#and i will be his most devout follower

[echo-of-damnation]

Love Me Loving You

Tags: Konrad CurzexFem!Reader, body worship, vaginal sex, fluff and smut, slow start, slight power play, possessive reader, biting, love marks, slightly subby Konrad, mention of impregnation

Summary: It was the first time in weeks you got Konrad to actually let his guard down and rest. Admittedly it was like trying to wrangle irritable raptors on their best days, but some how you managed. He demanded you keep awake while he slept “in case of an emergency,” but you both know nothing would be happening, the ship had been sailing through space for the last month and wouldn’t be contacting anything or anyone for another four.

Ooooooooooor Reader finally convinces Konrad to take a little time to relax and "relax" they do.

Echo's echo: This has partly inspired by a thing in saw here about Konrad needing someone to give him a little tender loving care and partly because I felt bad about what I did to him in my other fic. Bat Dad deserves some lovin' and I am here to provide it

Word Count: 4,436

It was the first time in weeks you got Konrad to actually let his guard down and rest. Admittedly it was like trying to wrangle irritable raptors on their best days, but some how you managed. He demanded you keep awake while he slept “in case of an emergency,” but you both know nothing would be happening, the ship had been sailing through space for the last month and wouldn’t be contacting anything or anyone for another four.

He had picked you up like you were a fussy child and sat you down against the headboard of his much too large bed. For someone known for his violent brutality, Konrad enjoyed the softest silk sheets and dozens of the fluffiest pillows the galaxy had. You knew the whole routine by now, it was rare, but you enjoyed these little moments of tenderness you could share with your beloved.

                While you moved one of the many pillows behind you to support your back, you watched as Konrad stripped from his armor. If it were any other baseline watching, they would only see the fearsome concentration that seemed to be permanently etched into his features, but you could see the sluggishness in his movements. The way he put the pieces on the table like they were aa touch too heavy for him, how he took a fraction of a second longer to unbuckle the straps around his waist, his eyelids seeming to threaten to close on him the longer he stood. Once he was out of it, he worked on putting on the loose tunic and pants you had sown for him from the softest linen one of the imperial planets had had.

Taking your eyes away to finish getting ready yourself, you leaned over to the small table you had him put in by the bed and pulled out the small bag of selfcare products you had brought for this journey. Opening it you pulled out a bottle of oil you had the apothecaries make to soothe his aching muscles and a different bottle of oil and a wooden wide toothed comb for his hair and scalp. Konrad rarely took proper care of himself, often going to bed in the same bloody underclothes for weeks on end, letting his long hair turn into the equivalent of a rats nest. The first few times after he picked you up from your home planet and allowed you to sleep in his bed with him, you thought you would die from the smell and the sickly sticky feeling his sheets left you in. No one ever fought the Night Haunter for fear of being killed, but you fought him on this. It was like pulling teeth until one day you told him you would not touch him until he did something about it all. To the surprise to everyone but you, Konrad conceded and began to at least shower and use clean clothes and sheets when you were here (which was starting to be more often).

With a loud huff, Konrad all but fell into the cloud soft bed, scooting himself until his head rested comfortably in your lap looking up at you. You had noticed he loved the plushness of your thighs, so you used them to your advantage in moments like this. Once he was settled, you could feel him sink into you as he closed his eyes and let out a content sigh. Looking down at him like this reminded you of how beautiful he was. Many people would and have called you crazy for agreeing to be his bride, but you knew Konrad better than anyone. Watching the tension melt away before your eyes as he finally let himself relax was almost heretical. Relaxed like this, he looked like a different man. Someone who never had to fight for his next meal as a child, who knew a warm bed and a homemade meal. The frown that seemed almost permanent fading away to plush lips, his tight cheeks loosening so that the small bit of fat he had there filled and rounded them.

Not being able to help yourself, you brought one of your hands to caress his cheek, feeling the warmth he radiated just under his skin. Konrad hummed low in his chest, leaning into your touch. You knew how much physical touch soothed him and you were more than willing to give him what he wanted, it was almost impossible for you to keep your hands off of him. “You are staring again, my love,” Konrad murmured as he took hold of the hand on his face, pulling you wrist to his lips to kiss you softly.

“Mm I guess I am. Can I be blamed when the most beautiful creature sits prettily in my lap?” you loved to tease him.

Huffing, Konrad nipped playfully at the pulse point on your wrist, “I know of no such beast.”

The two of you shared a moment, soft smiles sitting on your faces as you took your hand from his. Reaching over to the table you grabbed the oil for his muscles, pouring a generous amount in your hand. As you rubbed your hands together to warm the oil, Konrad readjusted himself to ensure you had full access of his upper body.

The smell of deep lavender filled the small space, easing the tension of both of your bodies just from the smell. Slowly you bring your hands to either side of his neck and begin to work the tight muscles. A low moan escaped his lips as you worked out the knots, pushing firmly with your thumbs down the length of his neck to where his shoulders met. His mouth falling open slightly as you continued to work in that junction where all of the stresses of his life seemed to make their home.

Content with your work once you feel the knots melt away, you begin working on his arms one at a time. Moving his right arm so you have better access, you start working at his shoulder, working the deltoid. You marveled at the strength that hid just under the skin, you could feel it as you massaged and caressed him. Even the scars that littered his body was magnificent, the visual memories of battles fought and won. They had an almost silvery sheen to them against his grey skin as if they were tattoos of the finest ink. Working your way down his arm and down his forearm, you picked up his hand to massage the small muscles there.

He always held things too tightly, either from frustration of the task or from the fear of failing, and it never failed to fatigue his hands. They were large and lean like the rest of him. You took care around the newest splits in his skin around his knuckles trying to keep the oil from them, but it was a fruitless attempt. A hiss made its way out of him as a small drop found its way in, sending a slight burn down his arm. You brought his hand to your mouth and gently licked at the burning knuckle, trying to soothe the pain. It wasn’t a conscious thought; your hands were both coated, and you needed to deal with the issue. A deep and low groan rumbled from his chest as you lapped at his knuckle. Peaking down at him, the pure unbridled want in his eyes sent a shock straight down to your groin. His black eyes watching every movement of your tongue.

Throne he is beautiful, you thought. Letting your body act on its own, you began to run your tongue up his thick finger savoring the flavor that was uniquely Konrad. His mouth fell open a little wider as you took his fingers in your mouth, a moan vibrating in your throat at the warmth and weight of them in your tongue. Looking back down you could see him struggle to keep his eyes from rolling to the back of his head. The thought of this monster from the nightmares of millions across the stars laying in your lap as you sucked off his finger made you giggle. Removing his hand from your mouth you playfully bit at the fat just under his thumb, earning you a hiss and a light thwack on your forehead.

“I was rather enjoying that before you rudely mauled me,” he grumbled, closing his eyes once more as you moved on to his other arm. “Oh, I can see just how much you enjoyed it, my love,” a blush coloring his pale cheeks at your teasing. You took more professional care on his other arm, making sure to work out the knots. Adjusting the pressure or location at the request of the man beneath you.

Placing his other arm down you reapplied more oil in your hands and started to work on his chest. Tucking your arms under the wide neck of the tunic he wore, you started with slow circles around his pecs paying close attention to the outer side of them. Because of the size of your ungrateful client, you had to bend over his face a bit. You didn’t think it was a problem until deep in concentration you felt teeth lightly graze the skin of your breast. Quickly leaning back up, you hadn’t realized that Konrad had been gently pulling and tearing at the neck of your shirt to free your breast.

