sees you in him, he sees himself. Simon presses his forehead to Johnny’s, holding the back of his neck as he cries. He cries and he weeps, relief, something he hasn’t felt in years, floods his body as all of the suffering he’s endured has been worth it. 

“My love?” He hates to look away but he does, his chest tight when he sees you removing your helmet. Your sword stuck in some man’s chest as your feet carried you across the hall and into his arms. 

He calls you, your name falling from his lips and you cry into his neck. You’d nearly forgotten the sound of it on his tongue. 

“Is it you?” You ask, pushing away from him after the initial shock. He’d warned you all those years ago, not to trust anyone who looked like him. He knew the Gods and their tricks; you knew them, too. “Have my prayers been answered? Or am I dreaming again?” 

“I am no’ the man you fell in love with,” He admits as your eyes scan over him. You pick apart everything about him that’s changed over the years as doubt creeps in the back of your mind. “I am not the man you once adored; I am not your kind and gentle husband and I am not the love you knew before.” You frown as he takes your hands, falling to his knees before looking up at you. With a gaze, you tell Johnny to leave the two of you for now. 

“Would you fall in love with me again if you knew all I’ve done? The things I cannot change. Would you love me all the same? I know that you’ve been waiting for love.” He begs, his bleary eyes unable to look at anything but you.

You nod, holding his face before guiding him up to his feet. “What kind of things did you do?” His head dips down in shame as the two of you move to stand outside in your garden. Free of blood and bodies as you sit under the olive tree he’d planted for you all those years ago. 

“Left a trail of blood on every island. I traded friends as though they were objects. Hurt more lives than I can count. But all so I could come back to you.” He cries, holding your face, his cries growing as you lean into the touch. “Tell me, please. Would you fall in love with me again?” 

“If that’s true,” You start, moving his hand from your face and he falters, eyes darting between yours as if they’ll reveal your choice before your voice does. “Could you do me a favor?” 

“Anything,” He nods. 

“Just a moment of labor that would bring me some peace. See that wedding bed? Could you carry it over? Lift it high on your shoulders and take it far from here?” You ask, your eyes darting between his own as you wait. Wait as you’ve done for twenty long years. 

“How could you say this?” He asks, his hand moving from your face. “I built that wedding bed with my blood and sweat. Carved it into the olive tree where we first met. A symbol of our love everlasting! Do you realize what you have asked me? The only way to move it is to cut it from its roots!” He shouts, almost standing due to the anger bubbling in him. 

“Only my husband knew that!” You sob, holding his hands again. “You’re real! My Gods, you’re real!” He calls your name as you shudder. You shake your head, pulling him close as your hands search his body, holding him impossibly close. 

“I will fall in love with you over and over again. I don’t care how, where, or when. No matter how long it’s been. You’re mine. Don’t tell me you’re not the same person, you’re always my husband and I’ve been waiting for you!” He blinks, brushing your tears from your face before he kisses you. 

You crumble under his touch, your hands shaking as you cradle his face. He holds you tightly, pressing your armored chest flush against himself. You pull away first, tucking his now long blonde hair behind his ears to see his face properly. 

—

You don’t get a chance to admire the new Simon, not between the kissing and his insisting that you share the bed with Johnny for the night. You agree, of course, the two of you squishing Simon while he happily holds the two of you in his arms as the night draws on. 

Simon wakes up first, he’s gotten so used to being forced to share a bed with Calypso that he’d made his body wake up early to escape her. He looks at you and Johnny for a while, softly crying as he knows he’s home. Eventually, he gets up, hating the way the two of you whimper at the lost feeling between the two of you. 

He doesn’t venture far, just far enough to grab a bowl of water and a blade. Settling in front of a mirror, he shaves his face for the first time since he set out to Troy and then cuts his hair. He’s never seen his grey hairs before. Despite knowing that he was aging while he was out there he hadn’t realized he was aging. He wasn’t twenty anymore, he certainly didn’t look it either. 

He has scars on his face, he has grey hairs, he has the starts of wrinkles, eye bags— he could list them for hours. 

He looks back at you as you sleep. At your grey hairs, at your wrinkles and he smiles. You’re just as beautiful as the day he met you. 

Stepping towards the window he sees the castle workers dragging the bodies out of the castle and into a carriage. Tossing them unceremoniously and he makes his way down. 

“Load them and wait. Do not touch them any further,” He tells one of the maids without looking at her, his gaze locked on the men who had dared to try and defile his family. “Send word to the people of Ithaca. Meet at the pier by noon.” She nods, waiting to be dismissed by the king but he turns on his heel and returns to your room. 

You’re awake, rubbing your eyes as your sleepwear slips from your shoulder. 

“Did I wake you?” He asks, crawling into the bed and kissing the exposed skin. You roll your head at the feeling, holding the back of his head to keep him in place. 

“No,” You murmur, head against his. “I missed you.” 

“I missed you, too,” He pulls you onto his lap and you let him, too tired to fight back as he lays down again. “Trust me, ‘m not leaving ever again.”

“I like the sound of that,” You yawn, rubbing Johnny’s hair as he reaches out for the two of you. “We need to get up, though. Clean the halls,” 

“Already taken care of, love.” You hum, head resting on his bare chest, fingers tracing against his skin.

“You cut your hair,” You point out. 

“Mhmm, like it?” 

“Ask me later; ‘m too tired.” He chuckles and pets your cheek with his knuckles. 

“Rest my love, I’m not going anywhere.” 

The next time you wake up, he’s engrossed in a conversation with Johnny. He’s still holding you, but now it’s sitting up on the bed while Johnny all but bounces around the room. He talks about his own adventures with Athena, how he’d almost beat up Graves this one time, how you always kept a place for him. He talks about the stories he grew up hearing about the great King Simon of Ithaca. 

Simon listens, committing his son's voice to memory while he inhales the smell of your hair. 

A knock at the door stops their conversation and Simon calls for whoever it is to come in as he pulls the blanket over your body. 

“It is nearly noon, King Simon.” 

“Thank you,” He nods, watching the door close before he looks down at you. “How long have you been awake?” He chides upon seeing your very much awake eyes on him. 

“Long enough,” You respond but make no action to move. “What’s at noon?”

“You’ll see.” He lifts you with ease, picking himself up in the process and you laugh, holding onto his shoulders while Johnny gags and rushes out of the room. 

In the tub, Simon sits first, letting you slowly sit with him before he kisses you. His lips and teeth pull and suck at the skin of your neck while you coo, squeezing his shoulders. The cold water wakes you up more than the kisses do, but when his hand dives between your legs you swear you’re more than awake. 

“Mmm-mm,” You shake your head as you reluctantly push his hands away, he pouts but doesn’t fight it. “I want it to be in bed. To reclaim it,” His pupils dilate at the idea, you feel his pulse against his wrist and you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“I can do that,” He nods, instead moving his hands to start washing the two of you. 

The two of you dress together in your finest tunics, adorning yourselves in the royal jewelry and colors before getting Johnny from his room. Again, Simon finds himself between the two of you as you head down to your horses. Even more so when you’re all squished into a chariot. 

The wagon of dead bodies follows behind you, the smell of death present as the townspeople watch. People gasp at the sight of Simon, and whispers of the long-since departed king's return echo throughout Ithaca. 

Simon steps onto the platform, bringing you up with him and you stand next to him while Johnny stands in front of the two of you. 

He starts a speech, making a point about the dead men. He talks of the disrespect to his house– to his family. He dares someone else to try to ruin his family, to hurt his son, his husband. He declares himself back, the two kings of Ithaca ruling again. Merciful, he calls the act of bloodshed the two of you had committed the night before. He calls the men’s mothers, their fathers, their wives, their children. He tells them they can weave their funeral shroud for them. Or else he’ll burn them to keep your room warm. 

He watches as they collect their sons, their husbands, and their fathers. He holds you close, fingers a bruising grip against your waist. 

The two of you head back; Johnny stays behind to venture around the kingdom. You think it’s so the two of you can be alone for a little while. 

—

“I’ve missed you, husband,” Simon says, his head between your legs. He’s thrown them over his shoulders, his hands kneading the flesh of your stomach. He’s dreamt of this sight for two decades and yearned to dive his head between your legs again. Savoring the taste, feeling the way you’d clench around him. 

“I’ve missed you, husband,” You parrot, reaching down to hold his chin. He leans into the warm touch, eyes closing as he savors it. You trail your hand up, holding his hair as he dives down. You gasp when he presses his tongue flat against you, slowly dragging up and down while watching you. 

“I’m yours,” He murmurs, pressing sloppy kisses against your warmth while you twitch under his hold. “Only yours.” You pant, holding the cotton sheets for a reprise as his tongue makes figure eights around you, how he sucks and nips at your sensitive bud. He moves, sliding a finger into you; his eyes stuck on your face as your back arches. It’s an adjustment, just as it had been the first time you’d done this. 

Your body had almost forgotten the feeling of his fingers inside of you, how skillful they’d been during your marriage. How he knew your body inside and out, what points to press on, and how fast to go. He maintains a rhythm that makes you cry, your arm across your eyes as you try to compose yourself. Not let yourself come undone so fast. 

“Simon,” You breathe, trying to get to your elbows but he starts moving his finger. He's pushing and pulling, curling inside of you and it makes you fall back on the bed. He shudders, that tone in your voice, that feeling on his finger, the taste on his tongue. It’s all he’s ever wanted; it’s what kept him going all these years. “I need you,” You cry, eyes closed as your stomach tightens. He adds another finger, the added pressure makes your jaw drop. 

“You have me,” He swears. “Look at me, please,” You try, honestly you do, but the tightness reaches a high and your eyes screw shut. Your fingers tighten around his hair, your voice echoes in the room and Simon feels you clench around him. He almost laughs, not because it hadn’t taken much to push you to the edge but because he’d already come. It hadn’t taken anything, all it took was you saying his name and he spilled into the bedsheets. 

“You okay, moon?” He asks while crawling on top of you, his lips leaving scattered kisses across your body. You nod, face blissed out and eyes watery. “Can you take another?” 

“I can take a million more,” You breathe and he laughs, head dropping between your neck. You laugh along, legs raising as he bites your skin. He moves so he’s holding himself up with one hand, his other grabs his dick as it hardens again. 

“You sure?” He asks and you nod, kissing his shoulder. 

“I can take it,” You moan, feeling the tip move across your folds. It slips and prods before he eventually pushes inside in one fluid motion. Your back arches, pushing your chest against his as he fills you. 

“Full, ‘m so full,” You pant against him and he nods, moving your hair from your face. 

“Full ‘n’ tight f’ me, yeah?” He teases, slowly rolling his hips against yours. He relishes in watching your expressions, how your mouth drops open and you’re unable to control the sounds you make. “Waited so long f’ me, didn’t you?” As he’s speaking, he raises up from you, his right hand holding your stomach down while the left starts rubbing soft circles on your clit. “So patient, my love. Thank you.” 

His eyes dip down, looking at the bulge in your stomach as he slowly enters and exits you. He moans at the sight, eyes closing for a brief moment as he begins to pick up pace. You struggle to look at him, one hand holding the wooden headboard behind you while the other loosely holds the wrist that’s circling you. 

“Missed you s’much,” He moans. “Missed all of you.” He slurs, leaning down to kiss you. He bites your bottom lip before his lips capture yours, his hips pressing against your own with each thrust. “Gods, you’re so tight.” He grunts as he pulls away, moving your left leg to be over his shoulder while the right leg sits at his hip. He speeds up, twitching as your moans only grow louder. Your nails drag against his chest and circle to his back. 

He feels his scars under your nails, the sensitive skin prickling hot as you open his flesh. He hisses, the pain far easier to manage than anything he’s faced while away but so different. So loving. 

“Inside me,” You moan, finally able to look at him as you bite your bottom lip. It’s throbbing from the pain of him biting it but you don’t care. “Inside me, Si, please.”

“Who am I to deny you, my king?” He grins and then drops his head down to your neck, feeling your walls tighten around him. You hear him whimper and moan against you and it only eggs you on. He’d chased that feeling for years, spilling inside of you as your high starts approaching. He continues for you, continuing his bruising pace until your body stops moving, your mouth falls open and your breathing goes ragged. Tenderly, as he always used to do, Simon holds you close to him. Your head rests against his chest so you can listen and feel his heart beating against your ear. 

His hand stops circling your clit as he slowly pulls out from inside you. The sounds that come from him and you spur him on more but he contains himself. Instead, he watches as his cum leaks from you. On instinct, he pushes it back inside, loving the way your legs twitch when he does. 

“Do you need a break?” He asks, eyeing the sweat on your brow. You inhale, thinking about it before shaking your head. 

“I can take more,” You swear and he raises his eyebrow. “Please, Simon.” 

“Your wish is my command.”

[occamstfs]

Follow Your Nose

Robin's not happy about visiting his student's frat house but with each heady breath he finds new pleasures to be gained from the experience.

Another Musk based Frat TF! Not breaking new ground but I like how this one turned out haha! Also in the wake of my contest I'm restarting the queue on my other blog so if you want to see what I read/have any burning questions send them over there! Hope you enjoy this little scent-centric romp! -Occam

Robin hated being on this side of campus; he doesn't know why on Earth he agreed to do a homecall for office hours. Totally unprofessional of course, but the grad student was simply so tired of sitting in his cold office for nary a soul to show up. When Carlos reached out asking for some one on one assistance the T.A. agreed to venture to what he was told was a common study area. What Carlos hid from Robin was that it just so happened to be his frat’s living room. 

The researcher almost turned around and rain checked as soon as he saw. But after Carlos texted to thank him for his help, whatever scholarly version of the Hippocratic oath he took compels him to continue onward despite himself. It of course doesn’t hurt that the slightly younger man seems to have been made in a lab to attract Robin. Though the professional has done his absolute best to remain professional and push down the repressed desire. Though as he steps in this is made far more difficult.

Carlos welcomes him into the frat house clad in a far too tight, clearly stained, tee and what seem to be, impossibly gaudy, similarly tight, athletic shorts. Immediately Robin’s face sears with blush and the smirk that is almost always at home on Carlos’ face grows wider. Before the fratty fiend can get a word in the grad student speaks up, fighting through an embarrassing voice crack, “uHm- Mr. Esperanza if you wouldn’t mind, could you change into something more appropriate for our session?” Carlos tilts his head, deliberately exposes his midriff as he scratches it. After a moment he laughs and answers remembering why he’s dressed like this, “Oh sure sure no problema bro.” 