With a slap to the face a tad harder than you anticipated, the hunger in Konrads eyes returned. “Now sweet thing, you know you can not tempt a blood hungry beast with a supple piece of meat,” a shit eating grin spreading across his face, “I was simply acting on…instinct.”

“Well, if this beast can not behave, then they can groom themselves,” you huffed as you crossed your arms against your chest to pout.

A low rumbling chuckled filled the room and unfortunately sending vibrations against your lower region. You tried to ignore it as you continued to pout as Konrad easily moved your arms away, bringing your wrists to his mouth and tenderly kissing each one. “I jest my love. Please continue, it feels so nice,” if you didn’t know better you could have almost said he was giving you puppy dog eyes to bolster his honeyed words.

“Fine but act out again and you can have Jago do the rest!” you said as you tried to hid a smile. You went to place your hands back under his shirt before he grabbed both of your wrists, “Perhaps you could do this from the other direction to…get a better angle.” You knew what the man under you was alluding to. You saw the way his nostrils had flared when his laugh hit your core and if you were going to be honest, it had been a while since you enjoyed something solid between your thighs.

“I’m only doing this to do a better job. No funny business, okay Mister,” you knew it was an empty threat, but you couldn’t let Konrad think he won this easily. “My honor as a Primarch in my Father’s Imperium permits me from any ‘funny business’,” you made to slap him again, but Konrad easily caught your wrist, running his tongue along the veins before placing a soft kiss on them. A shiver going straight down your spine with it all.

Konrad lifted himself from your thighs and in a practiced motion, picked you up and placed you on his stomach seeming to make good on his “no funny business” promise. He pulled off the tunic and moved the pillow you had been leaning against under his head. As you got comfortable straddling him, you knew he would be able to feel the warmth that radiated from your cunt.

After both of you were settled, you returned to your work massages his chest. Konrad let a sigh from his nose as he relaxed into the pillow and closed his eyes, placing his hands on each of your thighs. A slow pattern emerged as you work the muscles in his chest and on his sides, the warm oil allowing your hands to glide effortlessly across his skin. At this angle you were able to drink more of him in. More evidence of past wars sprinkled across his skin, some larger and darker from times that would have surely killed him if he were a mortal man. But he was not a mortal man, he was Konrad Curze the Primarch of the VIIIth legion. He was the Night Haunter from Nostramo. He was a weapon against the xenos and the heretics that threatened the Imperium of Man. He was yours.

Lost in your adoration for this man beneath you, the feeling of Konrad gently squeezing your thighs brought your mind back to the present. His eyes were still closed as you tended to him, if you didn’t know better you would have assumed he was asleep if not for the steady rising of his hands up your thighs. Deciding to play this game he was starting; you slowly brought your hands back to his pecs and flicked your thumbs across both of his nipples. He inhaled sharply through his nose but kept his eyes closed, his grip on your thighs tightening. Repeating the motion one more time, you felt his thumbs make their way to your crotch, applying gentle pressure at the fat just under the clothes you wore. You began to play with his nipples, rolling them between your thumb and forefinger, watching his face for any change. His jaw clenched as his breathing deepened, still keeping his eyes closed as if to focus on your hands.

Leaning forward you take one of his nipples in your mouth, lovingly taking it between your teeth to suckle at it as you pulled on the other with your hand. A groan vibrating through his body hitting you right in your aching cunt again causing you to involuntarily grind against his stomach. Catching this moment, Konrad moved his hands to the top of your thighs forcing your body to grind against him. The friction and pressure was delicious against you, a moan pouring from your mouth and against his chest.

In one quick motion, Konrad grabbed your chin and brought your mouth up to his, desperate to taste you. You grant him entry into your mouth, feeling his tongue fight for space against yours, licking every inch of your warm mouth. Putting his hand back on your thigh, he started to grope your ass as he continued to grind you against him. You brought your hands up to the base of his neck, it was much too large for you to do any damage but you both loved the attempt of taking power from him. You tightened your hands around his neck, earning a growl into your mouth as you did so. You could feel his core tighten up with his desperate thrusts up with his hips.

A sudden slap on your ass ripped a yelp from your throat that turned into a needy moan as the sudden pain melted into a pleasurable ache. Running your hands up his neck and into his hair, you pull his head up and to the side giving you full access to his pretty throat. Pulling away from the kiss you lick and nip your way down, savoring the flavor of his sweat mixing with the oil you had massaged into the skin. The pulse from his twin hearts slamming through his veins as you followed them with your tender kisses. Konrad shamelessly let out a moan at your loving attention as you left sweet love marks of bruises mixed with your teeth on his skin.

It was a decadent treat when you were allowed to take control and worship his body. Leaving reminders of your love and devotion across his skin for all to see. He was yours and you were his and while all knew not to touch you just by the mere knowledge that you were Konrad’s, you always felt the need to stake your claim on him. To show to the universe that you and you alone were granted access to him in his most vulnerable and animalistic state.

The sound of ripping fabric and cool air kissing your ass brought you back from your thoughts of needing to mark the ethereal creature between your legs. You could feel the spot of wetness you had made against him and now with the loss of any barrier you could relish in the feeling of your cunt slide against him. Konrad gently pushed you away from his neck. You were blessed with the sight of his abused lips and neck, tightening the hot coil in your core. You could never get tired of this sight of his swollen lips and bruised neck. Konrad looked up at you, want clear in his eyes, as he brought his hand up to your shirt.

You leaned back with your hands bracing behind you, as you both maintained eye contact as he slowly ripped your shirt the rest of the way open. Throwing the shredded scraps away to join wherever he threw the pieces of your pants. Like a man worshiping, he ran his large rough hands up and down your sides, needing to feel every inch of you. Bringing his hands to squeeze as the soft fat of your waist and belly, you knew he was imagining you full and pregnant with his sons. You knew because it was the same thing you always thought of when he played with your belly.

Running his hands back up your body, he cupped your breasts in his hands and groped them roughly. You pushed your chest into his hands, letting your head fall back as you melted into his touch. His rough palms scratching deliciously against your hard nipples adding to the wonderful sensations. Konrad sat up then, paying back the attention you gave to him and took your nipple into his mouth. Sucking, biting, and pulling it as if he were a suckling babe trying to draw milk from you, you brought your hands up to hold his head against your breast. Forcing him to stay there as you went back to humping against him, covering him in your arousal.

You knew you were being loud; the walls may be made of metal, but they could have been made of paper with how they allowed your moans echo through the halls of the ship. In a frustrated moment, Konrad ripped his own pants off, freeing his hard and leaking cock. You could feel it bump against your ass as he tried but failed to keep from humping the air. Shoving your hands back into his hair, you took fistfuls in each hand and pulled him away from your nipple, a salacious pop echoing around the room.

You kissed him lovingly this time, melting against his as your arms wrapped around his neck as Konrad wrapped his around your middle. You both stayed like that for some time, tasting each other, feeling your bodies molding against each other. You were in love, and you made sure that with every swipe of your tongue, every kiss, every breathy moan, you showed him. Slowly, Konrad leaned back into the bed, never breaking your kiss.