Robin’s eye twitches as his student opts for bro rather than his title, name, or anything vaguely respectful. The T.A. hears the man’s hands scratching thick hair out of sight before he sniffs his hand and rubs his jaw, continuing, “It’s just uhhh, my laundry’s still in the machine so this is all I could throw on before you got in huhuh.” Robin holds his tongue from deriding the man’s shoddy planning, I mean for god’s sake they had an appointment!

So intent on hiding his attraction to, and irritation at, his student, Robin doesn’t quite catch the glint in his eye as Carlos offers an idea, “if you wouldn’t mind, uhhh, professor? You could go grab me some pants or somethin’” Not wanting to correct Carlos’ switch up to a title far loftier than his own and before he can even humor the idea that he’d wander deeper into the frat house, the bro thanks him as if he’s already agreed. “Thanks much lil bro- I’ll get us all set up here. It’ll be the third door on your right but you can probably just follow your nose hahah!”

Robin squints his eyes at the brazen assumption that he’d do anything of the sort. And yet, preferring anything to confrontation, he acquiesces with a sigh. The faster they start the faster Robin’s out of here. But a step down the hallway his nose wrinkles as he realizes that Carlos was not being cute, he can genuinely smell the laundry room far down the hall. Taking a deep breath and centering himself before the air is full of more musky sweat than oxygen, he shifts his jaw in irritation at the situation he stumbled himself into and presses onward.

Robin pushes open the unreasonably heavy door of the laundry room and enters. He hears the door slam but keeps his eyes forward as he endeavors to spend as little time in here as possible. Pushing down rational questioning of why he is doing this, in his haste he makes the mistake of opening the washing machine rather than a dryer that would presumably hold Carlos’ clothes. Before he even realizes his mistake he is almost blasted back by the potent musk spilling out of the drum. Choking out a ‘why wasn’t this run…” as his eyes glaze over and he is overwhelmed by the scent.

It’s as if there are more particles of sweat in the air than, uh, air. His mouth falls open to avoid smelling but that only heightens the experience and leads to him taking deeper breaths. Despite everything in him screaming to leave now, Robin feels himself drawn towards the machine that simply must have been intentionally compiled to smell as musky as possible. As the seconds pass Robin feels his body begin to move of its own accord, like an out of body experience he sees himself inch closer to the machine. There’s a struggled swallow as he is suddenly conscious that he is drooling at the scent of the frat’s dirty laundry.

When his hand reaches into the filthy load of laundry he feels his autonomy return and he quickly draws back. Clothes almost crunchy with sweat, and other substances, he stands stunned as he tries to understand what he just did, why he did that. Only then does he notice that he is so hard that anyone who glanced in his direction would notice. It almost hurts as his cock strains against his underwear and pulses with deep need. 

Priority rapidly shifting to hiding his massive erection should Carlos stumble in Robin opts to adjust his pants. Rather than doing it surreptitiously as he would usually do, he shoves his hand directly in his underwear in a manner distinctly boorish. Notably he also plods around his underpants with his dominant hand, the same one that only just left the frat’s collection of their dirtiest tops, bottoms, and drawers.

Stained hand now touching his cock he is overwhelmed with the desire to never remove it from this spot again. Drool still pooling in his mouth, Robin almost forgets his surroundings as cock seems more impressive than it’s ever been before now. Or no, his hand seems larger, rougher, more powerful. He squints as the seconds pass and the sensations continue to shift before he looks down to find that his bulge is indeed larger than he has ever seen it. Biting his lip he glances at the door and, demonstrating his clearly fading rationality, decides ‘fuck it’ and pulls out his cock.

Haloed with pubes that are growing thicker, spreading further, with each quivering breath and graced touch from his stained hand. Pre drips from the head of his thicker cock as it stands high, beginning to rival the length of his forearm as it inches longer with each heartbeat, each uncontrollable pulse. He cups his balls to remove them from his underwear and is again struck dumb. God they’re itchy. 

He scratches at them as his nails almost draw back into his hand, to the eye of an observer they shift from manicured to the deliberately uncared for, dirty nails of a frat bro. Thus he must dig even deeper to satisfy his itching balls as long, thick curls begin to spread across them. Each drag across finds them larger than they were less than a second before. Each mindless scratch they hang lower, stretch his sack larger as his balls begin to rival the size of eggs and churn to fill him with hormones that will make it all the harder for him to think his way out of this, or any, room. 

Despite his mind awash, feeling his hand begin to mindlessly move to start masturbating in this frat’s laundry room he regains his senses. Fear suddenly overwhelms his lusts and need for pleasure as he tries to inspect his body. Looking down at his hands he finds they both have changed and the horrors have not stopped there. Thick dark hair and a haphazard tan have spread up his forearms and as he feels heat begin to burn on his bicep it’s clear this is a situation still ongoing. Robin struggles to stand and falls over on his face, squarely landing in some brute’s discarded briefs. Fighting back a smirk as he is inoculated with a direct dose of his frat brother’s musk, Robin rolls over in fear of the changes that must be about to begin on his face.

His nose adjusts as memories of breaking it twice assert themselves into his mind. Rob feels his biceps bulge against his forearms as he raises his hands to his face. Grunting and ignoring how much deeper his voice is as it echoes in the room, he talks to himself to begin his flight, “Mrgh, I gotta, get out of here.” Trying to pull his pants up, before they can even struggle to cover his monumental bulge and increasingly cushioned ass, his jeans are caught on his thighs. Muscle and fat press larger as they become two massive meaty trunks. Dropping the pants to inspect his suddenly impressive legs he flexes them and goes weak at the knees as desire tries to take over once more. 

Rob only just fights these rising instincts and makes for the door. Then does he find the most clearly sinister aspect of this situation yet, it’s locked. His uhh, boy? His bro. Yeah his bro trapped him in here. Fuckin’ Carlos did this to him on purpose he bets. Leaning against the door he finds his breathing suddenly inhibited by the tight shirt that he’s been wearing. Seeing his waist has apparently filled out, his stomach quivers with butterflies. He’s always been envious of his bro’s forms but man he looks just as killer huhuh. His widening upper body sends tears through the shirt without his hands even needing to tear the top off. 

Dressed in nothing but torn shreds on the floor of the, er his, frat’s laundry room Rob’s clouded mind observes the final touches of his new form. Weighty pecs pulse larger and hang over his new thick torso. Hamhock thighs frame a bulge that would make any mouth water. He scratches stubble growing thicker on his face while he begins to thoughtlessly masturbate against the laundry room door. Stretching his neck as it thickens to hold up a head growing thicker and mind growing duller, his mouth falls open and he appreciates the musk of his bros as if it's the most pleasant thing in the world to him. Were this the rest of his life the horny bro wouldn’t mind. Rubbing his torso as thick curls begin to decorate him like a beast. Treasure trail stretching from pubes thicker than foliage. He raises his free arm to bathe in his own musk.

His mouth waters as he realizes he doesn’t need to use these other’s fucker clothes to get off! He’s got the sweet stuff right here. Any shreds remaining of the prudish, frat-phobic teacher’s assistant vacate as he delights in his own pit. Thickening curls spread outward from deep in his pits as a truly voluminous mass begins to press out from under his arms. His tongue stretches out from his mouth into the jungle as it grows thicker, perpetually soaked in his new musk. And then Rob loses control. Decorating the walls and himself and finally adding his own mess to their little ode to locker rooms everywhere. 

Tongue out enjoying himself in what is apparently his new home, sweat begins to pool under the man’s discovery of new delights. It seems like forever for him but in reality, a few minutes later he feels the door push into him, “Yooo bro what’s takin’ you so long?” Carlos opens the door and pinches his nose to avoid the stink of the room and the overpowering scent of Rob’s first time.

 Rob’s dumb smirk and glazed eyes meet Carlos’ mischievous grin and the new brother speaks in his new bass, “Uhhh, didn’t you lock me in here bro?” His brother stifles laughter and ruffles Rob’s sweaty new haircut, “You dumbass huhuh- It’s a pull door.” It takes a few seconds for Carlos’ words to sink in but after realizing that he simply forgot how doors work he joins in laughing loud enough to shake the foundations of their frat house. “Brooo huhuh!” 

“Now throw something on so we can figure this shit out!” Rob goes to grab clothes from some stray hamper filled with someone’s dirty laundry and heads out. Walking out of his musky captivity, Rob finds a new warmth fill him as he wanders into the house, into his house. The frat didn’t quite need a new member but Carlos is more than happy to make the most out of his new brother. Not all of them are so unabashedly into their own musk but judging by Rob’s changes and the already returning erection in his shorts, Carlos can’t wait to see what the two of them will get up to in their new lives together.

[transrevolutions]

french revolution dashboard simulator

🐀 ami-du-peuple Follow

uh actually man has the right to deal with his oppressors by devouring their beating hearts. hope this helps.

🎩 departicle Follow

Hold up. Okay. Actually, fuck this. This sort of violent rhetoric should not be tolerated on here. Do you seriously think this sort of thing is going to make the nobility give you more rights???? You must be out of your minds! Reported.

🧵 seamstressproud Follow

reblog to devour this guy's beating heart

#username checks out lmao #politics #everybody point and laugh #common adp w

6,178 notes

organt-deactivated06151792

update: new canto out now!!! go check it out 😈😏🥀 (remember don't like don't read <3)

📜 sacredhostreceipts Follow

@centuriesandskies this you?? not such a great look for a convention rep ngl

🌄 centuriesandskies Follow

listen. I wrote this a long time ago, before I went into serious politics. the account is deactivated for a reason.

I was twenty. I did poorly. I can do better.

#sj.txt #if this is the worst dirt you can dig up on me #i'm way less corrupt than half the people in the convention these days #at least i'm not doing fucking. embezzlement. #also sacredhostreceipts if you're who i think you are #don't you have better things to do rn?

231 notes

🌎 landscape-showdown Follow

🌎 landscape-showdown Follow

why the fuck is everyone tagging this with french??? political figures?

#what the hell is going on over there #also maybe cool it with the death threats #I don't want this blog to get taken down #what's a girondin #is this some joke I'm not french enough to understand #showdown update

5,012 notes

⛪ progressivepriest Follow

Unpopular opinion but why is everyone so up in arms about the new Civil Oath? Literally all it's asking is for you to promise not to commit treason just because the Pope tells you to? I can see where people are coming from with the whole violation-of-religion deal, but can you blame the Assembly for trying to make sure the people aren't forcibly subjugated by the wealth of the nobility?

faith-first-alwaysdeactivated03011791

Sounds like something a heretic would say. To betray the Pope and king is to betray the will of God and your eternal soul! You should pray for forgiveness and pledge loyalty to the monarchy or have fun burning in hell. Sorry not sorry.

⛪ progressivepriest Follow

L + ratio + iirc the Bible says "it is easier for a rope to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven" (Matthew 19:24)

🎻 lacarmagn01e Follow

occasional based catholic moment, go off OP!

🌊 sea-of-revolution Follow

looked the faith-first-always guy's blog, he's like a massive anti-huguenot too 🙄 why is it always the prot-exclusive radical catholics smh

🌊 sea-of-revolution Follow

LMAOOOOO HE DEACTIVATED

#religion tag #percs fuck off #anyways op makes a valid point #reblog #percs dni

3,719 notes

🛌 virtuous-bedtime Follow

she committee on my safety til I can't go public

🍊 springtimeofgovernment Follow

I don't understand the joke, can someone explain please?? 🙂 Thank you!

🧵 seamstressproud Follow

is that fucking MAXIMILIEN ROBESPIERRE?!!?!?!?

🛌 virtuous-bedtime Follow

oh my god citizen robespierre I'm so sorry this was not meant to break containment lol I didn't even know you were on this site please forget you saw this

#this is the most embarassing moment of my life #literally sobbing rn #the original post is /j i prommy #i cannot be known as the citizen who had to explain this to the government

19,853 notes

🪓 indulgentsfuckoff Follow

fabre d'eglantine is NOT your poor little meow meow citizens he literally falsified decrees from the national convention and embezzled money to line his own pockets. I don't care how uwu babygirl you think he is he is a CRIMINAL who should be ARRESTED

💛 i-give-people-bread Follow

🥖🍞🥐

#baguette #loaf #croissant #i-give-people-bread #indulgentsfuckoff #silly

2,011 notes

🧱 comic-sans-culotte Follow

fucking fed up with the constant threat of the swiss guard, I think it's time we got some gunpowder and weapons and took things into our own hands yknow what I'm saying

🧱 comic-sans-culotte Follow

I'm no longer joking about this btw

🧱 comic-sans-culotte Follow

update:

hopital

🧱 comic-sans-culotte Follow

ok bc I've gotten like 50 asks about this: I am not injured and I am not in need of medical care. the punchline was that we stormed the fucking hotel des invalides to get guns and powder. didn't want to clarify the joke before now for security reasons but everyone knows about that and the bastille thing by now. please direct your money to people who actually need it.

#shouldve clarified the last post was /j #however I assumed yall knew this joke already #anyways #revolution #personal #500 #1k

1,930 notes

🌾 nopain-nograin Follow

got so high at the festivial 2day i thnk i saw hte suapreme being

#robespiere speech was prboably 🔥 #unforntuately i camt rember any of it #grainposting #oipum ehre is somtehing else thes days #memes

8,256 notes

🎨 jldavid-real-moved Follow

incredible speech from @springtimeofgovernment today at the jacobin club. nobody should be permitted to use their positions as civic leaders to commit crimes against the people, even under the guise of revolutionary fervor. if it comes to it, I too will drink the hemlock with him. for france. 🤝🤝

🍊 springtimeofgovernment Follow

Thanks for your support, @jldavid-real

The situation over here is deteriorating really quickly, the representatives are getting violent and abandoning due process entirely. Anything you can do to stand with us now would be very appreciated. You do a lot of great work for the revolution, and I trust you completely.

🍊 springtimeofgovernment Follow

@jldavid-real are you still there? We could really use your help right now.

🌄 centuriesandskies Follow

boosting @springtimeofgovernment here, can confirm he's been injured in a skirmish at the hotel de ville, they're passing summary death sentences without trial, @jldavid-real where is the help you promised us??? the people of paris are our only hope now.

edit: of course he moved blogs. coward.