After a few more loving kisses, you pulled yourself away, a needy whine from Konrad chasing you. “My love. My moon and my stars. No other in the galaxy could ever match the fire in my heart that burns for you,” a blush spreading from his cheeks down to his chest. You moved yourself down his body, lifting yourself over his aching heat. “I had dreamt of the day that I would hold a man like you in my arms,” you positioned his length against your equally aching hole, “and now, I have you.” Konrad threw one of his arms over his eyes, he was never good at taking your compliments and adoration. “My love, please, I want to see you,” you slowly rubbed his tip against your opening, not wanting to take him just yet.

After what felt like eons, Konrad removed his arm and looked at you through eyelashes. The blush tickling his ears, giving him a youthful glow. Once you knew you had his whole attention you began to sink down his length. “I love you,” you breathed out as you felt yourself stretch around him, fighting to keep your eyes from closing as you did. Konrad’s jaw fell open as he moaned, watching you slowly take him in inch by inch. You could feel his heat inside of you and you chased that feeling. You filled yourself full of him, needing him deep within you. Just as it seemed that you could take no more, your body kissed his. The feeling of being this stretched and this full shook you to your core.

Konrad, finally able to move again, brought his hands made to your hips. Lovingly rubbing little circles against your skin with his thumbs. A softness crossed his face and filled his dark eyes, “I love you more.” A needy whine ripped from your throat as you let his words sink into you, filling you up in a way that carnal pleasures never could. Slowly, painfully slowly, you raised yourself up, feeling each bump and vein. You pulled yourself up just enough to feel the ridge of his cock head reach the opening of your dripping cunt and stayed there a moment too long for Konrad’s apparent liking.

Tightening his grips around your hips, enough so that you knew you would have beautiful bruises in the shape of his hands, he forced you back down on him, snapping his hips up to meet your halfway. The sudden fullness had you seeing stars. You relinquished your play on power and let Konrad take back control. He roughly began to fuck into you, desperate to feel more of your wet heat wrap around him. Each forceful push of his hips knocked the breath out of you, causing your moans to have obvious little breaks in time with his thrusts.

Your first orgasm blew through you, Konrad’s rough pace sending you well over the edge. You could feel yourself tighten around him, trying to pull him in and keep him there inside of you forever. You knew he could feel it too from the way he pulled you back down and held you there with a hiss, trying to keep you from moving too much on him to keep himself from cumming too soon.

He let you come down from your high, rubbing your thighs and your hips and belly. Once you caught your breath, you leaned back bracing your hands on his strong legs. You started to fuck yourself on his cock again, wanting to chase your orgasm with another one. Like this you, Konrad hit just you in the right place deep inside of you. Looking at Konrad, you noticed that all he was focused on was watching your wet cunt swallow his cock whole. The realization of him watching you so shamelessly fucking yourself on him scrambled your brain once again, throwing your head back with a load moan. You could feel Konrad’s legs tense under your hands and his cock feeling like it was getting ever so slightly harder. He was close and you were right there with him.

“Konrad! AH- please! So close!” was all you could get out, but your love understood you without question. Resting one large hand on your lower belly, he started to rub tight and fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your moans bordering on screams with the added stimulation. Konrad’s desperate grunts filling your ears, “I love you. FUCK I love you so much. SO good. Mine. All mine.” You came a second time, harder with his confession of love for you. Slamming your hips down on him one more time to grind against him to bring him over the edge with you, Konrad roared as he filled you with his seed. The warmth of it sending you straight into another orgasm. You could feel yourself bulge a little from the sheer amount of cum filling inside you.

Konrad kept his hand on your lower belly feeling it slightly swell and you brought your hand to rest it on top of his. The sight of you holding his hand against you as if you were heavy with his child, milked him of the last drop of cum in his body and his he was trying to make this vision a reality.

You two stayed like that for a moment, looking lovingly into each other’s eyes in your shared post orgasmic bliss. Feeling the exhaustion finally hit your bones, you fell forward into Konrad’s chest. Listening to his twin hearts just underneath try to settle. “My love, the sun in my sky,” Konrad murmured into the top of your head as he ran a hand up and down your back. You hummed back, too tired to even speak. You felt Konrad gently pulling himself out of you, the emptiness causing you to whine. “Shh my sweet. I must clean our mess,” was all you heard before you felt him pick you up and carry you to the adjoining bath.

Konrad quickly washed you both off, being careful around your abused hole to try not to overstimulate you. Once done he wrapped you in one of his plush towels. It was so big it almost swallowed you whole. Picking you back up he brought you back to your shared bed, now with clean sheets. A serf must have been waiting for the end to change them, that thought sent a blush from ear to ear. Thankful for the towel engulfing you because you knew you wouldn’t hear the end of it from Konrad teasing you.

Once in bed, Konrad arranged you both so that he curled around you, his head resting on your chest, sighing as he listened to your heartrate slowly readying for sleep. Humming, you brought your arms around him to hold his head closer. The only sound in the room was your breathing. Floating into sleep, warmed by his body around yours, the last thing you heard before falling completely was something so soft you couldn’t tell if it was for you or just the start of a dream, “My greatest treasure, my happiest moment. I love you forever and always.”

[maigetheplatypus57]

hey. hey.

Evbo. Seawatt. Emf.

Jesus. Judas. Peter.

[wowsillies]

I WISH Jorge had referenced the part of Luck Runs Out where Odysseus tells Eurylochus to be quiet because I feel like that’s an element missing from a lot of Eurylochus interpretations.

“I need you to always be devout and comply with this /Or we'll all die in this” is important because Eurylochus fails to do it by questioning Odysseus’ words (the bag is NOT treasure, it’s storm) and opening the wind bag and his actions lead directly to the facilitation of the death of most of the crew. I hesitate to say he’s to blame because, well, Poseidon is taking revenge due to Odysseus’ decision, but Eurylochus handed him means and perfect opportunity to do it.

So, after that, Eurylochus obeys everything Odysseus says to do. He takes men to explore Circe’s island. He stays put instead of running when Odysseus goes to rescue him. He follows intl the Underworld despite the fact that “hey this witch is helping us now by sending us to death’s realm, this is definitely not a trick” probably raised some questions. He doesn’t (or at least we don’t see) stray or talk to the souls in the Underworld even though Odysseus ends up doing it. He traps and kills the sirens.

He lights and gives out six torches.

So, if devotion to Odysseus wasn’t enough to save them? If Odysseusnis now using that devotion and trust to get them killed as long as he gets to make it home to his wife? What is he meant to do now?

Eurylochus doesn’t sound… fully there, during the second half of Mutiny. Whether there was divine intervention pushing him or madness or simply the pain of it all, he’s not acting rationally. He just saw six of his trusted men brutally murdered, asks Odysseus to lie and say it was a trick, and can’t even kill him when the truth comes out. Odysseus’ wounds are bandaged! (I’m not sure that he doesn’t actually know where Helios’ statue is from btw, both due to the melody and bc it seems outrageous)

We’re all talking about Odysseus pleading for Eurylochus to stop before killing the cows, but Eurylochus is pleading too. He asks how much longer is he expected to suffer, to push through doubt, to follow the orders. And Odysseus’ first plea is “I need to get home” (later “we can get home”). Let’s not forget Odysseus is selfish and Eurylochus knows that, maybe even loves that, but he’s not just hungry, he’s tired.

When Polites gets the location of the sheep cave from the lotus eaters and takes the men to it, he leads several of them to death and himself to his doom. When Eurylochus stumbles upon the cows, does he remember that? Does he deliberately invoke it?

Killing the cows isn’t about the hunger, not really. It’s about the devotion that was asked of him, the price he paid to learn that lesson, and the pain that silence put him through anyway.

[angelltheninth]

Sukuna Makes You Pray For Him to Make You Pregnant

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, begging, religious themes, dirty talk, creampie, breeding kink, dom/sub dynamics, clit stimulation, god!Sukuna

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Sometimes I wonder where these ideas come from. I wish I could understand my own thought process.

One of the only times Sukuna let you be on top was when he made you pray to him. He didn't exactly need an ego boost but it also couldn't hurt. He grinned like a maniac as he watched you ride his cock as the second one rubbed against your already sensitive clit every time you moved up and down.

His smacked his other set of hands against your ass, laughing out loud when you gasped at the stinging sensation. "Knew you had it in you to be a slut. All you needed was a little encouragement isn't it, doll? Does it feel good to finally let your desires out, with no judgement'?"

You nodded, your eyes missty with lust. You wanted to brace yourself against his chest but he ordered you to keep your hands together in prayer. "Yes, thank you for... allowing me to... feel good."

Sukuna pushed you down on his cock and made you stay there, your hips fighting against his firm grip. "You're such a devout follower. One of the cutest I've had too, you've earned a reward." The promise of a reward and your God's praise made your body flood with happiness and excitement.

"A reward?" Curious, you looked at him, half-expecting him to joke about it instead. Sukuna wasn't the most generous God, but he was the most dangerous and possessive. You suspected his reward would be for his benefit as well.

A grin stretched across his face, his eyes shining red, "My seed in your womb, my child growing inside of you. A reward fitting for one such as you."

Your pussy immediately tightened around his cock. "You want to... have kids with me, my Lord?"

"I've had many kids over the centuries, I think it's time to add one more, or a few more, if you're willing." His hands moved up and down your thighs, squeezing, enjoying the warmth and the softness. Without a word you sat back up and started moving again, "That didn't take long. Knew you'd go for it. Go ahead, pray for it. Beg for me to seed your womb, for me to shoot my cum into you!"

Your hands shook as you struggled to keep them together, as he wanted, as he demanded. "Please. Please, give me the honor of carrying your baby. My Lord, I want to... I want your cum, I want your cock to make me pregnant! Sukuna!"

"Atta girl! That's my most devoted slut! I'll fill you with so much cum! Night after night, I'll fucking breed you till morning and more, as long as you're faithful and devoted to me! I'll cherish you. Fuck so much of my seed into you that your pussy's filled to the brim with it!" Both of Sukuna's cocks stiffened and shot out thick jets of cum, one painting your inner walls and womb, the other marking your breast and your stomach, both evidence of your God's hold over you.

[yv0nn1e]

"'cause i don't feel alive 'til i'm burnin' on your backburner."

backburner — rafayel

summary: in every life, in every timeline, the god of the sea is doomed to sacrifice everything for his beloved, angering the deep sea, and causing lemuria to fall. in every timeline, the sea god's most dedicated follower cannot stop that from happening.

pairing: rafayel x (non!mc) fem!reader

cw/tw: pure angst? and blurry timeline & lore (heavily implied relation to myths and anecdotes from the game, but will have some non-canon twists of my own)

note: have i been gone for 2 years only to come back to write a gut wrenching thought i can't contain anymore about my beloved fishboy? yes.

wc: 2k+

thinking about non!mc reader who can see and remember every timeline she has ever been in. with those timelines being intertwined with lemuria and the sea god, rafayel, her beloved but not his.

non!mc reader starting in the forgotten sea timeline as a lemurian herself whose family is closely associated with the sea god, rafayel. when young, she finds herself unexplainably infatuated with an adolescent version of rafayel himself and his aura. he was just so mischievous and cheeky in a way that it made her admire his bravery and eagerness to just explore the world. she becomes close friends with him and eventually, she realizes the underlying danger she has put herself into.

"when lemurians fall in love with someone, all our senses are committed to perceive them."

at first, she found it sweet. cute even. she adored rafayel. even if she had no oath or celestial bond that bounds her to follow anything rafayel asks, she knows it deep down that she will still obey and do whatever he wants. rafayel, ever so kind, kept her near and considered her as one of the closest companions he's ever had in such a large yet lonely position as the next sea god. their bond was somehow intimate—with her keeping rafayel stable whenever the pressure of lemuria's expectations get to him and rafayel accepting her for who she is whole-heartedly. every flaw, every freckle, and every scale in her body and soul that he could see, he could understand.

but then one faithful day, years after their younger selves have formed their close friendship, a loyal group of humans who simply idolized the god of the sea set out to offer a sacrifice to rafayel. unknowingly, when their mission goes south due to a storm, this sacrifice of theirs manages to escape and unknowingly meet the sea god himself, asking if he were lemurian and for him to help her, only to get teasing from rafayel in response. then everything happens so quickly with a kiss that sets off the mark of their oath. to the girl, mc, it may seem as though she was just trying to survive since legends held tales of a lemurian's kiss blessing one with the ability of breathing underwater. yet to non!mc reader and rafayel, they knew that it was something much deeper. something binding. sooner, the sea god then chooses mc to become his 'devout follower', failing to see that there was already one who was so willing to be in that position. with that, non!mc reader realizes she's already lost rafayel, her beloved. their ever so holy tome (tome of the sea god) states the everlasting bond that the sea god has when he has chosen his devout follower—meaning, he is bound to that very person. every command and ask must never be disobeyed or rejected; otherwise, the bond breaks.

and non!mc reader's heart breaks, especially with that girl down in lemuria and the sea god's ceremony approaching where the sea god, rafayel, and his devout follower exchange vows. jealousy was an understatement. whilst all of lemuria await in excitement, she wallows in the truth that rafayel has undoubtedly chosen mc as his beloved and his bride. before the ceremony, rafayel meets non!mc reader one last time, jokingly teasing her to not worry for he won't forsake his friendship with her which only earns him a soft chuckle and a hidden pained smile. he then thanks her for all those years he stuck by her side, that he could not have gone past the challenges and hurdles of his training and his pursuits if not for her. 

"you mustn't forget to bestow us your utmost protection when you ascend to a higher level of godhood." she jests, trying to make light of the situation and distract herself with some light banter than she hopes might just change his mind and choose her to become his devout follower instead. 

rafayel could not promise her that. with the slight shift of his eyes, flickering a hint of guilt, non!mc reader supposes that she knew that too.