#sj.txt #disappointed yet unsurprised #marat would be ashamed of you #9 thermidor #update

15,794 notes

🎻 lacarmagn01e Follow

DNI if you support any of these groups/people or their actions: m0narchists, f3uillants, br1ssotins/g1rondins, th3rmidorians, b0napart1sts, h3nri du v3rgier (also goes by c0mte de r0chjacquelin), charl0tte c0rday, or lafay3tte

(h3bertists and dant0nists you're on thin ice. behave.)

#censored so they dont show up in the tags #dni #get your nasty ass ideologies off my page #won't hesitate to block and/or report any violators #pinned

52 notes

gracchus-babeufdeactivated05271797

reblog to make the directoire choke to death on their stupid fucking outfits

🌊 sea-of-revolution Follow

hey staff. yeah you. where did this blog go?? notfishgoujon and prairial-95 are gone as well?? cowards too afraid to show your faces lmao especially after the fucking mess the directoire's made of the country. bet you anything that staff are on their fucking payroll too iykwim at least the republic didn't tolerate fucking bribery

#this site's gone to the dogs since thermidor yr 2 #following the trend of the rest of the country tbh #i'll probably get nuked for posting this #if so i'm not making a new account #i'll just make a paleocities or smth #politics tag #reblog #don't play with me ik full well gb didn't delete his blog of his own free will #they also zero note glitched it #just when you think they can't stoop lower

0 notes

📕 spectrehauntingeurope Follow

it's been 50 fucking years since gracchus-babeuf (and the other CoE blogs) were deleted without warning and still no response from staff, the govt, or anything. the site's gone through a fuckton of ownership changes and still nothing.

we're working on a bit of a project (some of you might know abt it already), it's gonna be out prob in the next year or so. remember '89. remember '93 and '94. remember '97.

the people will rise again. it's only a matter of time. 🚩

-mod karl

[kitkat13001]

୭ ˚.⁺⊹ .ᐟ modern!eren jaeger x reader

⤷ college au, athlete!eren, sick reader, brief mentions of vomit (vague, nondescriptive)

barring actual death, this week has been probably the worst of your life. 

you don’t think there’s anything more you could’ve done to prevent yourself from getting sick, but here you are, immobilized in bed like a dying victorian orphan. there’s only one upside to being this sick, and that’s when your boyfriend gets to wait on you hand and foot, coddling you until you feel even a little better. but eren isn’t here with you, he’s miles upon miles away for a big tournament.

distance hasn’t lessened his concern for you, apparent in the way he’s been calling you at least twice a day since you told him you were feeling under the weather. 

“no, babe, i’m like so sick right now,” you complain, congestion evident in your voice. 

“for real?”

“yeah, it’s so bad. and it’s not like a common cold or anything either, eren, this is the flu.”

“that bad?”

“i puked three times yesterday.”

you can practically hear his wince through the phone. “yikes.”

“yeah, so that’s me,” you sigh, “barfing and coughing and feverish. how are you holding up? having fun?”

“yeah, it’s been okay. we’re keeping our streak. i’m calling from the bus right now, actually.”

“oh, fun! tell the team hi for me.”

he hums his assent, but quickly turns the conversation back to you. “you want me to bring you anything back?”

“just your handsome self, preferably injury-free. miss you lots.”

“i’ll be back before you know it,” he promises. there’s some rustling on the line. 

“you just getting there?” you ask, sniffling into a tissue. 

“mhm. just gimme a second, baby.”

you hum patiently, eyes fluttering closed while you wait. 

“goddamn!” you jump when the door swings open, revealing eren standing in the doorway. his bags are in his arms and he’s still on the line, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear.  “you were right, babe, this place looks like shit. dishes on the nightstand and everything.”

he smiles and hangs up the phone while you lie in shock, scrambling to sit up and compose yourself. 

“when did you come in?!” you cry, “i didn’t even hear the door, my ears are so stuffed from my sinus plug-up. i thought you were on the bus to nationals!”

“i said i was on the bus, not on the bus to nationals,” eren corrects, grinning. “armin told me you were sick so i flew down to come take care of you.”

“but you’ll miss the big game!”

he waves a hand dismissively, blowing a raspberry. “it’s not for three days. plenty of time for me to hang out with you until you’re better. i’ll fly out the day before the game, directly to the city.”

“but what if you catch my virus?” you whine, pushing him away weakly. 

he smirks at your pitiful attempts. “i googled it. you’re not really contagious after the fifth day, so i’m aaaaallll yours~”

“erennn, you can’t risk it before your big game. what if—“

“shush, don’t worry so much. i’ll be careful, okay? lysol everything you touch.”

“everything? twice? you better promise.”

he holds his hand up in a mocking oath. “i swear. i’ll be mike wazowski spraying himself in the eyeball in monsters inc.”

you give a weak giggle and immediately wince at the pain in your throat. 

eren makes himself comfortable at your bedside, holding up a steaming container. “y’want soup? picked it up on my way back.”

you stare at him through watery eyes. “let’s get married. deadass.”

he laughs, fishing out a plastic spoon from his bag. “maybe when you’re not bedridden with the flu. ‘kay, now say ‘ahhh’.”

wrote this last year when i had the most godawful flu known to man and finished it this year when i got sick 3 times in the span of a month n a half :)

[silverwingxox]

I Am Yours - Harwin Strong

Paring : Harwin Strong x Targaryen!Reader

Summary : After the wedding of your sister Rhaenyra to Leanor Velaryon, your father has been breathing down your neck about you finding a suitable husband. You turn to seek comfort in your sworn sword.

Warnings : 18+, MDNI, SMUT, P in V, Oral (Fem R), throat grabbing, talks of arranged marriage.

“I swear, if I have to look upon one more fat lord old enough to be our father then I'll feed him to Vermithor.” You mumbled to your elder sister as she came and stood by your side, linking her arm with yours. Rhaenyra chuckled as she looked over the poor gathering of men who had come to seek your hand in marriage. “I will admit these aren’t the most handsome bunch.” You sighed as your (e/c) eyes looked around the room, trying to see if any of the wanting lords had potential. “I never got to thank you by the way..” You grumbled to Rhaenyra. Since her wedding to Laenor Velaryon, your father, The King has been breathing down your neck about finding a suitable suitor. 

You and Rhaenyra had always been close, there being only a two year age gap between yourselves, you were practically best friends, always sneaking into each other's chamber’s at night to gossip about the handsome lords at court or to gossip about the snooty ladies trying to woo said lords. People called your sister ‘The Realm’s Delight.’ and due to your beautiful appearance, you had earned the nickname ‘Queen of Beauty.’ It had been said you rivaled your great aunt Viserra when it came to looks.

Your silver hair cascaded in lovely curls, whereas Rhaynera’s hair fell straight. Your eyes wide and sparkling, as though they reflected the night’s moon, a small button nose and lovely plump lips. You were simply beautiful. You had heard stories created by the common folk, claiming you to be a goddess, the maiden herself. Stories you laughed at, as ironically, you had lost your maiden head a good while ago. 

“Sister, I apologize profoundly.” Rhaenyra apologized with a grin, rolling your eyes at your sister playfully. “As I love you dearly, I will let you off.” You turned to your sworn sword, Ser Harwin Strong, finding his blue eyes already on you. “I am done for the day. Please escort me to my chambers.” The tall, strong knight bowed his head to you. “Yes Princess.” As you turned on your heel and headed towards the exit of the throne room you heard your sister tell the lords to return tomorrow as you had tired yourself, causing you to snicker.

You walked to your chambers, Harwin merely two steps behind you, nodding your head politely at the lords and ladies who would greet you and step aside with a bow of their heads. “Did any of the lords strike you as husband material?” You asked your close companion, turning to head to look at the Strong man. Harwin scoffed, his brown curls bouncing with each step he took. “None of them, I would deem worthy to wed to Realm’s Beauty, Princess.” He spoke teasingly, a smile on his handsome face. Your eyes met his, a beautiful smile graced your face. “With words like that I will have to release you from your duties and take you as my lord husband.” you teased your sworn sword. 

Harwin had been your personal guard for almost a year, you could admit he had taken your fancy when you first met him, he was like no other lord at court. He was tall, kind, handsome, strong, deserving of his surname. Although he was kind, he could be cruel to anyone who had crossed you, he was a fearsome fighter, earning himself the nickname ‘Harwin Breakbones.’ It was only shortly after he became your sworn sword when the stolen glances, lingering touches and the flirting began, you knew you wanted him and you knew he wanted you. However, it was forbidden, Harwin had sworn an oath. 

“It would be a great honor, Princess.” Harwin replied as you walked the hall towards the large oak doors leading into your personal chambers. “Did you know my father is going to wed me to one of the Lannister twins? If I don't pick myself that is.” You told Harwin as he opened the door to your bed chamber, you walked inside towards the floor length mirror. You began to take out the gold hair pins, your curly silver hair falling down your back, just above the curve of your bum, you left your door open, inviting Harwin inside.

The knight closed the door behind him softly, before he turned to face you, standing guard in front of the wooden oak door. “The Lannister twins? That is unfortunate, both are obnoxious fuckers.” Harwin stated with distaste, he couldn’t stand the thought of you marrying anybody, not that he’d say it aloud, but the thought of you marrying Tyland or Jason Lannister brought a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach. 

You laughed at Harwin’s words, he wasn’t wrong. Both brother’s were known for being obnoxious and in love with themselves. “They’d be in love with themselves more than they would me.” You replied with a grin as you ran your fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp. Harwin watched you intensely and found himself wishing it was his fingers running through your long curly hair instead of your own. “Any man would be a fool not to love you Princess.” Harwin stated, his words lingered in the air as you turned to look at the man, a warm sensation had taken over your stomach as you played over his words. Upon hearing no reply, Harwin stood tall. “Forgive me, Princess. That was inappropriate.” You ran your tongue over your bottom lip softly, before you walked over to your knight. 

“Do you mean it?” You asked quietly, Harwin had remained rooted in his spot, having no desire to move. “I do.” You were now standing directly in front of him, you noticed his eyes looking your body up and down, before his gaze fell to your plump lips, after a few seconds, Harwin brought his gaze up to meet your sparkling eyes. “Would you love me? If you were my husband.” You asked. 

“I would worship you.” You saw Harwin’s eyes darkened with lust as he thought of having you as his lady wife, your stomach round with his child, your breasts full. The sweet moans which would come from your mouth, the same noises he had heard come from behind your door when he’d stand guard on the night time, as you pleasured yourself whilst thinking of him. You brought Harwin back to the present, as you stood on your tiptoes, your hands resting on the cold armor, Harwin brought his head down, his lips meeting your soft plump lips in a forbidden gentle kiss, one of his hands held your waist gently and the other held your neck. Harwin pulled away slowly, the two of you locked eyes, both wanting this. Before you knew it, Harwin had brought his lips back to yours, the kiss rough and wanting, His hands gripped tightly at your waist, you were sure you would have his fingerprints imprinted into your soft pale skin on the morrow. 

Your hands reached up and tangled themselves in Harwin’s curly locks, his lips made their way to your neck, kissing and sucking the skin. A moan escaped your lips at the sensation, you had often wondered what this moment would be like, feeling Harwin’s hands all over his body, how his lips would feel against your own. Harwin’s lips once again found yours as his hands grabbed your arse, before they slid down the back of your legs, pulling you up, your legs wrapped around Harwin’s waist as he walked towards your awaiting bed, your lips battling for dominance.

Without any effort, Harwin pulled at the lace on the back of your dress, the fabric falling loose, your breasts falling loose. You moved your hands from Harwin’s hair to the back of him, unhooking the white cape that was attached to the back of his armor. Harwin placed you down gently, kissing your neck as he did so, before standing tall and ridding himself of his armor. You lifted your arse from the bed and pulled the red soft fabric down, once the dress was off you threw it on the floor somewhere, Harwin’s eyes trailed over your body as he removed his trousers. “You really are a Goddess.” He said in disbelief, he couldn't believe his luck and would be pinching himself to wake up for years to come.

Looking at Harwin, you took in every inch of his body, looking at his hard member, you were sure there were two reasons he was nicknamed ‘Breakbones.’ You licked your lips nervously, you had lost your maidenhead a while ago, it was a feast in honor of your sister’s name day, you and Gwayne Hightower had stolen a barrel of Dornish Wine from the kitchen, you had taken him to the Dragon pit to meet Vermithor, Afterwards, the two of you hid in an empty room, drinking and laughing and before you both knew it, you were fucking on the cold hard stone.  

Harwin placed a hand on each one of your knees and opened your legs wide, making room for him to crawl between, his lips pressed against your forehead before lovingly pressing a kiss on each cheek, then the tip of your nose, then your lips, then he brought his lips to your neck, before playfully biting at the soft flesh. Gasping at the sensation, your hands pulled at the hair at the top of his neck, causing the knight to release a deep groan.

The noise sent wetness straight to your clit. Harwin pressed kisses between the valley of your breasts and continued his trail, moving down the bed, he wrapped his arms under your thighs, putting them over his shoulders, he pressed two wet kisses to each of your thighs before he looked up at you, it was a sight to behold, his dark curls messy, his eyes dark. 

The sight of Ser Harwin Strong between your thighs would forever be etched into your mind. “I need your words Princess.” Harwin said, the warmth of his breath hit your heat, causing you to shiver. “Please Harwin, please.” You practically whined, Harwin let out a breathy laugh as you begged. Without warning, He licks against your cunt hungrily, noisy slurps as he lapped you up, squeezing less than gentle at the inside of your thighs as they shook, his tongue swiping over your clit, a broken moan slipping past your lips, “let me hear you princess.”

Harwin’s fingers joined his tongue as they entered and pressed against the soft but sensitive spot inside you, your hands tugging at Harwin’s hair once more. “Harwin..” you whined, the knight not slowing his pace as he thoroughly wanted to remember this moment forever. Your hand wrapped round Harwin’s wrist between your legs as you felt your end come close. You could feel his broad shoulders flexing as he used his strength to keep you in place. Licking up all the fluids that leak out of you. Harwin rose with haste and wraps a gentle hand around the back of your neck before pulling you upright quickly.

Harwin slips inside you and moves his hand so that he is gripping your throat as he snaps his hips into you firmly, groaning sinfully into the side of your neck, squeezing your neck a little tighter with each delightful noise you made. You loved it, this was nothing like how it had been with Gwayne, this was hot, passionate, rough. You forced your hips to meet Harwin’s thrusts. His groans got louder, more animalistic. Both of you meet the thrust of each other, causing utter bliss, You both make a steady rhythm, Harwin’s thrusts hitting a spot deep inside you, your (e/c) eyes roll to the back of your head, it’s pure pleasure, you moan loudly, Harwin’s trying to holdback, restraining himself, savoring every moment as he doesn’t know if this will be his only chance to see you come undone. 