"to love you is a privilege." that i do not have. non!mc reader says to rafayel with a soft smile, her eyes calm yet hurt, somehow helpless too. she is unsure of what he plans to do but something within their conversation told her that perhaps, it would've been the last.

and it was.

outside the temple of lemuria, the civilization starts to shake and crumble. the lemurians run with panic, wondering what could have made the deep sea enraged on such a momentous occasion. as bloodshed stained the waters of the city, non!mc reader stood amidst the chaos, shutting her eyes in disappointment and regret that she could not have stopped rafayel from whatever he was planning to do. that she could not stop rafayel from giving his heart away to his beloved costing him lemuria and his most treasured friend.

non!mc reader remembering her life during the sea of golden sands timeline where she is a guide with abysswalker!rafayel. in this timeline, they strive hard to find a way to restore lemuria and when they find out that the princess of philos has what they need to achieve that, she insists on coming with rafayel to visit her, only for rafayel to refuse. 

she warns rafayel that it's dangerous. that he was already caught once when he was younger. that he was lucky for the princess to be kind enough to let him go. rafayel reassures her by telling him what happened that faithful day when rafayel was gifted to the princess of philos. he told her that one day, he'll come back for her. 

non!mc reader knew that rafayel would only be captured if he wanted to. meaning that he purposely wants to be caught just to see the princess. then it hits her. the princess of philos was the same girl who became the sea god's devout follower in another life. she doesn't know how or why she knows this kind of information but something in her just recognizes the emotional and literal agonizing pain of lemuria falling and her heart being torn to shreds. she then sets out a theory that she may have gained the ability to see her past lives. 

non!mc reader only finds herself becoming angry when rafayel brings the princess to the sand ruins, telling her his plans of reviving their homeland, lemuria. it angers her even more when the princess mentions dreams of the strangely familiar land. that's when she confirms that the princess was indeed rafayel's devout follower. when the princess regains her past memories after the tome reveals the symbols that stated the god of the sea killing his beloved to awaken the seas, non!mc reader knows that she's lost rafayel in this lifetime again. with much love for lemuria, she tries to set rafayel back to the right track, ignoring the fact that the princess was rafayel's beloved and convincing him to just take her heart already and revive lemuria. the princess then wished to return rafayel's heart after it is revealed that in the past life, during the ceremony of the sea god, rafayel had given his heart to mc instead of the other way around. this revelation lights fury within non!mc reader due to the clouding judgement that lemuria had fallen underneath its own god's sacrifice, seeing it as an act of betrayal on rafayel's part. yet, she said nothing. she said nothing even when rafayel refuses to take the princess' heart, even resorting to erasing her memories so that she'd forget this encounter. 

"you are such a paradox, rafayel." she says with underlying venom under her voice as she sits down on a dusty rock. "you wish to revive lemuria and yet you cannot make the one true sacrifice you need to do so."

"perhaps there are other ways." rafayel gently yet assertively says.

"perhaps." she responds which may seem polite and complacent enough, yet anyone with delicate ears can definitely dissect the mockery in her voice.

days later, as their crew prepares to leave, non!mc reader notices the light glow of the fishtail beacon rafayel carries with him. with amund questioning whether or not rafayel and the princess' bond was truly even broken, non!mc reader silently scoffs in irritation, especially when the princess somehow just arrives in their hideout. despite the anger she had for rafayel, her heart gets deja vu with the way the princess declares her wish to follow rafayel wherever he goes, as if swearing she'll be his devout follower in this life too. 

non!mc reader who swears she will not fall for rafayel in the next timeline she falls into when rafayel manages to put her life in death's door on this universe once more.

non!mc reader in the current timeline who, after the tsunami that revealed the reappearance of lemuria southeast of linkon, leaves the sea. leaves rafayel. leaves lemuria and her mermaid form to pursue becoming an actress on land, proceeding to be one of the most popular actresses as rafayel travels around the world, becoming a well-renowned painter who took revenge for those who wronged lemuria and his people on his own, secret ways.

non!mc reader whose heart stops on a windy day, with the sun setting and the waves of linkon city's beaches were playful once she sees rafayel walking towards her with a cheerful smirk. 

"it's been a while. if i didn't know better, i'd think you were avoiding me all this time." rafayel teases to which she shakes her head to ground her thoughts.

"if only i could truly avoid you." she responds with a well-practiced smile, feigning a friendly banter that long calls back to their very first timeline. 

"have you been well?" at this point, rafayel invites her to walk along the shores of linkon city, catching up on the years they've been apart. she could not deny it no matter how much she tries. she was fated to always be next to rafayel.

perhaps, it was also destiny's fault that she inevitably falls for him in every one of her lives.  

"i couldn't be happier." she lies. after the multiple lives she's lived, hiding her true feelings for the man, she's learned the skill of lying so swiftly as if she were actually uttering what she convinces herself was the truth. perhaps that was why she had grown to obtain a penchant for acting.

because in every universe, she has had to act as though she was not broken by the fact that she was undeniably in love with a man who was forever bounded to his beloved.

non!mc reader who foolishly accepts rafayel back into her life when he mentions that he's staying in linkon, even though something in her already knew that he was there for a reason. even though she long realized that rafayel agreed to also leave lemuria to travel the world only to search for his devout follower, his bride, his soulmate.

non!mc reader who is no longer surprised when rafayel introduces his new bodyguard, a young woman with a heart condition. she could only smile at the girl, knowing that rafayel, has once again, found her. that, once again, destiny has shoved it in her face that she was only meant to yearn for rafayel's love, forever by the sidelines.

a celebratory party was held for yn when she just reached a greater height for her acting career. she finds herself walking the shores of linkon at night in her velvet blue dress, the mermaid cut of the skirt softly brushing against the white sands. she adores the warmth of the yellow string lights within the trees and posts, engulfing herself in the solitude and respite she needed. truth be told, despite her love for her career, one of the main reasons she even pursued the thing was to distract herself from the impending doom and painful fate she was destined to go through, like in every timeline she was ever in. to be killed under her own deity's hands. 

"i never took you to be such a loner." a familiar voice takes her out of her trance, eyes shifting from the whispered waves of the beach and towards rafayel.

"just thanking home, i suppose." she responds elegantly, head tilting a bit to point to the ocean.

there was an awkward silence when she turns her body away from rafayel, her back facing him as she hugs herself to give some warmth from the cold brush of the sea breeze. 

"afraid to get in the water?" rafayel gently teases as he walks closer to her, arms already taking off his dark blue blazer, not even giving her a chance to react as he wraps the garment around her shoulders.

taken back, she tilts her head to look at him, eyes slightly wider than normal but not enough to show shock. 

"you looked like a cold fish." rafayel points out, justifying his actions. 

for a moment, she takes rafayel in once more. it's been so long that she's avoided true connection with him to lessen the pain she would have to endure in this timeline. he seemed the same. different yet the same. his purple hair softly brushing against his forehead, bringing out the multiple hues within his eyes, and the glint of different colors making up his skin under the glow of the moon. 

the longer she looks at him, the more she remembers every life she had suffered because of him. 

destiny is far too cruel with fate to let her fall in love with him over and over again.

destiny and fate be damned.

"i love you, rafayel." she didn't expect her voice to quiver but as soon as those words slipped past her lips, her eyes blinked with crystalline waters pooling above them, almost teasing their fall.

"i wish i didn't, but i can't help but fall for you in every life i can remember." rafayel, still taken back with what she said could only stand there.

"i don't know if you can remember but i certainly do, as if they were just memories of yesterday." biting her lips, she lets out a heavy breathe, letting the weight of centuries of pain after every timeline and every life go. "and i am most definitely tired of having to endure those lives standing by your side and keeping quiet of what i truly feel."

"i love you, rafayel, and words can not begin to describe the longing that my heart must go through just by standing next to you. i can not continue moving on from one life to another and pretend as though my heart does not beat for you. as though i am not ready to carve it out and serve it to you if that's what it took to open your eyes. it pains me, so to know that i am destined to a sad ending of being alone, without you. but perhaps, it's high time i fight against it."

non!mc reader who fails, falling in love for rafayel in this life and realizing that she will keep falling for him in every other one that may come.

"destiny had always been my biggest enemy, with you as my greatest regret."

[acid-ixx]

I hope you don’t mind but I need to ramble this to someone, neglected Wayne reader right? The fam would forget to bring them to social events and whatnot right? So there would be very few pictures, articles and interviews or even facts about them, meaning that reader Wayne is a rarity. Still following me? Reader Wayne with a small but devout fanbase.

I’m talking they are trading the latest pictures and sharing links to the rare interview with reader in it, following any social media they have that isn’t private, they are just fascinated by this micro celebrity that seems to always be forgotten. Okay but also imagine one of the heroes developing a para-social attachment to reader. My money is on Conner Kent, mainly bc he can project his own issues with his dads onto reader and he can Dolores ~Encanto~ reader with his super hearing and develop a even bigger parasocial obsession with them

I hope you enjoyed this ramble, I will leave you be now, see ya later alligator! 🐊

omg another one of my asks that actually predicted a major plot point... this ask ties well with the last part written here. i'm thinking about having the reader get a love interest/s but i have already written an outline but one thing is for sure—

you have more than just your family interested in taking you.

major spoilers below the cut. — an excerpt from chapter xx

(name) wayne may have been a name forcefully deleted off of the face of the internet, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have its conspiracies of its own. nobody knows who you are beyond the blurry, unsolicited pictures of you. it may have been a photograph of your back, or articles published in unknown websites and buried at the far end about a kid entering through the fancy gates of the wayne manor.

you are a product of a one-night-stand.

but they don't know who the mother is, don't know your age, or where you come from, and what business bruce has with the woman to guarantee your adoption at the instance she had disappeared without warning.

your existence was a mystery most would like to solve. after all, it was your picture that was plastered all over the newspapers and articles, it was your name that journalists whisper and it was a silhouette of your face that the underground knows by heart. every known information about you was shared discretely yet efficiently like some sort of virus.

you were a target for interest, a large sum of money if they will. and alfred had taken it in his hands to make sure there would never be a repeat of what had happened before.

it was a clumsy mistake, one that cost you your memories, and one he swears on his life he'll never make again.

the first course of action he needs to arrange, which may seem difficult for most; he needs to confront bruce.

after all, your freedom is your doom.

maybe this is out of the picture, but id' like to imagine you and connor having a therapy session where one comes out absolutely obsessed with the other, and it's not you.

connor's character for me is so, so good for an angst potential. it's like his personal struggles is a way for him to show you how absolutely you two are meant to be. and he may have met you through bumping into you (false) or maybe... he has seen you stalking through the shadows back when he visits the manor. using his superhearing, he can hear your voice from the kitchen begging alfred to relay a message to bruce, sounding so absolutely desperate. it's the way you tell alfred how you wished your father actually spends time with you, or how nobody seems to notice you— that he kind of just makes a silent promise that he will talk to you soon, he needs to know why this family seems so keen on ignoring and how hypocritical tim is for literally doing the same thing to you when he's aware of kon's past.

if he (or anyone else) should be a love interest (though he is a minor character in the series unless you guys want him to be a major one), i can already imagine the absolute hell you have to suffer not only from your family but from your own lover. just imagine the stockholm syndrome or the delusions you convince yourself with because you're finally loved by someone but that love restricts you from the very freedom you tried to build.

the batfamily would be so conflicted because why are you choosing some stranger over them...? then you slap them in the face with, "well, this "stranger" wants to kidnap me and lock me up, sure! but at least they actually looked at me for more than five seconds!" and you can watch how the color drains off their face, their conflict giving you the perfect opportunity to run away from both your ex-family and your soon-to-be-kidnapper-lover who thinks your comeback is a funny way for you to propose.

[ozzgin]

I really hope you continue the eldrich God story. I may or may not have become obsessed with the idea, and i think it's actually really funny and I also just love the idea of a God being in love with a human.

Also, I love your writing and art! I hope you're doing well!

Yandere! Eldritch God x Detective! Reader

Based on this prompt and this meme. You're sent to a remote island to investigate a string of murders, and end up with a horde of cultists and their Lovecraftian God who is very much obsessed with you. Don't worry, he just wants to help you with your case!

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, tentacle tomfoolery again

[More Monsters]

The island checks all the boxes for a stereotypical shady place: the grimy boat captain who talks in riddles and vague warnings, the constant fog, the tavern filled with rumors and fears, the bizarre statue of a creature with tentacles. You were expecting most of it, save for their patron God being a literal monster.

Soon after your arrival, you discover that you’re being followed by men in dark robes. Could it be related to your case? A little alcohol-aided interrogation, and the locals confess to you about the existence of a cult. The dots begin to connect.

Unfortunately for you, whatever theory is cooking up in your mind couldn’t be further from the truth. The patron Beast of the land has been watching you from the moment of your arrival. He’s rather intrigued by your nonchalant city attitude, your stubbornness, your lack of any sense of danger. Thus he demands that you’re brought to his lair.

A game of cat and mouse. You are now convinced this said cult is responsible for the murders, so you delve deeper into their secrets. At the same time, the men put all their efforts into chasing you down. The Lord's wishes are their command; for how long can you outsmart sheer numbers?

At last, they succeed. You’re dragged over, cocooned in thick rope. “My Lord, we’ve brought you the sacrifice”, one cultist proclaims victoriously. Sacrifice? The ancient creature gazes at the men with utmost confusion. He frees you from your restraints with a mere point of his tentacle appendage, and proceeds to lecture his devout following for treating his special guest with such shameful brutality. Everyone blinks in disbelief, you included.

What the hell is this, some beastly romcom? Once everything is cleared up, you dust your knees, stand up unceremoniously, and tell the cosmic deity you’ve no time for idle gossip. “There’s a criminal running free and it’s my task to stop it”, you bark. Aha, that’s the very same attitude that got his nebulous heart pumping with curious desire. He cannot explain the maddening interest he’s taken into you. The monster releases a monotonous hum, causing you to jolt in surprise. The cult leader gasps. “He…he wants to help you solve the case”, the man concludes, defeat in his voice.

“Does it have to be all of you?” You whine, clicking your tongue at the sight. It’s the morning after the godly encounter, and you’re greeted outside your room by the cult leaders and their monster. “I can’t be discreet with a dozen monks after me. Not to mention…” your eyebrows furrow. “What on Earth is he wearing? Is that a detective hat and a mustache? Are you mocking my job?” You demand, glaring at the eldritch beast and his ridiculous disguise.

“Excuse me, I’ll have to ask you to quiet down”, an employee suddenly interrupts. “You and the gentlemen over there.” You stare at him incredulously. Can he really not see he’s facing an enormous, tentacle monstrosity? You swear you can discern a grin forming across the creature’s amorphous, unholy features. Alright, you’ve been convinced. What now?

As a child, Sherlock Holmes was one of your favorite books. You'd flip through the pages and daydream about your own future as a detective, though your little fantasies never included Watson as a cursed entity of a thousand tentacles. The eldritch creature seems to be more interested in you than the case itself. Eyes always fixated on your movements, tendrils creeping around you, never leaving your proximity.