“Harder Harwin, please. I can take it.” You beg him, your nails scratching their way down his back, your legs wrapped around his hips. “I want it.” Harwin lets out a large groan at your words, picking up the speed of his thrusts, the headboard of the bed banging loudly against the stone wall. You moaned as you felt the knot in your stomach release at the new speed and deep thrusts, your walls clenched around Harwin’s cock, causing the man to shut his eyes tight. “Fuck.” Harwin growled, his forehead rests on yours, his curls wet from the sweat. 

“You take my cock so good, Princess.” He groans as you move your hand down rubbing your clit, adding extra friction. Harwin comes undone, his thrusts getting sloppy, before he can think about pulling out, he is already coming deep inside you with a shaky groan, His seed buried deep within you. Your hands move to cup each side of Harwin’s handsome face, the two of you lock eyes before you share a passionate kiss, Harwin slowly pulls out of your warmth and falls next to you on the bed, his chest lifting up and down and you both try to regain your breath.

Harwin turns to look at you, your protector drags his thumb along your jawline, admiring your beauty and how you look so much like a goddess in your current state. “I love you, I think I’ve loved you since the day I met you.” Harwin admitted, your heart swelled, you looked at him as though he had given you the world. “I know we’re forbidden, I know we cannot be. But, I am yours. Truly.” Harwin promised as he brought you close to his chest, your face nestled into his neck, peppering light kisses. “I am yours.” You agreed, coming to the realization that you were comparing every possible suitor to your sworn sword.  “I will always be yours.” and with that, began your love affair, one which would make the history books.

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her. Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) y/n gets switched to a real name but it has a purpose. More warnings to be updated.

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Masterlist

Chapter 5

Echoes and Whispers

The officers' mess fell silent as Ella's footsteps faded down the corridor. For several long moments, no one spoke, each man lost in his own thoughts as the encounter settled in their minds. It was Wooyoung who finally broke the silence, unable to contain himself any longer.

"It's her," he declared, voice pitched low but vibrating with certainty. "You all see it, right? It has to be her."

Seonghwa raised a cautionary hand, his expression carefully neutral. "We need to be methodical about this. Confirmation bias is a powerful force."

"Confirmation bias?" Wooyoung scoffed, leaning forward intently. "She breaks honey cakes in half before eating them—exactly like she did on The Crimson Serpent. That's not bias, that's observation."

"A common eating habit," Seonghwa countered firmly. "Many people break food into manageable pieces. It proves nothing."

"She recommended cardamom in the compote," Wooyoung pressed, frustration coloring his voice. "The exact spice I used to grind up for our 'magic potions' when we were children. And you should have seen her face when she first tasted the tea this morning—recognition, clear as day."

"Or simply appreciation for good tea," Seonghwa replied. "Cardamom is hardly an obscure spice, Wooyoung. It's commonly used in Halazia and throughout the southern territories."

Hongjoong studied the remnants of dessert in his bowl, his expression thoughtful. "Each of us has noticed something," he acknowledged. "Moments where she seems..." he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "...familiar with our habits."

"The stars," Yunho added quietly. "She knew exactly where Orion would be positioned tonight, despite it not being visible in daylight. And she mentioned Canis Major with Sirius—the same constellation I taught her about during night watches on The Crimson Serpent."

"Self-taught astronomy, she claimed," Hongjoong noted, glancing at Seonghwa. "Through a window in her quarters under Blackwell."

"Convenient explanation," Wooyoung muttered.

"But entirely plausible," Seonghwa reminded them. "Many captives develop intellectual pursuits to escape their circumstances mentally. Astronomy requires minimal resources—just consistent observation and perhaps access to a basic text."

Wooyoung opened his mouth to object, but Seonghwa continued before he could speak.

"Consider this logically: how many young women her age would recognize constellations? Thousands of educated people study the stars. It's compelling that she shares this interest with y/n, but far from conclusive."

His methodical dismantling of their evidence created a moment of uncomfortable silence. Wooyoung's shoulders slumped slightly, the wind taken from his argumentative sails.

Mingi, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, suddenly spoke. "She makes me feel.." He taps his chest. Trying to make his point. "Same as y/n did."

The others turned toward him, surprised by both the contribution and its significance. The gunner rarely participated in group discussions unless specifically addressed.

"Mingi that could be just a feeling because a pretty girl is around. A crush, or simply lust" Seonghwa counters, though his conviction slipping slightly. 

"Mingi doesn't get crushes. Having a crush would require him to speak with them! And he doesn't he's too scared!" Wooyoung exclaims pointing to Mingi like it’s a critical point in his case. "No offense Mingi." He says with a sympathetic look. 

"Offense taken." Mingi says looking down. Yunho chuckles and pats his friend on the back in sympathy. 

"What I mean is, he doesn't get close to women to speak to them because he's scared, but he's not with Ella!" Wooyoung clarifies. 

The implication hung in the air between them. Hongjoong looks at Mingi contemplating Wooyoung's observation. 

"There is how she arranges objects," Seonghwa admitted after a moment, surprising the others with what seemed like supporting evidence. "This morning in the chart room, she aligned the navigation tools in perfect right angles—identical to my own organizational pattern."

Wooyoung perked up immediately. "See? Even you've noticed these things!"

"But," Seonghwa continued deliberately, "when I mentioned it, she seemed embarrassed, as if caught in an unconscious habit. She quickly explained that order and precision were valued in Blackwell's household, with severe consequences for disorganization."

Wooyoung throws his head back in a dramatic groan at his friend’s thought process. Earning chuckles and an eye roll from their captain.

He leaned forward, meeting each man's gaze in turn. "Again, an entirely rational explanation for behavior that superficially resembles y/n's. We must consider that slaves often adopt the preferences of their owners as survival strategy."

Hongjoong nodded slowly, absorbing this analysis. "And the way she watches the horizon," he added thoughtfully. "It's reminiscent of her expression during our stargazing lessons as a child—that specific combination of wonder and calculation."

"Memory does play tricks," Seonghwa noted quietly. "Especially with someone we've been seeking for fifteen years. We've conjured y/n's image in our minds countless times, possibly distorting our recollection of her actual mannerisms."

He paused before continuing, his voice gentler than before. "I want her to be y/n. We all do. But wanting something doesn't make it true."

"So you're convinced she's not y/n?" Wooyoung challenged, frustration evident.

"I'm not convinced either way," Seonghwa replied with careful precision. "I'm simply urging caution before we emotionally invest in a conclusion that might prove false. We've experienced disappointment before."

The reminder of previous false leads—young women who had initially seemed promising but ultimately weren't y/n—created a somber atmosphere. Over fifteen years, they had followed countless rumors and possibilities, each failure leaving fresh wounds.

"I still believe it's her," Wooyoung stated, though with slightly less certainty than before.

"As do I," Mingi added quietly but firmly.

Hongjoong glanced between them, then toward Yunho, who appeared troubled by the conflicting perspectives.

"Seonghwa's points are valid," Yunho acknowledged reluctantly. "Maybe I've been projecting meaning onto ordinary behaviors. When she identified the stars' positions, I felt certain it was her. But that knowledge isn't rare among educated people."

"The timing is suspicious though," Wooyoung interjected. "She's exactly the right age. She was owned by Blackwell directly after our separation on The Crimson Serpent."

"Hundreds of children were sold that season. Many to Blackwell himself." Seonghwa countered. "The timing proves nothing except that she was unfortunate enough to be captive during the same period."

"So we're all in agreement?" Wooyoung asked, looking around the table with disbelief. "After everything we've observed, we're still doubting?"

"Not agreement," Hongjoong clarified, studying his quartermaster thoughtfully. "Seonghwa is advocating caution, which has served us well in the past."

He turned to Seonghwa with unusual directness. "Though I wonder if your insistence on alternative explanations stems purely from logical analysis, or if something else influences your perspective."

Seonghwa held his captain's gaze for a long moment before his carefully maintained composure softened slightly. "Is it so unreasonable to protect ourselves from potential disappointment? We've followed this hope for fifteen years, chasing shadows and coincidences that led nowhere."

His voice remained measured, but emotion threaded through his words. "Each time we believed we'd found her, each time we were proven wrong, something broke a little more. I cannot—" he caught himself, rearranging his features into practiced neutrality. "I merely suggest we gather more concrete evidence before drawing conclusions."

Hongjoong nodded slowly, understanding flowing between them. "Your caution comes from care, not skepticism."

"As it always has," Seonghwa acknowledged quietly.

Wooyoung huffed exaggeratedly, earning a scowl from Hongjoong. 

"But if it is her," Yunho wondered, returning to the original question, "why hasn't she acknowledged us? Why call herself Ella instead of y/n?"

"Protection," Mingi said softly.

Seonghwa nodded agreement, finding common ground despite his reservations. "Fifteen years in captivity would teach extreme caution. Even if she recognizes us at some level, openly acknowledging the connection would make her vulnerable."

"To what?" Wooyoung demanded. "We're not a threat to her!"

"She can't be certain of that," Hongjoong reminded him. "Think of it from her perspective. If we are the boys from her childhood, why didn't we find her sooner? What took fifteen years? Those questions would naturally create suspicion."

"We searched everywhere," Wooyoung protested, genuine distress in his voice. "Every port, every slave market, every rumor—"

"She doesn't know that," Seonghwa interrupted gently. "She only knows she endured fifteen years of captivity before our paths crossed again."

A heavy silence settled over the table as they absorbed this perspective. The thought of y/n waiting for rescue that never came, possibly believing herself abandoned or forgotten, weighed on each of them differently yet equally.

"There's another possibility," Yunho suggested hesitantly. "Perhaps she doesn't consciously remember us at all."

"That's impossible," Wooyoung objected. "We spent three months together. She gave Hongjoong her teddy bear. How could she forget all that?"

"Trauma," Mingi said, the single word carrying significant weight.

Yunho nodded. "Exactly. Trauma can fragment memory, especially in children. The separation might have been so devastating that her mind protected itself by burying the memories."

"Which would explain the unconscious behaviors," Hongjoong realized, his expression thoughtful. "Habits and preferences that survived when explicit memories were suppressed."

"If that's true," Seonghwa mused, momentarily setting aside his counterarguments, "then her reactions to us would be based on emotional echoes rather than conscious recognition—familiarity without understanding why."

"Or," he added, returning to his role as devil's advocate, "she simply has habits that coincidentally resemble y/n's. We must consider that possibility, however painful."

The concept created a moment of solemn reflection around the table. The possibility that y/n might never fully remember them—or that Ella might not be y/n at all—represented a form of loss none had anticipated when pursuing their oath.

"What do we do?" Wooyoung asked eventually, his usual exuberance subdued by these considerations. "Tell her directly? Show her Mr. Hugs? Try to trigger her memories somehow?"

"No," Hongjoong decided firmly. "If she's concealing her identity deliberately, forcing a confrontation could destroy any chance of rebuilding trust. And if she genuinely doesn't remember, overwhelming her with information could cause more trauma than healing."

"And if she's not y/n at all," Seonghwa added quietly, "we risk creating profound confusion and false connection."

"So we continue as we are?" Yunho asked. "Observing and waiting?"

"For now," the captain confirmed. "We create opportunities for familiarity to grow naturally. If she is y/n, whether she remembers us or not, she deserves the chance to choose when and how to acknowledge that connection."

"And if she never does?" Wooyoung challenged, the question giving voice to their collective unspoken fear. "If Seonghwa is right and she's just a woman who happens to share some habits with the girl we knew?"

Hongjoong's expression remained resolute despite the doubt now visible in his eyes. "Then we honor our oath in a different way. We ensure her freedom and safety, provide her with resources to build whatever future she chooses, and accept that the little girl we knew might remain lost to us, whether this woman is y/n or not."

The others absorbed this possibility with varying degrees of acceptance. Yunho nodded slowly, his gentle nature naturally aligning with the compassionate approach. Seonghwa's expression revealed calculation—already planning how to implement this strategy with maximum effectiveness and minimum risk.

Mingi, as usual, offered no visible reaction, though the slight tension in his shoulders suggested internal conflict. Of all of them, he had been most devastated by y/n's loss fifteen years ago, his already limited speech becoming nearly nonexistent in the months following their separation. The possibility of having found her only to maintain artificial distance—or worse, to be mistaken entirely—clearly troubled him deeply.

Wooyoung appeared ready to protest further but stopped himself, respecting the captain's judgment despite his evident frustration, getting up and storming out. 

Hongjoong let out a deep sigh watching Wooyoung's dramatic display. 

"We need to address practical considerations as well," Seonghwa noted, redirecting the conversation toward manageable problems. "If she is y/n, then her connection to Blackwell takes on new significance. It can't be coincidence."

"You think he knew who she was?" Yunho asked, brow furrowing with concern.

"No, not when he purchased her. A least he didn’t know she had a connection to us. We were children when he purchased her." Hongjoong replied. "But something seems suspicious. After we claimed the ATEEZ and began targeting slave ships, Blackwell would have had reason to investigate our backgrounds."

"Could explain—," Mingi took a breath to speak more. “Why he kept her for so long” He look at Yunho who smiled in support and continued for his friend. "Leverage against potential threats."

"Or insurance against future encounters," Seonghwa agreed. "Though if he knew her significance to us, why transfer her to an associate 2 years ago?"

"Maybe so we wouldn’t find her," Yunho suggested. "Maybe we were getting close to finding her and we didnt know, or the connection to us is pure coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidences of that magnitude," Hongjoong stated firmly, then hesitated, glancing at Seonghwa. "The man from the Southern Trade Company did seem more angry than disappointed when they lost at the auction. As if he was the one meant to win.”

“You mean the auction was staged? That she was planned to go the someone from the Southern Trade Company?” Yunho said, confusion written on his face as he looked around.

“Many resources went in to education and training for her. Makes sense why he wouldn’t want her to go too far out of his grasp.” Hongjoong said grimly, his fist clenching.

"We need more information," Seonghwa concluded. "About her specific position in Blackwell's household, how she was treated, what she might have overheard about his operations and motivations."

"Precisely the details she's been most careful to avoid discussing," Yunho pointed out. "Her descriptions of Blackwell's organization have been remarkably comprehensive while revealing almost nothing about her personal experiences within it."