Why would he need to look elsewhere? He can already tell how things will unfold. He is, after all, the God of this land. He knew your wanted culprit had been hiding in a sealed room right under your nose, as you dusted for footprints and scribbled hurried notes. He knew the underground tunnel had deadly traps, which would have normally put your investigation to a swift end. "Kind of suspicious to leave his trail unguarded like this", you mumble in deep thought. The cosmic God smiles.

He wouldn't dare ruin your fun. Consequently, he only interferes when your safety is involved. As annoyed as he is by the criminal's persistent attempts to kill you, he doesn't want to steal your grand capture. Besides, he is very much content with the current circumstances.

As the two of you follow along the dark passageway, you clear your throat, lips pursed awkwardly. "Uh...Thank you for dealing with the obstacles", you finally say. The monster pretends to ponder your words. "Hey now, don't play dumb with me. The conveniently deactivated bombs? The mutilated guards clumsily stuffed behind the door? I am a detective, after all."

You feel a thick tendril wrapping around your arm, and you turn to glance at the creature. His eyes of spiraling depths regard you intensely. A voice suddenly echoes in your head; is he trying to communicate with you? Deep, resounding, and imposing. "I am looking forward to our next case."

"Next case? Sorry pal, I work alone-" your throat clenches involuntarily. Somehow, your innards are flooded with a particular kind of certainty, dictating an ironclad truth: you do not have the option to refuse. You sigh, exasperated. "Fine! Have it your way. At least skip the fake mustache", you beg, then pause. You slap a second tentacle that has made its way under your shirt. "And avoid groping me when I'm thinking. You interrupt the little gray cells at work." You tap your temple to prove your point, and the eldritch God bows lightly. Of course.

He'll refrain himself until you're off work, Detective.

[pinkmirth]

KEEPER!

SYNOPSIS! ⸻ you’ve fallen for your darling bodyguard, and you’re over the moon to discover that he feels the same. but this feels borderline forbidden . . . for just how long can you keep what you have with reiner under wraps?

CONTAINS⸻ ( 5k+ words of . . . ) bodyguard!reiner x fem!reader (black coded), fluff, nsfw, modern au, scion!reader (descending from a rich family/influential bloodline), hyperfeminine ‘girly-girl’ reader, reiner’s german, mutual pining, secret relationship / sneaky link, public display of affection (pda), food play, car sex (unprotected), slight dacryphilia, creampie, use of pet names ( e.g. mama, baby, honey, princess), reader calls reiner ‘ papa, ’ explicit language, lowercase intended, minors shoo!

MY LOVE LETTER! ⸻ this post is an answer to an anonymous ask: ‘ what about secret dates (turned sneaky links) with body guard! reiner??? ’ oh. my. goodness! nonnie, you’re a sexy genius and you should know it. tagging the amazing @ramonathinks! she’s the one who even introduced this bodyguard!rei-rei concept to me, and for that i’m so grateful :) ramona my love, thank you again for all the delicious reiner thoughts you always send my way! now enjoy, xoxo ♡︎

reiner’s your bulking shadow, never trailing too far behind.

he’s been hired by your parents to ensure your safety. nothing more, nothing less. he’ll follow your every step and drive you wherever you please; after all, it’s what he’s paid to do.

things started off the way they should— professional. from the very beginning, reiner knew to keep his distance, and that he did. but he soon realized just how hard that would become . . . you’re effortlessly gorgeous, sharp with your words and caring to a fault. his growing affection was only a matter of time.

nowhere on the criteria for the job does it say that he should be developing feelings. observing your habits, committing them to memory and predicting your behavior is the only thing he’s got any business doing. yet, he loves to feel the softness of your palm in his hand when he helps you into the backseat of your car, even if the contact is just for a split second at most. he finds himself peeking glances at you from the rearview mirror, soaking in how pretty you look when you’re unaware of his gaze. in truth, reiner wishes you didn’t have such an effect on him; that would make work-life much easier on his poor soul. well, love isn’t known for being simple, now is it?

it takes about four weeks on the job for him to grow a soft spot for you. reiner’s always been a hopeless romantic, oh-so quick to fall. he’d willingly lay down his life for the sake of your own, and not just because he’s getting a paycheck for it. thanks to the job description, his devoutness isn’t questioned.

before long, reiner can tell you’re becoming attached to him as well. on a fateful night, he even overhears the phone call between you and your friend, something about ‘ mister braun being so sexy that it hurts . . . ’ your bodyguard is nothing if not a man of dignity. he never meant to eavesdrop! it’s just that he's stationed outside your room for night patrol. he’s now especially glad about being up at five in the morning; he wouldn’t have been able to hear this otherwise. your confessions pry a subtle grin from his lips. there he stands, smiling to himself in the dimly lit hallway where nobody can see him blush like a schoolboy.

‘ nuh-uh, i can’t! that man works for my parents . . . he’s completely off-limits. it's a damn shame, isn’t it? ’ you release a sigh, one so exasperated that he can hear it through the other end of the door. call reiner crazy, but it sounds to him like you’re yearning to have him all to yourself. in a sudden moment, you're emerging from the room, donned in a tiny pink nightgown. cute, but thin as fuck. leaves nothing to the imagination, even. it’s the flimsiest thing he's ever seen you wear.

reiner’s cheeks burn so red that is downright embarrassing, thankfully you're unable to see him. he’s quick to lift his head and look towards the ceiling instead— much more suitable than ogling the tits of his very own client. you wouldn’t be able to catch him staring regardless, considering how the entire corridor’s tainted with darkness, but he wouldn’t dare try to steal a peek anyway.

what he can see, though, is your leisurely smile as you tell him you’re headed to the kitchen to grab a cool glass of water.

“would you like to escort me there too, mister braun? or can i go do something by myself for once?”

you’re playing with him, he realizes. just mere teasing meant to be absolutely harmless. your voice sounds much sweeter at this hour; soft and casual, coated lightly with fatigue from a busy day’s schedule.

“as long as we’re indoors, you can go anywhere you like, madam.” says reiner, “i’ll be here if you need me.”

you make your way to the refrigerator, prancing down the mansion’s luxe spiral staircase, and reiner’s rampant heart finally begins to calm. he wonders if you’d meant for him to hear you on that call. (by now, he knows just how cheeky you can be; it was definitely purposeful.) nevertheless, he's got a job to keep. neither your mother or father would respond kindly if they were to find out that he's become attached to you, or vice versa. he can hardly imagine playing the boyfriend when in reality, he’s supposed to be making sure nothing suspicious comes anywhere near a mile-long radius of you . . . it’s laughable! he’s sure your parents have more than enough money to make him disappear in the blink of an eye— that chilling fact alone puts him on his best behavior.

reiner decides to conceal it; the way he feels for you. keeps his back straight and arms folded to portray the unapproachable persona that got him hired in the first place. you eventually decide to question him over why he so-often wears that solid expression, ‘ like he doesn’t know how to smile, ’ is how you put it. it’s the very first time that you ever hear him laugh, and you turn out to like the sound. rumbly and full of bass. he couldn’t bring himself to admit that in every waking moment, it takes everything to suppress his smile whenever he sees you.

eight months of being in his company brings you to notice that reiner’s a decent listener. he makes for a great conversation, too. sure, he’s just your bodyguard, but he’s got a good ear and a smooth voice. your talks with him are always so lovely; he gives you the comfort to open up about things you’d never be able to tell your parents. pride washes over him when you admit that he’s the only one you genuinely trust. and in these moments, reiner allows himself to get vulnerable too. he tells you of his love for football as a youth, how he takes combat classes five times a week, and that he’s got tons of sisters, brothers and cousins back home in the countryside. the pair of you are so different that the contrast could almost be considered terrible. though, the longer you stay in each other’s presence, the less you can bring yourselves to care.