"She's protecting herself," Hongjoong acknowledged. "Compartmentalizing trauma is a common survival strategy."

"Then how do we earn enough trust for her to share those experiences?" Wooyoung asked, walking back in after taking a moment to cool down. "If we can't tell her who we think she might be, how do we convince her we're truly on her side?"

"Through consistency," the captain replied. "We demonstrate through actions rather than words that her safety and agency are genuinely respected here. We create an environment where disclosure feels like a choice rather than an obligation."

"And meanwhile," Seonghwa added, "we continue gathering intelligence about Blackwell through other channels. Wooyoung's contacts in Halazia might provide context for her acquisition and subsequent transfer."

"I'll send messages with the morning supply boat," Wooyoung confirmed. "My usual sources at the harbor taverns might know something useful."

"Good," Hongjoong approved. "Yunho, continue with the stargazing plan tomorrow night—it clearly resonates with her and might naturally prompt further disclosure."

"What about Mr. Hugs?" Wooyoung asked. "He's still locked in your sea chest, right?"

Hongjoong nodded, his expression softening at the mention of the teddy bear he'd carried for fifteen years. "For now, he stays secured. Presenting him too soon could seem manipulative rather than sincere."

"Doesn't feel right," Mingi murmured. "Keeping him hidden."

"I know," Hongjoong acknowledged, genuine understanding in his tone. "He's been our talisman for so long. But now he may belong with his true owner again—when she's ready to reclaim him. If she is his owner," he added, Seonghwa's caution influencing his phrasing.

As the meeting concluded and the officers prepared to return to their duties, Seonghwa remained behind with Hongjoong. The quartermaster waited until the others had departed before speaking, his voice pitched for the captain's ears alone.

"Thank you for understanding my position," he said quietly. "It's not that I don't want to believe."

"I know," Hongjoong replied, studying his oldest friend. "You're protecting us the only way you know how—by preparing for disappointment."

Seonghwa nodded, grateful for the understanding. "There's another factor to consider," he continued. "One we haven't addressed directly."

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow in question, though his expression suggested he already anticipated the topic.

"The emotional complications," Seonghwa clarified. "We swore an oath to find y/n, to bring her home. But we were children then, with children's understanding of what that meant."

"And now?"

"Now we're men," Seonghwa stated simply. "Men who've carried the memory of a lost girl into adulthood, transforming that memory in ways we might not fully recognize. I've observed certain... reactions among the crew that suggest our childhood protection has evolved into something more complex."

Hongjoong's gaze sharpened. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

"Nothing improper," Seonghwa assured him. "Merely that our collective oath to protect y/n might now be complicated by individual feelings that extend beyond that original promise. Feelings that could potentially conflict with each other, or with her best interests."

The captain was silent for a long moment, considering this assessment with characteristic thoroughness. "You mean romantic attachment," he said finally, making explicit what Seonghwa had delicately implied.

"It's a natural human response," the quartermaster acknowledged. "We've carried her memory for fifteen years, elevated it to almost mythic significance. Now, confronted with the reality of her as an adult woman rather than the child we lost, certain... adjustments in perspective are inevitable."

"Have you observed specific evidence of such adjustments?" Hongjoong asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"Nothing definitive," Seonghwa replied diplomatically. "But I know our crew, Captain. Better, perhaps, than they know themselves in some respects."

"Including me?" Hongjoong asked, a rare note of challenge in his voice.

Seonghwa met his gaze steadily. "Especially you."

"And that's yet another reason for your caution," Hongjoong realized. "You fear we might be seeing what we wish to see because of these... adjustments in perspective."

"It's a consideration," Seonghwa acknowledged. "Human perception is easily influenced by desire."

Another silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken implications. For fifteen years, their shared purpose had aligned perfectly—find y/n, fulfill their oath, rectify their childhood failure. They had never needed to consider what might follow success, what complications might arise once that unified goal was achieved.

"I appreciate your candor," Hongjoong said finally. "As always, your foresight identifies potential problems before they materialize."

"It's my function," Seonghwa replied simply. "To consider factors you might overlook while focused on broader strategy."

"And your recommendation?"

"Caution," the quartermaster advised. "For all of us. Whether she is y/n or not, she has endured fifteen years of captivity where her autonomy was systematically violated. The last thing she needs now is to become the object of inappropriate attachment from men who should be focused solely on her recovery and reintegration into freedom."

Hongjoong nodded slowly, acknowledging both the wisdom and the implicit warning in Seonghwa's counsel. "I'll speak with the others individually. Discreetly."

"And yourself?" Seonghwa pressed gently.

A flash of something—perhaps defensiveness, perhaps simple recognition—crossed the captain's features before his expression settled into resolute determination. "My only priority is fulfilling our oath. Everything else is secondary."

Seonghwa accepted this declaration without further comment, though his eyes reflected knowing awareness that some questions remained deliberately unaddressed. Their partnership had always balanced Hongjoong's decisive leadership with Seonghwa's meticulous consideration of complex variables—a dynamic that had served the ATEEZ well through countless challenges.

"One final thought," the quartermaster added as he prepared to depart. "Whatever her true identity, whatever her level of recognition, she has already endured profound trauma. We must ensure she never experiences another—regardless of how her presence affects us individually."

"On that," Hongjoong replied with genuine conviction, "we are in complete agreement."

As Seonghwa departed, leaving Hongjoong alone with his thoughts, the captain moved to the small cabinet secured behind his desk. Unlocking it with a key kept on a chain around his neck, he retrieved a compact sea chest inlaid with navigational symbols—a custom piece Mingi had crafted years earlier for a very specific purpose.

Hongjoong opened the chest with careful reverence, revealing its solitary contents: a worn teddy bear missing one eye button, its fabric patched in multiple places, stuffing periodically renewed over fifteen years of constant handling. Though faded and repaired, Mr. Hugs remained unmistakably himself—the faithful companion of a little girl long lost, preserved through years of searching by five boys who refused to forget their promise.

For a long moment, Hongjoong simply gazed at the teddy bear, his expression revealing emotions he allowed no one else to witness. Then, with gentle care, he straightened the worn bow tie around Mr. Hugs' neck—a ritual he had performed thousands of times since that fateful day in Halazia's harbor.

"Is it really you we've found?" he whispered, words meant for the teddy bear alone. "Or are we chasing ghosts again? I wish I knew."

Closing and securing the chest once more, Hongjoong returned it to its cabinet before moving to his navigation table. Whatever the truth about Ella's identity, the ATEEZ still had a mission—undermining Blackwell's operations, disrupting the slave trade, fulfilling the larger purpose that had emerged from their childhood oath.

As the ship sailed onward through darkness, its captain plotted courses both literal and figurative, balancing multiple objectives with the strategic brilliance that had transformed five orphaned cabin boys into the most formidable crew on the seven seas. On the deck below, four officers returned to their duties, each carrying private thoughts about the woman sleeping in the guest cabin—the woman who might or might not be the fulfillment of fifteen years' searching, the living embodiment of their shared defining purpose.

And in her small cabin, Ella slept soundly for the first time in years, unaware of the currents swirling around her, the whispered conferences and careful observations, the complex emotions and doubts her presence had awakened in five men bound by blood oath and shared history. Whatever memories might lie buried in her consciousness, whatever name she might claim as her own, her arrival aboard the ATEEZ had irrevocably altered its course—creating ripples that would eventually touch every aspect of life aboard the black-sailed ship and the men who commanded it.

The compass that had guided them for fifteen years now pointed in new and uncharted directions, leading them all toward a future none could fully anticipate or control.

Morning found Ella waking naturally to sunlight streaming through her small porthole—another luxury after years of schedules dictated by others' convenience rather than her body's needs. For several peaceful moments, she simply lay still, absorbing the gentle rocking of the ship and the distant sounds of morning activity on deck.

The previous day's events replayed through her mind, a collage of interactions that continued to puzzle and intrigue her. The consistent consideration she'd been shown by the ATEEZ's officers defied her expectations based on fifteen years of calculated subjugation. While she maintained healthy skepticism about their motives, she could not deny the growing evidence that these pirates operated according to principles beyond mere self-interest.

Most unsettling were the persistent echoes of familiarity she experienced in their presence—not just collective déjà vu but specific resonances with each officer. Wooyoung's infectious enthusiasm and culinary "magic." Seonghwa's meticulous precision and careful planning. Yunho's gentle guidance and star knowledge. Mingi's quiet competence and protective vigilance. Hongjoong's strategic thinking and subtle leadership.

These qualities seemed fundamental to their characters rather than recently acquired traits. Which suggested either remarkable coincidence or some connection predating current circumstances—a possibility both tantalizing and terrifying in its implications.

If these men were somehow connected to her past before Blackwell, what did that mean for her present situation? Was her "rescue" from the auction house part of some larger design? Were they manipulating her toward purposes she couldn't yet discern?

Or—most unsettling possibility of all—could they possibly be the boys from her most treasured memories? The five children who had protected her aboard another ship, whose nicknames she had recited nightly for fifteen years, whose attempted rescue had failed so catastrophically that she'd been sold into captivity despite their efforts?

The thought seemed simultaneously too coincidental to be probable and too specific to be impossible. Five boys, five men, five names preserved through fifteen years of determined recitation: Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy.

Hongjoong, Seonghwa, Wooyoung, Yunho, Mingi.

The parallels were undeniable once she allowed herself to consider them directly. Yet the implications seemed too vast, too significant to accept without absolute certainty. If these pirates were indeed her childhood protectors, why had they not found her sooner? What had occupied the fifteen years between her sale at auction and their current encounter?

And if they recognized her, why maintain the pretense of her being merely a valuable intelligence source about Blackwell? Why not acknowledge their shared history directly?

Unless—and here her thoughts turned toward darker possibilities—they didn't actually care about her specifically. Perhaps she represented merely a symbol to them, an oath unfulfilled, a mission uncompleted. Perhaps their interest lay not in her as a person but in what her rescue represented to their collective identity.

Or worse, perhaps they blamed her in some way for the consequences of their failed rescue attempt. Children's thinking could be surprisingly concrete; perhaps they had interpreted her sale as somehow her fault rather than circumstantial tragedy.

These spiraling speculations led nowhere productive, Ella realized with practiced mental discipline. Without more information, she could not determine the truth of her situation. And information gathering required continued interaction, careful observation, and strategic disclosure.

For today, she would maintain her established approach—providing valuable intelligence about Blackwell while revealing minimal personal details, observing the officers' reactions for additional insight, and remaining alert for opportunities to discover their true motivations.

A knock at her cabin door interrupted these reflections. "Breakfast in the officers' mess whenever you're ready," came Yunho's gentle voice. "No rush—it's deliberately informal this morning."

"Thank you," she replied, appreciating both the information and the implicit respect for her autonomy. "I'll join you shortly."

As she prepared for the day, Ella made a conscious decision to continue the small openings she had begun the previous day—allowing glimpses of her true self to emerge as strategic disclosure rather than vulnerability. If these men were indeed connected to her past, such glimpses might trigger reactions that would confirm or refute her emerging suspicions.

And if they weren't—if all these parallels were merely remarkable coincidence—then she had lost nothing beyond slight emotional exposure that could be recalibrated as necessary.

Either way, the mystery of the ATEEZ and its officers demanded resolution. Fifteen years of survival had taught Ella patience in gathering intelligence, persistence in seeking answers, and caution in forming conclusions. These skills would serve her well as she navigated the complex currents surrounding her unexpected "rescue" and the five men who had orchestrated it.

Whatever game was being played aboard this black-sailed ship, she intended to uncover its rules, identify its players, and determine her own role within it—before committing to any irreversible decisions about her future course.

With that resolution firmly in mind, Ella completed her preparations and headed toward the officers' mess, ready to continue her careful investigation into the mysteries of the ATEEZ and the men who commanded it.

Taglist: @hopeless-lovex0 @frankielou02 @jilxxasu @kur0kki

[luvly-writer]

Basgaith: Gonna do something about it?

Xaden Riorson x Gamlyn! Reader

Masterlist

Y/n had a plan.

A perfectly reasonable, self-preserving plan: avoid Xaden Riorson at all costs.

Which, of course, was impossible.

The man was everywhere—battle briefings, squad meetings, training fields. Always nearby. Always looking like trouble in head-to-toe black and a jawline sharp enough to cut steel. And ever since their moment in the hallway, he had decided, apparently, that teasing her wasn’t enough.

Now he was pursuing.

She ignored him the first time he passed her on the way to the mess hall.

The second time, she walked faster.

By the third encounter—this time outside the commons—he leaned on the post beside her with his arms crossed and said, “You’re doing a terrible job of pretending I don’t exist.”

Y/n didn’t even stop walking.

“Must be imagining things,” she called over her shoulder.

“Funny,” he said, falling into step beside her. “Because I could swear you stared at me for a full minute yesterday while I was sparring.”

“I was watching Garrick.”

“Sure you were.”

From the bench near the main path, Rhiannon let out a low whistle. “Oh, he is so in pursuit.”

“Y/n’s got the brooding Wingleader in a spiral,” Violet added, leaning forward with a grin.

“Shut up,” Y/n muttered, cheeks glowing as she marched faster.

Xaden just smirked, hands in his pockets. “You can pretend all you want, Gamlyn, but I’m very patient.”

“And you’re very annoying.”

“You love it.”

“She’s making him work for it,” Rhiannon whispered to Violet, eyes wide in delighted shock.

“I’ve never been prouder,” Violet whispered back.

Xaden leaned against the stone railing outside the sparring ring, watching as Y/n helped Rhiannon stretch out a sore shoulder. She laughed at something Violet said, her dark curls pulled into a slick ponytail, a black silk ribbon swaying gently with every movement.

She was sunshine wrapped in shadows. And she was currently ignoring him.

Again.

Intentional, Sgaeyl said dryly, her voice sliding into his mind like cool steel. She’s avoiding you. Deliberately.

“I’m aware,” he muttered.

So you’re just going to stand there like a lovesick hatchling? Gods, Xaden. You used to be feared. Now you’re... loitering.

“I’m not loitering,” he grumbled.

You’re absolutely loitering. This is the fourth time today you’ve followed her across the quadrant.

“She was already headed this way.”

Because she’s in your squad, you oath-struck brute. You’re literally chasing after her like a flamedrunk fledgling.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “How can I not?”

Sgaeyl went silent for a moment—long enough that he thought she might drop it.

Then: Pathetic, she said fondly.

He didn’t even argue.

Because when Y/n turned around and caught his eye from across the ring, her lips curling up despite herself, something warm curled in his chest that even Sgaeyl’s sarcasm couldn’t dim.

It got even worst when Tairn and Violet decided to joing in...

Xaden was trying to focus.

Truly.

But Y/n was standing across the field again, adjusting her daggers, skin glowing from training, black silk ribbon fluttering in the breeze like a challenge. She laughed at something Ridoc said, the sound too sweet for how much power it had over him.

He wasn’t staring.

Much.

You are entirely hopeless, Sgaeyl said.

Then, unfortunately, another voice joined in.

This is getting embarrassing, Tairn rumbled across the bond, his tone full of unimpressed thunder. She’s not prey, Wingleader. You don’t need to stalk her from a distance.

“Oh gods,” Xaden muttered aloud.

Violet, already smirking from her seat on the bench beside Rhiannon, tilted her head. He’s doing it again, she said through their bond. Just… watching her like she personally invented combat.

Or perfume, Tairn added. You really are circling like a youthling in heat. Pathetic.

Sgaeyl, delighted now, chimed in: He even tried to be cool yesterday. Flexed when she was watching. Garrick nearly choked.

Xaden groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you all have a scheduled time to torment me or is this just a group hobby now?”

We’re a team, Sgaeyl replied smugly.

And it’s hilarious, Violet added. You’re finally the one flustered.

Across the yard, Y/n looked up and caught him staring again. She raised an eyebrow—just slightly—and he froze.

She smirked.

Turned.

And walked away with purpose.

Xaden stared after her, absolutely wrecked.

Sgaeyl sighed. She’s playing you like a stringed instrument, little shadow.

Tairn rumbled a low, pleased sound. I approve of her.

I love her, Violet added cheerfully.

“I’m surrounded by traitors,” Xaden muttered.

But even as they mocked him, he couldn't stop the slow, stunned smile from pulling at his mouth.

Because gods help him—

He loved it.

It had been a week since Y/n turn the tables on him, avoiding him with a teasing smile. And for some reason, it only made him more determined. Every time she looked at him, a smile playing on her lips or her dark eyes flicking over him with that knowing look, he felt the tug to do something about it. Something more than just the lingering stares.

Today, though, he couldn’t just sit back and let her have all the fun. He had to act.

They were walking side by side down one of the quieter trails after a particularly grueling training session. The air was thick with the smells of pine and earth, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. Y/n’s presence beside him was intoxicating, the way her black silk ribbon swayed with each step, the way her laughter still danced through his mind from earlier in the day.

He couldn't not ask.

He looked over at her, heart pounding for some reason. “So...” he started, clearing his throat, “I’ve been thinking.”

She tilted her head, giving him a side-eye. “Uh-oh, that’s never a good sign.”

He smirked and rolled his eyes, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, well... I’ve been wanting to ask you something. But I’m not sure if you’d—”

She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Are you nervous? You never get nervous, Riorson.”

He rolled his eyes, trying to mask how the thought of it made his heart skip a beat. “Shut up. I’m perfectly fine.”

She didn’t respond immediately, just kept walking, making him wonder if she was going to leave him hanging. After a long pause, she glanced over at him with a look that was far too playful for his comfort.

“Alright, ask me. I’m waiting.”

He huffed a laugh, a little exasperated. “Right. Well, how about—” He stopped walking, turning to face her with a slightly more serious expression. “How about we grab dinner sometime? Just the two of us. No squad, no distractions. I’ll make sure you don’t get dragged into any ridiculous plans or training drills.”

Her eyes flashed with something unreadable, and for a moment, Xaden swore she was about to say something witty in that typical Y/n way that would leave him scrambling for words.

Instead, she looked at him, that playful glint still there, and slowly, dramatically looked him up and down like she was making a decision.

“Hmm,” she said, as if she were weighing the very fate of the world. “Let me think about it…”

Xaden raised an eyebrow, hands on his hips, exasperated but amused. He shot her a playful glare. “Come on, don’t make me beg.”

She tilted her head, a smile tugging at her lips.

Finally, after a long beat, she let out a dramatic sigh, her expression softening in a way that made Xaden’s heart skip. “Fine. If I must…”

He sighed, leaning against a tree. "You're impossible."

She gave him an exaggerated eye-roll but didn’t pull away as he reached for her hand. “Come on, then, Mr. Riorson,” she said, pulling him down the trail. “Let’s see if you can make this ‘dinner’ as interesting as you think it’ll be.”

He was so damn relieved, he almost laughed.

“Trust me,” he said, his tone suddenly serious, “it’s going to be memorable.”

As they walked together down the path, the silence between them was comfortable for once. There was no need for words, just the quiet hum of the woods around them, the sound of their footsteps in rhythm, and the feeling that maybe—just maybe—things between them were changing.

A few days later, Xaden had pulled her aside, guiding her towards the path they had deemed theirs a few weeks back, when they started walking together sometimes if they had time after training.

Y/n didn’t expect a picnic. She thought Xaden would take her somewhere dark and brooding with stone walls, shadowy candlelight, and maybe a silent vow of vengeance thrown in.

But when he led her up one of the smaller ridgelines above Basgiath, the horizon blooming in oranges and golds, and gestured to a blanket already laid out—complete with food that looked like someone not him had packed it—her lips twitched.

“You made this?” she asked, lifting a brow.

Xaden crouched beside the basket, setting out containers. “Garrick helped. Mostly to make sure I didn’t poison you.”

She laughed. “Romantic and considerate. Who are you and what have you done with Xaden Riorson?”

He gave her a look. “You’re very lucky I like you.”

“Oh?” She sat, smoothing the blanket beneath her. “Is that what this is? Liking me?”

Xaden met her eyes, pausing as the sun lit her face, her curls catching the light, the silk ribbon fluttering in the breeze. She was radiant, and the worst part? She didn’t even try to be. She just was.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he said dryly, but there was a warmth to his voice.

“You won’t,” she replied confidently, then took a bite of something suspiciously sweet. “This is good. I take back half of my judgment.”

“Only half?” he scoffed.

“I need to keep you humble.”

“I don’t think that’s possible around you,” he muttered, then caught the pleased flicker in her eyes.

For a while, they just sat, eating and watching the sky slowly shift from warm hues to deep purples. The conversation was easy—banter flowing like it always did—but with less edge, more softness around the corners.

He handed her a drink and asked, “So, what do you see in me, Gamlyn?”

She blinked, lips curved in that smirk that both infuriated and enchanted him. “Besides the whole mysterious, tall, and tragically handsome thing?”

He chuckled low in his throat. “Obviously.”

She looked at him for a moment, honest this time. “You’re... steady. And smart. And when you’re not being all grumpy and terrifying, you’re kind. Even if you try to hide it under all that broody armor.”

Xaden looked down at the cup in his hands, and for once, was quiet.

Then she added, “Also, the arms.”

He laughed out loud at that, head tipping back as she grinned wickedly.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said.

“And you’re predictable,” she teased. “Flirt with me, stare at me, invite me to dinner, and then look all shocked when I flirt back. Amateur.”

He shook his head, smiling. “You were going to make me chase you the whole time, aren’t you?”

After a moment, she looked at him again, voice soft but amused. “I mean, it was very entertaining.”

“I hate you,” he said, deadpan.

“No, you don’t.”

He rolled his eyes at her and she laughed, the sound like sun-warmed honey in the cool breeze, as the stars began to bloom above them.

They didn’t even notice the dark clouds creeping in.

The sky had been so golden just minutes ago, and the warmth between them had only intensified—long looks, hands brushing when they reached for the same fruit, smiles that lingered a beat too long. Y/n was lying on her side now, propped on one elbow, lazily playing with a loose thread on the picnic blanket, and Xaden was sitting across from her, legs stretched out, elbow resting casually as he leaned back.

“I still can't believe you planned this,” she murmured.

“The sunset or the picnic?”

“The whole vibe,” she said, gesturing around them. “This whole ‘oh look at me, I’m emotionally available now, let’s watch the stars together’ thing.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “You wound me, Gamlyn. I can be thoughtful sometimes.”

She blinked at him, her smile faltering for just a second as the moment between them shifted, grew heavy. Real. She opened her mouth to answer—

—but the sky cracked open.

A deep, rumbling growl of thunder split the air, and before either of them could fully process it, rain started pelting down in heavy, fat drops.

Y/n shrieked and scrambled to her feet, clutching the blanket. “Are you kidding me?!”

Xaden stood, already soaked, a rare and brilliant laugh escaping him as she tried to fold the blanket and failed miserably.

“Oh no, you don’t get to laugh at me right now!” she said through laughter of her own, shoving the damp fabric at him. “You’re the one who said the weather would hold!”

“I said I hoped it would,” he corrected, grabbing the basket. “Let’s go before you melt.”

“You’d miss me if I did,” she shot back, already jogging down the ridge, curls bouncing, ribbon now completely soaked and clinging to her shoulder.

He followed close behind, mud splashing, basket under one arm, a grin he couldn’t hide tugging at his mouth.

They ran like that all the way back to the citadel—laughing, breathless, soaked to the bone. By the time they reached the covered archway near the Academic Wing, they were dripping, panting, and leaning against the stone wall trying to catch their breath.

Rain still dripped from the archway overhead, the last rumbles of thunder growling somewhere in the distance. Y/n leaned against the cold stone wall, arms crossed, chest rising and falling with the echo of laughter. Her curls clung to her cheeks and neck in wet spirals, the black silk ribbon limp on her shoulder, mascara streaked slightly under her eyes.

She looked down at herself with a groan. “I look awful.”

Xaden didn’t answer.

She peeked up—and caught him staring.

Unapologetically. Like he hadn’t even heard her complaint, or maybe like he had and couldn’t believe she thought that was true.

Her cheeks flushed, even beneath the chill. “What?”

He took a step closer, head tilted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You don’t look awful.”

Her breath caught. Just slightly. She blinked at him, mascara-smudged lashes wet, her mouth parting in surprise.

She gave him a look that was somewhere between surprised and flustered.

He shrugged, smirking. “What? Can’t a guy compliment the girl who just got him caught in a downpour?”

Y/n rolled her eyes, shivering slightly as she wrung water from her ribbon. “Come on, Romeo. You’re gonna catch a cold.”

He didn’t move, still watching her like the storm hadn’t ended.

She turned to head inside, tossing a final smirk over her shoulder. “And wipe that look off your face, Riorson.”

“Which one?” he asked.

“The one that says you’re already planning our next date.”

He chuckled low, shaking his head as he followed. “Maybe I am.”

She stopped, looking back at him with a soft smile.

Then, raking a hand through his soaked hair, he says, “Come on, let’s get back before Ridoc organizes a search party.”

She rolled her eyes, but the soft smile lingered on her lips as they started walking.

The doors to the gathering hall slammed open, a gust of wind pushing Y/n and Xaden in along with the last droplets of rain. The hall was buzzing with squad chatter, and it took all of two seconds for everyone to go silent and turn.

There stood Xaden Riorson and Y/n Gamlyn—absolutely drenched. His shirt clung to him like a second skin, dark curls dripping water onto the stone floor. Her black uniform stuck to her in awkward places, curls flattened, ribbon sagging, cheeks flushed, and eyes glowing.

“By the Mother, what the hell happened to you two?” Ridoc asked, eyebrows sky-high from his spot lounging on a bench with Violet, Rhiannon, and Liam.

Y/n, still breathless and laughing a little, just lifted her hands. “We got caught in the rain.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days?” Rhiannon said with a smirk, elbowing Violet.

“I don’t know,” Violet chimed in, eyes sparkling behind a smug smile. “They look suspiciously... giddy.”

Y/n groaned. “Can you not?”

Ridoc stood and walked over, making a dramatic show of inspecting his sister. “Hair’s a mess, mascara’s raccooned, clothes soaked—” he clicked his tongue. “This is suspicious behavior.”

Y/n shoved his shoulder, blushing hard. “I hate you.”

“I’m a delight,” he said, grinning—then, without another word, peeled off his dry flight jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “You’ll get sick, dummy.”

She blinked, the warmth of the jacket sinking into her cold skin. Her voice softened. “Thanks.”

He gave her a wink and a mock-serious whisper, “But don’t think this means I’m not going to continue bullying you for this.”

“Already figured,” she muttered, pulling it tighter around herself.

Xaden, who’d been watching with his arms crossed and that unreadable expression he wore so well, smirked slightly as Ridoc turned back to the squad and announced to everyone, “Guess now we know who just became the main character in Riorson’s entire personality?”

That earned a round of laughter and groans.

Y/n covered her face with the sleeve of Ridoc’s jacket. “I should’ve just stayed in the damn storm.”

Rhiannon cackled. “And miss this? Never.”

Xaden leaned close, voice low by her ear. “For what it’s worth, you wear the drowned look beautifully.”

She groaned louder.

The laughter still echoed faintly down the hall as people trickled out, but Ridoc lingered by the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward his sister, still wrapped in his jacket, now shivering slightly.

“Alright, glamor girl,” he said, nudging her arm gently, “as much as I know you love attention, go change. You’ll catch a cold.”

Y/n gave him a look but didn’t argue. “I was planning to.”

She turned to head toward her room down the corridor, tugging the jacket tighter—

Until she noticed footsteps falling in beside her.

She turned. Xaden.

“Where are you going?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

Before he could answer, Ridoc slid between them like it was his divine mission.

“Hold on there, lover boy,” Ridoc said, placing a firm hand on Xaden’s chest. “She’s not going to disappear if you don’t see her for five whole minutes.”

Xaden arched a brow, entirely unbothered. “You’re awfully invested.”

“I’m her brother. It’s in the job description.”

Y/n, blushing furiously now, tried not to laugh. “I can walk to my room alone, Xaden.”

He looked between her and Ridoc, then gave a resigned little smirk and stepped back with his hands raised. “Fine. I’ll survive. Barely.”

“You’ll live,” Ridoc said cheerfully, already turning toward the mess hall. “Now go be broody elsewhere.”

Y/n, cheeks still red, turned to hide her smile and padded off toward her room. Behind her, she could feel Xaden watching, and she knew he was smirking.

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[onlycosmere]

The Kickstarter goes live tomorrow!

When Brandon Sanderson began working with Brotherwise Games on the first adventure for The Stormlight Roleplaying Game, he considered how it could help him fix holes in the narrative of his bestselling fantasy series. He settled on a mystery from the first Stormlight Archive book, The Way of Kings, that will have big implications for the fifth book in the series, Wind and Truth, which will be released in December.

The Stormlight Archive is set on the planet Roshar, where 10 heroes known as Heralds spent millenia protecting humanity with the help of highly magical swords dubbed Honorblades. All of them abandoned their duties except Taln, the Herald of the Common Man. Despite Taln’s best efforts, the forces of the vengeful god Odium have returned. Taln was left maddened by his ordeal and soon after he first appears in the books, his Honorblade goes missing. Its whereabouts remain unknown.

“The adventure is answering that question,” Sanderson told Polygon. “What happened? Where did it go? What’s going on? And you get to be part of the story. We were looking for an adventure you could do that would intersect with the canon of the books in an interesting way, and allow you to fill in a hole yourself.”

The Kickstarter for the d20-based game goes live on Aug. 6 along with a beta preview of the rules and a first level adventure meant to walk players and game masters through the setting and core mechanics. The hardcover Stonewalkers Adventure, where players encounter Taln and learn what happened to his honorblade, will be released in 2025 along with the Stormlight Roleplaying Game Handbook and World Guide.

...

Players will hunt for Taln’s honorblade across Roshar, from the Shattered Plains where much of The Way of Kings is set, to the magical forest of the goddess Cultivation, where bold souls can receive both a boon and a curse. There are a mix of dungeon crawls, puzzles, chase scenes and prison breaks. As they choose how to approach the problems they face, player characters will be able to attract the attention of spren, spirit-like beings who can bond with like-minded people to bestow them with incredible abilities. Completing the mission can allow them to join the newly re-founded ancient order known as the Knights Radiant.

...

The PCs can meet major antagonists from the books, including the twisted Herald of Justice Nale and the traitorous General Meridas Amaram, and learn how the talking sword Nightblood first featured in Sanderson’s 2009 book Warbreaker wound up on Roshar. As they move through key moments from the series, like the emergence of a raging storm that brings Odium’s most powerful lieutenants back to the world, Sanderson welcomes players to reshape his narrative.

...

“There’s a lot of cultural details being filled in, but at the same time, we dig a little bit further into what each order of Radiants’ oaths, spren, and motivations are,” Sanderson said. “There’s some new stuff there that I think fans will really enjoy.”

[justhereforxreaders]

The Prince and the Dragon Rider - Part One: The Oath

Jacaerys Velaryon x dragon rider!reader

Summary: after three years of peaceful living on Dragonstone, Prince Jacaerys stumbles upon an answer to his growing anxieties of mastering dragonriding. But when this new companion is discovered prematurely, how will the Princess respond?

Warnings: mentions of blood loss and wounds

soundtrack

part two: tempest

part three: the dawn

part four: the test

part five: precipice

part six: pieces and players

part seven: the rift

You stand silently in the throne room of Dragonstone awaiting judgment while a storm rages outside the black stone walls. Two kingsguard are posted at the large doors opposite the throne. Their eyes fixed on your small, shivering frame. A flash of lightning followed closely by the crack of thunder causes you to jump and one of the kingsguard calls out to you from across the room.

“We said be still!”

You nod curtly and continue to stare out the windows at the rain. Tears begin to flow against your will as another bolt of lightning strikes nearby and you try your best to remain still.

This is not what I wanted. You think to yourself, reflecting upon the events that led you to be separated from your dragon and now, possibly, from your closest friend.

Jacaerys Valeryon had discovered you and your dragon living within the natural caverns beneath the fortress of Dragonstone nearly four moons. The two of you became quick friends, meeting in secret to train one another. He had witnessed your skills on dragonback firsthand when he and Vermax happened upon you and your dragon one morning before the sun had risen. Your deftness alone would have been enough to impress the young Prince but after watching the two of you dive into the sea to escape their curious pursuit, he knew he needed to seek you out. In exchange, he had offered you the chance to hone your skills in combat. Being common born, your abilities with a blade were much more crude than those of the knight trained prince. You relished the opportunity to learn how to properly defend yourself.

You are pulled from your thoughts by the sound of the ornate doors swinging open. A small procession of colorful lords file into the great hall surrounded by armored knights that begin to peel off in pairs to stand along the walls as they approach. The last two take positions on either side of you. Once the guards are in their places, a caller steps forth to announce the silver haired woman standing alone in the doorway.

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name, heir to the Iron Throne!”

The caller bellows throughout the room while the woman walks with purpose through the grand hall to take her place upon the throne. Once seated she meets your gaze. You cast your eyes down to the black stone below.

“This council has been brought together to address the matter of this child’s involvement in the endangerment and injury of my son, the Prince Jacaerys Velaryon,” her voice becomes shaky when she says his name but she does her best to gain her composure before addressing you directly, “What do you have to say in your defense?”

You hesitate for a moment, steadying yourself with a breath while trying to remember what you had intended to say. But when you look up to see tears welling up in the Princess’s eyes, only one thought fills your mind.

“Is Jace going to be alright?” You ask timidly.

“That does not answer the Princess’s question, child,” snaps a silver haired man standing below the throne. “We want to know how this happened.”

The Princess’s eyes remain fixed on you. She examines you carefully as you wipe the lingering tears from your face and begin recounting everything.

“The Prince and I have been training together for quite some time.” The Princess raises an eyebrow at this but you continue, “We flew out to practice on dragonback this morning when the wind rose up quickly around us. We couldn’t outrun the storm and when it consumed us, we were both thrown into the sea. The dragons were nowhere to be seen, whisked away by the tempest, so we began making our way to shore but-” you shutter and grow silent, remembering the deep wounds carved into your friend’s shoulder. “Jacaerys had been injured. I believe Vermax may have tried to take hold of him as he fell. He lost consciousness during the swim and I carried him the rest of the way.”

Once the words leave your mouth there is a beat of silence before you begin to sob, the horror fresh in your mind of Jace going limp in your arms. You can barely hear the low murmurs that flurry around the room until the Princess brings them all to a halt.

“How could you be training on dragonback? Were you both astride Vermax?” The Princess calls down to you from the throne, her tone shifting from sorrow to accusatory.

You freeze while the tears continue to pour. Jace had recently begun trying to convince you to reveal yourself to his mother. He was certain you would be offered a proper bed to sleep in but when the subject of revealing your dragon was brought into question, he was unsure of how the Princess and her second husband would respond to someone outside their blood to being bonded to a dragon. The discussion ended shortly after expressing this to you.

Now faced with this dilemma, without Jace’s guidance, you decide to remain honest. Still holding onto the glimmer of hope that you will find acceptance and refuge among this family.

“No, Your Grace, I was riding my own dragon.”

Amidst the uproar, the man with silver hair draws his sword and storms down the steps toward you.

“Who are you to have claimed one of our dragons? We should have your hands you thief!”

“Daemon, no!” The Princess shouts and the room falls silent once again.

The man stops his advance but his sword is still drawn in your direction.

“I am no thief,” you manage to say with a quivering voice. “My mother was an acolyte of the priests of R’hllor on the outskirts of Asshai. When I was six years of age, a lord came to our temple to enlist the help of the red priests in hatching a dragon egg.”

Another round of concerned whispers echo throughout the hall.

“I know not who the lord was or where he acquired the egg. It made no difference as during the ritual the temple caught fire, leaving myself and my dragon as the only survivors to emerge from the ashes. We had been traveling west across Essos together for nearly eight years until she finally led me to this island four moons ago.”

The man, who you now identify as Daemon, looks you up and down and begins speaking a language you cannot understand. When he meets your eyes and sees your confusion, he scoffs and turns to Princess Rhaenrya. They have a brief exchange in the foreign language before they are cut off by a frantic man in robes entering the room.

“The prince has awoken,” he exclaims, out of breath.

Rhaenyra immediately stands and makes haste to the door, followed closely by her guard. However, Daemon stays put in front of you.

“We shall reconvene at a later time,” the Princess calls over her shoulder as she exits the room. “See this child placed in a room under watch until-“

“Wait, no!” You cry out, interrupting the Princess. With the relief of knowing that Jacaerys is alive and conscious, the fear of your dragon’s safety fills the entirety of your being. “Please let me return home! I need to know if my dragon is safe.”

Her and Daemon make eye contact above your head.

“We cannot allow you to leave until a decision can be made,” she says plainly, a slight look of remorse flashes across her face, before she disappears out the door without a second glance.

The lords disperse around you. All except Daemon who still stands with his sword drawn.

“How do you command a dragon of you do not speak High Valyrian?”

“I don’t,” you reply, confusion evident in your voice, “I have been at her mercy since she grew large enough to ride. I have simply trusted her instincts.”

He chuckles lightly, “I wonder then, if you were to make a command of her, would she return that sentiment? Would she trust your instincts? Is she truly bonded to you? Or were you a convenient mean for survival?”

He sheaths his sword and walks away from you, taking a seat on the steps below the throne. The guards at your sides escort you out of the hall, leaving Daemon’s questions to rattle around in your mind.

- - - - -

Dragon-riding was an art that did not come naturally to Prince Jacaerys. He had been so relieved when his family left King’s Landing, as it meant he no longer would be sharing dragon keeper lessons with his spiteful uncles. This relief was short lived however, as once Vhagar had been claimed by Aemond, a frantic drive to master the sky filled his entire being. Once Vermax became large enough to ride, he trained often and obsessively, stealing the joy from what was previously a childhood dream of the young prince. Until he began training with you.

Although he initially approached your training with the same urgency, he soon found an unexpected solace riding alongside you. With you, it never felt like a burden or duty. It felt like freedom. It felt like peace. You had turned the sky into a safe haven.

Which is why the sight of you being thrown from your dragon in the middle of that storm was on an endless loop in his mind while he fell in and out of consciousness. Despite the pain of the maesters working on his wounds, he wouldn’t allow himself to be pulled into sleep until he knew you were safe. Thankfully, once their work was complete and the discomfort from their treatment had ended, he was able to fully recover his mind from that haunting vision.

He sat up slowly in his bed, head still spinning, to see the maesters cleaning up their instruments.

“What happened? How did I get here?” He mutters.

The maesters whip their heads towards the prince at the sound of his voice and the room buzzes back into action.

“Inform the Princess!” Grand Maester Gerardys commands to the room before taking place at Jace’s bedside. “Steady, my Prince, the wound is freshly stitched and you’ve lost much blood.” He attempts to help the boy back down but Jace protests.

“No,” he mumbles, using his good arm to weakly bat away the Grand Maesters hands. “Tell me what happened.”

Gerardys sighs. “You were found wounded on the beach with a stranger who refused to leave your side.”

The rest of the memory flashes through Jace’s head. The gust of wind and rain that ripped him from his dragon’s back, the pain of Vermax’s claws in his shoulder, finding you in the cold water, your arm around his body as he grew even colder.

“Where is y/n?” His eyes snap open.

“Taken before the council to face judgment for your endangerment.” The maester gives up the fight with his stubborn patient and returns to his supplies laid out on the table.

“But-” Jacaerys begins before being cut off by his mother.

“Jace!” She cries as she burst through the door and runs to his side, embracing him as gently as she can manage.

“Mother, where is y/n? They have done nothing wrong, they saved my life.” He takes a moment to catch his breath after the words tumble out of his mouth. Still struggling to keep his grip on the waking world.

Rhaenyra releases her son and she looks over him. Her face grows stern at the mention of your name, which she had neglected to ask for.

“And why was your life at risk in the first place? Who is this dragonrider that you’ve kept secret from me? And why trust a stranger to train you over Daemon or myself?”

Jacaerys turns away sheepishly, trying not to dive too deeply into the sliver of joy he had found in your presence. “Y/n is my friend, not a stranger. As well as a skilled dragonrider.”

“How could you know that Jace? How do we know this isn’t a trap set by our enemies?”

He considers this briefly. Trying to determine how he can convince his mother that you are not a threat to them. Wishing desperately to cite the countless occurrences of your trustworthiness and honor that he has already witnessed. But he knows that it is not just his mother that he is speaking to. He is also speaking to the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And the Queen cannot afford to place that much faith in the feelings of a young man. So instead, he decides to respond like a future king.

“Why would our enemies want us to gain such a powerful advantage? Supplying our cause with a large dragon and a masterful rider does them no favors.” Prince Jacaerys states.

Rhaenyra is taken aback by Jace’s strategic thinking. She looks over his face and ponders his words while tracing the healed scar down her arm. A bitter reminder of her own betrayal by someone she once held dear.

“Do you trust this person with your safety? With the safety of your family?” Rhaenyra questions, her eyes momentarily welling up against her will.

Jacaerys meets her gaze and nods solemnly. The Princess grabs her son’s hand tenderly.

“If this to be our decision; to allow an outsider to inherit the power of our house…” she pauses, trying to find the right words. “Then this not an ally we can afford to lose. And we must ensure their loyalty to my claim to the throne, as well as your own.”

- - - - -

The room you are placed in offers little comfort while you wait for your fate to be decided. Housed high in the tower, it sways ever so slightly with the wind. Exhaustion from the events of today combined with the gentle motion of the room threaten to lull you to sleep but the distress at being away from your dragon for the first time in years keeps you from finding any rest. You sit on the hard floor with your back up against the wall, facing the door, counting the seconds between lightning strikes and rumbles of thunder.

A knock on the door startles you and you spring to your feet as a kingsguard steps through the doorway followed closely by Princess Rhaenyra. You notice her face appears less grim than it had been in the throne room. She examines you from head to toe then finds your eyes. They soften ever so slightly before she speaks.

“Jacaerys is resting and the maesters are confident he will make a full recovery.”

You breathe a sigh of relief and nod at the Princess’s words but the worry still lingers on your face. She continues.

“We have also received word that Vermax has returned to the dragonmont with a large black dragon in tow. Both weary but seemingly unharmed.”

You gasp as though this is the first real breath you’ve taken all day and place your hands over your eyes as tears flow freely down your face. Their intensity dies down, however, as you recall the Princess’s final words to you in front of her council. A new dread fills your stomach.

“And what is to be done with me?” You ask in as neutral a tone as you can manage, dropping your hands from your eyes but still staring intently at the stone below.

The Princess lets out a heavy sigh and takes a step closer to you.

“We would ask that you swear an oath of loyalty. Declare fealty to House Targaryen and to myself as heir to the Iron Throne. And for this you will be granted permission to serve our house as a dragonrider.”

You shake your head, trying to comprehend her words.

“And what would my service entail? What would be expected of me?”

“The same that I ask of every lord and lady sworn to me. As well as every member of my family that commands a dragon; that should this house become threatened, they will heed the call to arms and meet the enemy with fire and blood.” Her voice becomes foreboding as she recites the words of her house. Indicating to you that this is less of a choice you are being offered, and more a sentence that you are being served.

“Though I hope such a need will never come,” she adds, trying to lighten her tone.

Your thoughts turn to your dragon and the years you have spent protecting each other. You may not speak the same language but you know you trust her with every fiber of your being. And, although the gods may have left a foul taste in your mouth for prophecy and purpose, you do believe she chose you as her rider for a reason. If taking this oath is the only way you can continue to be allowed to live alongside your dragon, then so be it.

You raise your head, sparing a quick glance at the kingsguard, before your eyes meet with the Princess’s. “I am at your service, Princess.”

“We are glad to have it, y/n.” She says with sincerity. “The hour has grown late, let us see you to a more suitable chamber.” She turns and begins walking out the door, beckoning you to follow.

You fall into line behind her down the winding stairs.

“Once you are settled,” she calls over her shoulder, “if you are not spent, I can take you to the dragonmont.”

You nod fervently and small smile flashes across her face.

[blingblong55]

Crossing the line -141& König

Picture credit: @ave661 (middle)

Based on a request: I have recently crossed over and I think I may becoming a Konig girlie! I don’t know if you write for him, and I’m sorry if I sent this and you don’t, but what do we think about Konig dating someone who’s in the 141. They don’t see each other very often with work but 141 and Kortac get paired up to do a mission against Makarov and reader introduces Konig to the team?again sorry if you don’t write to him! But I just wanted to say I love your writing and I’m obsessed with your blog!!! Have a great day! ---- F!Reader (don't know what else to write here...so...yeah) ----

-This is written before the death(s) of any character(s) in the franchise-

A/N: welcome to this side love and don't worry, he is on my list of who I write for and apologise for barley doing this for you

A relationship that can only be described as unconventional and riddled with unanswered questions is precisely what exists between you and König. You're part of Task Force 141, while your boyfriend works for KorTac, a Private Military Company, and a rival to your team. Naturally, you've kept this under wraps; no one in 141 knew about him or where he's employed. But today, of all days, was the day you had to bring him into the fold, thanks to Price asking you to introduce your partner so there could be a record on hand should he ever need to be placed under protection. 

As members of Task Force 141, there's always a record – whether they're enemies, allies or even partners of either side. So, when the day finally arrived and you intordiced him, you made it clear that if they respected you, they wouldn't pry into his life. Out of respect for you, they didn't dig into his background, but you knew that trouble was brewing, especially when both Task Force 141 and KorTac had to join forces against a common enemy: Makarov. He'd betrayed KorTac months ago and was now squarely in the crosshairs of Task Force 141. 

"König?" Gaz blurted out the moment he laid eyes on him. It's hard to miss a man his size and Gaz, with his sharp memory, had clocked him straight away, nudging Soap and Price. Before you knew it, Price had pulled you aside, and a wave of dread washed over you. "Your boyfriend... where does he work?" Price asked, his tone demanding the truth. You could only stare back, silently pleading with him not to push it. "Price, don't do this—" you began, but he cut you off. "Where. Does. He. Work?" he pressed, and with a sigh, you gave him a look that said, 'Don't be mad." "He's in the military... KorTac, to be precise,": you admitted, bracing yourself for the fallout. 

Before Price could respond, Ghost was on you, his voice dripping with fury. "You're dating the fucking enemy? You know what they did to us, who they are, and why they do what they do," he snarled, his teeth practically clenched. You turned to face him properly, "Lt, please... don't make a scene out of this," you implored, but he just shook his head in disbelief. "Make a scene? A fucking scene?! What have you told him, kid?" he barked, shoving your shoulder. "Nothing," you insisted, trying to keep your cool. "You're a fuckin' idiot." His tone was filled with anger and disappointment. "You know why we don't pair with them, why this thing is just a one-off, so don't give me this bullshit, don't fucking––" Ghost raged. 

"That's enough," Price interjected stepping in. 

"I love him. I know he'd never betray me. I took an oath when I joined this team, I made a promise to be a good partner to him, but I take my oath seriously, the same one I took when I was brought into this team. I'd never betray the team that's like family to me, but I also can't help loving him," you explained, your voice wavering slightly as you looked between Ghost and Price.  

"You're... in love?" Soap said, sounding almost incredulous. You sighed, wishing this nightmare would end. "Yes, I am," you confirmed. "With that KorTac bloke, yeah?" Gaz added, and you nodded, meeting their questioning gazes. "I'm sorry, alright? I know it's not ideal, but i swear he'd never betray or harm any of you. He knows how much I care about you all. He loves me, and we promised each other we wouldn't do that," you told them earnestly, hoping they'd understand. They exchanged glances, clearly conflicted. "If he hurts you—" Price started. 

"I won't," König said firmly as he walked into the room, and you couldn't help but let out a relieved sigh. 

Someone ought to lock the door before anyone barges in, you thought wryly. 

"I'll be looking into your personal life," Price warned, his gaze fixed on König. "You're welcome to. Investigate all you want, I've got nothing to hide," König replied, meeting Price's stare without flinching. 

As the tension in the room thickened, you could feel the weight of every gaze on you and König. The air was heavy with unspoken doubts, but also a glimmer of something else—perhaps understanding, or at least the hope of it. 

Price took a step back, his expression unreadable. "We'll see about that," he said, his tone softer but still laced with authority. "But understand this: if he steps out of line, if he puts any of us in jeopardy, I won't hesitate to act. Love or not, you're still a part of this team, and this team comes first." You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "I understand, and I wouldn't expect anything less," you replied, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside you. 

Ghost was still fuming, but he kept his distance, his eyes narrowing as he looked between you and König. "Don't make me regret this," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. 

König, to his credit, didn't flinch. "You have my word," he said simply, his voice calm and assured. 

Soap and Gaz exchanged a look, and Soap finally broke the silence with a half-hearted grin. "Well, this is going tomake for an interesting debrief, eh?"

The tension in the room eased slightly, the corners of Gaz's mouth twitching in what might have been the beginning of a smile. "You always did know how to keep things lively," he said, his tone teasing but not unkind. 

You allowed yourself a small smile, feeling the tightness in your chest begin to loosen. "What can I say? Never a dull moment." Price nodded, his eyes still on König. "Alright then. We'll take it one step at a time. But remember, we're watching."

With that, the meeting seemed to unofficially adjourn, the mean dispersing with lingering glances at you and König. As the door closed behind the last of them, you let out a breath you hadn't realised you were holding. König turned to you, his eyes softening as he took your hand. "Are you alright?"

You nodded, squeezing his hand in return. "Yeah. It could've gone worse." He gave you a small, reassuring smile. "They'll come around."

"Maybe," you said, leaning into him slightly. "But even if they don't, we'll figure it out. Together." He nodded, pulling you close. "Together," he echoed. And as you stood there, the two of you alone in the room that had just moments ago been filled with so much tension, you felt a sense of calm wash over you.

A/N: fixed my writing style so...I hope you enjoyed?

Tags: @liyanahelena @goldenmclaren @ghostslillady @moonsua1 @rvivienner @frazie99 @katybaby00 @spicypicklesoh @viomast @juneonhoth @tiredmetalenthusiast @jinxxangel13 @enarien @ikohniik @nobodys-coffee @strawberrychita @sae1kie @Llelannie @Macnches2 @skelletonwitch @honestlyhiswife @who-can-appease-me @ghostwifeyy @konigssultwithghost @the_royal_bee @beansproutmafia @luvecarson @soapybutt17 @asianbutnotjapanese @a-goose-with-a-knife @foxface013 @born4biriyani @mychemichalimalance @marshiely @tuihiatus @iruzias @sleepyycatt @noodlezz-bedo @trinthealternate @vampsquerade @azkza @VampyTheGoth

[janearts]

I couldn't help myself from referencing Highlander. There can be only one [wielder of the Netherstones]!

Proper answer (and some character analysis for Roisia) under the read-more.

Roisia was surprised by Gortash, but pleasantly so. In the first place, as far as Roisia is concerned, Ketheric and Orin recall their respective gods in their appearance: Ketheric is withered, a husk of a person, but indomitable, and Orin... well, Orin looks like a flayed corpse with meat-suit clothes, but close enough. Roisia would have expected Bane's Chosen to be more... physically domineering. Terrifying. Intractable. ...Loud? Instead, here's this charming handsome fellow who is really rather ordinary. If Roisia met him on the street, he'd just be another debonair noble lusting for power. (Join the feckin' queue!)

And neither does Gortash behave as Roisia would have expected Bane's Chosen to behave. She would have expected a Banite to be a tyrant, a Faerûnian-version of the Machiavellian prince, who instils a terror of himself and who rules through fear. Instead, Gortash gently curates among the populace not a fear of him, but a xenophobic fear of The Outsider (whether that outsider is a cult like the Absolute or a group of people like the Coast's refugees).

Roisia—by all accounts an oppositional force to his own—encounters a man who is genuinely, fully, confidently willing to partner with her to achieve a common goal and is willing to swear a divine oath to secure that partnership...

Poor man. What a fool.

You see, Roisia is something of a Machiavellian prince. She would despise to think of herself in that way were she to read Il Principe, but she has within herself some (but not all!) of the traits and qualities that are described within. She is frequently a mirror: where she meets evil, she wields evil with aplomb. ("You desire me to kiss your foot? I think not. You shall kiss mine.") She would very much prefer to offer mercy, but if her mercy is rejected—like when Ketheric imprisons Dame Aylin once again before yeeting himself into the primordial soup—then she will dole out cruelty in equal measure. Most importantly of all, Roisia is a liar and a deceiver, all while appearing compassionate, guileless, and true to her word. Roisia only really keeps her word when it suits her purposes. Were she otherwise, she would have found that Gortash would have been faithful to his word to the last. But as the Machiavellian prince, she betrays and slays him.

Actually, having written all that, Roisia is more of an embodiment of the Machiavellian prince than I originally thought: she is virtuous and good, sure, but she is also intimately familiar with baser behaviours (lying, cruelty, conspiracy, etc.) and wields those base behaviours like a tool when and where she feels it is needed and necessary.

Which is why I was absolutely thrilled when I had her do what was only natural to her and had her speak to Gortash post-mortem. Roisia is a character who believes herself to be godless: damned and/or abandoned by Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead and Judge of the Damned, for being a Necromancer. She had a sliver of hope that she would find favour with Myrkul, but Myrkul thought only of the Chosen stolen from him. She thought, perhaps, that she might find favour with Bhaal because, let's face it, she had slaughtered and bloodied so many in her long journey to Baldur's Gate, but the skull only wept blood and that was that. Bane, however, actually speaks to her, acknowledges her, validates her. She won his favour the moment she betrayed and slayed Gortash. She is in her very nature a stellar Banite. Incredible! And absolutely absurd. Thank you to Larian for programming that opportunity in. 😂

[royal-wren]

Hestia, goddess of the hearth (of flame/fire), of the home, sacrifices, of buildings, of architecture, of festivities/parties/feasts. The Goddess found at the center of every room sadly does not have a lot of remaining epithets to her name, so I will attempt to give her more that ties into her domains.

Aidios - Eternal

Kloomorphos - Verdant

Polymorphos - Multi-Formed

Polyolvos - Rich in Blessings

Potheinotati - Beloved

Prytaneai - Of the Prytaneion/Prytaneis (Prytaneum, Town Hall)

Basileia - Queen

Boulaia - Of the Council

Rheia eukomos thugater - Daughter of rich-haired Rheia

Parthenos - Maiden

Khrysothronos - Golden-Throned (Of the Golden Throne/With Throne of Gold)

Pyribromos - Roaring with Fire

Pyrimarmaros - Sparkling Like Fire

Pyristephēs - Fire-Wreathed/Fire-Crowned Xenia - Hestia of Hospitality, Hestia of the Guest, Hestia of Friendship, Hestia of the Foreigner, Hestia the Protector (of Protection). The goddess that looks after everyone, who is generous, benevolent, she who is epichthonic in nature, closest to man who dwells closest to us and supports us endlessly in all our endeavors, she who gifts and gives without a second thought with much joy. Everyone will find her presence so warm, peaceful, and calming.

Philia - Hestia of Friendship.

Agathe Thea - The Good Goddess.

Arkhitríklinos - Lit. The Superintendent of a Banquet. Governer(Ruler) of the Banquet/Master of the Feast/Director of a Feast/Who Presides at the Table

Panakhaia - Of all the Greeks. Common to, or worshipped by all the Hellenes. While in the modern day we aren't any of the above for a good chunk of worshippers, I think we can all agree to apply the sentiment and use it simply as "Common to all and Worshipped by All."

Hypate (Hupátē)/Hypsistos (Hypsiste) - Supreme, Most High.

Ktêsia - Of the House/Property

Ekkleisíā/Ekklēsíā - Hestia of the Political Assembly. Lit. Gathering of Those Summoned, basically an assembly of the people convened at the public place of the council for the purpose of deliberating. In place of Guardian of Parliments

Prôtogonê - First Born

Presveira - Oldest/The Oldest

Próti kaì Eskhátēs - First and Last (Chances are that I did butcher this one, I'm just trying my best here)

Mêkhanitis - Skilled in Inventing. As the one who provides a roof over everyone's heads, the gift to make buildings and homes to live in and dwell in. The one who shares the gift Hermes created with so many of us, and the means to avoid the harshest of storms and weather.

Sekos - Of the Courtyard, or Of Sanctuaries. A Sekos (plural: Sekoi) was a sacred enclosure, sanctuary, or cella in a temple.

Lā́ïnon - Made of Stone/Rock

Líthos - A Stone, or a large rock or stone block, used as a seat to a speaker's platform, especially in the Assembly or in the Athenian agora, where archons, arbitrators and certain witnesses swore oaths

Pyrônia - Of the Fire

Pyrphóros - Fire-Bringer or Fire-Bearer

Pyrkaeus - Fire-kindler

Polias - Of the City. Polioukhos - Protector of the City. Poliatis - Keeper of the City.

Anêsidôra - She who Sends Forth Gifts

Thermasia - Of Warmth, of Heat

Pronaia - Of the Fore-temple

Sources/Further Reading:

terpsikeraunos' tumblr

Theoi.com's epithets pages

gone-arai's Hestia info dump