you and your bodyguard have grown . . . close, to say the least. the way you’re always latching onto his brawny form seems much more than friendly, especially to your parents. ‘ i feel secure with him! ’ is your claim. they’d beg to differ, but your wellbeing is enough to keep them satisfied. reiner excels at his job, and more importantly, the big blonde lug makes you happy. nobody they’ve hired in the past was ever able to get in your good graces; you utterly hated all your former bodyguards. they were much too controlling, lingered too close.

but mister braun was able to differentiate himself. he listens to your dreams and fears alike, treats you like a capable woman instead of some spoiled brat. it also doesn’t hurt that he’s incredibly easy on the eyes . . .

reiner can no longer take it. the woman of his dreams is right in front of him, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. the smoothest advance he can make is standing at your right side and slinking an arm around your waist, with claims of it being for your ‘protection.’ but the both of you know it’s only the proximity he’s chasing after. the way he looms beside you was always more self-indulgent than it was for safety. he just liked the closeness of it all.

he feels so much for you, and he’s virtually dying to tell you. but there’s countless reasons why he shouldn’t— particularly the risk of losing his job. every now and again, reiner chooses to be a little bit stupid, all consequences be damned. he works up the nerve to release his confession with slow and careful words. you quickly reciprocate, arms thrown around the back of his neck and tugging him into a cozy hug. he takes you by the waist and pulls you closer in— god, he’s been wanting to do this for so long. reiner hums when your manicured fingers ghost his nape, nails grazing the ends of his hair, with your tits pressed to his own chest. the pair of you fit better than he ever could’ve imagined.

you don’t know whether to call yours and reiner’s relationship ‘ official ’ — can it really be deemed as such when you’re the only ones who know? you dare not mention this to your parents, ‘cause he’s got a job to keep and you couldn’t possibly bear him not being around.

so, you’ve both decided that it’ll be a secret. shared only between you and him, so nobody’s able to intervene. dating your bodyguard is fun— brief kisses being shared when you’re the only ones in the room. the way he snugly hooks his arm around your body when escorting you feels tighter, a little more intimate. in a way, keeping things under wraps feels exhilarating.

your particular relation with mister braun isn’t verified to the outside world, but people are catching on. whenever you go out, reiner’s sure to follow. paparazzi-taken photos of you are occasionally uploaded to the internet, and it’s always a given that he’ll be included. after several months of being seen together time after time, it’s typical of people to assume that this so-called ‘ bodyguard ’ of yours is more of a boyfriend. they aren’t too far off, but you clearly won’t go out of your way to confirm their suspicions. you’re always captured in a picture of you clinging onto his burly arm with a glossy smile. your sweet expressions contrast nicely with his forever-furrowed brows. he’s handsome in this intimidating way, the tabloids say.

it’s a slow-moving thursday when reiner decides to take you on your first date with him. he waits a good hour and forty-five minutes for you to get ready. he’s used to this, of course. by now, he’s got nearly a year’s experience of waiting on you hand and foot. but tonight, his nerves get the best of him. you finish up when he least expects you to— for fuck’s sake, you even catch him pacing in the goddamn kitchen. the sight of you melts his concerns, just a little. you’re done up glamorously from head to toe, and reiner can’t contain his smile, nor hold back his stare. your light lashes are curled and wispy, with blush scattered along your cheekbones. your plush lips are pink with tint, and you’ve got on this figure-hugging outfit that he’d love to tear off of you.

you scan your surroundings, peering at every angle of your spacious home in search of your parents. after ensuring the coast is clear, you engulf him in your arms, wishing you could kiss him but you’re all dolled up and your lips are lined and glossed. reiner nuzzles his nose into the crook in your neck, inhaling faint traces of your most beloved vanilla parfum.

“god, you look so fuckin’ beautiful,” his whisper is soft against your warm flesh. you rub your hands along his broad shoulders, then slide them down his firm biceps. “and you look sexy in black,” you perk up at him, eyes round and gleaming. he loves you, he’s come to realize. and the last thing he wants is to screw this up . . .

he’s thinking too damn much. you can easily tell. it’s obvious in the way his thin blonde brows wire downwards like something’s wrong.

“reiner . . . stop it.” you order, voice serious. you only ever speak that way when you want his utmost attention. to that, he fixes his posture and stands tall as if he’s on patrol.

“stop what?” is his vague response, hands loosely positioned at either one of your hips. you lift your palms to cup his face, feeling the definition of his high cheekbones and firm jawline beneath your fingertips. he’s gorgeous, you think.

“for one, you’re clenching your teeth,” you mention, caressing his rigid jaw line until the tightness lessens. his stubble’s rough and scratchy, but it fits him so damn well. “and you’re frowing, baby.” next, your thumbs trail up to his brows, gently kneading at the creased arch. “relax.”

“m’sorry,” reiner lets out, tone low and pleading. his hands rub at your sides in an anxious pattern. “it’s jus’ that you’re so important to me . . . i wanna do this right, y’know?”

“i bet you will, rei. no need to worry, hm?” you shoot him a soft smile, and he returns it; one of the rare times you catch a glimpse of his nice and shiny teeth. “now show me a good time, papa.”

right before taking your leave , your parents have questions for you— almost too many. you don’t have any business meetings or mall trips on your schedule, so where on earth is he taking you to? rei-rei claims that he’s bringing you to a new restaurant that you’ve been meaning to try. he’ll drive you there and stay on patrol; or so he says. they decide not to question the unusually neat way his blonde hair is slicked back, or how his black dress-shirt and slacks look sharper than usual. hell, he smells amazing too. it can’t be denied that mister braun cleans up nicely.

see, reiner told a partial truth to your family. you’re on your way to a new german restaurant that’s about twelve minutes out, it’s just that you wanted to try it out with him in particular. on the drive there, you just can’t seem to restrain yourself from gazing at the man. reiner looks so put together like this, in a strapping black outfit that‘s snug against his arms, chest and thighs. his side profile’s flawless— he’s got a perfectly defined nose that slopes down to his lips, and you yearn to lick on his protruding adam’s apple. he’s got one hand on the wheel, merging into lanes and making u-turns, while the other that’s unoccupied intertwines with your softer, smaller one.

upon reaching a red light, he takes the opportunity to lift your hand up to his face, trailing his lips along the back of it. “lieblich . . .” he murmurs something in his native tongue that you can’t seem to understand, though you know its meaning is a sweet one. your grin makes him forget all about the risk he’s taking.

upon reaching your destination, reiner’s back in bodyguard-mode. that’s how he gets whenever you’re in public. yes, you’re on a date, but your safety will forever be his number one priority. he escorts you in with a large hand fit snugly into the small dip of your back as he confirms the reservation. his touch never leaves you, not even for a second. he does that thing; where he takes a brief one-over of the area, scrutinizing his environment before making the next move. you go one, two, three stories up, to the VIP floor where your dinner seats reside.

it’s a lot, he knows— the velvet floors, fancy cream-white seats and glass-like walls that showcase an aweing view of the city. you’re more than used to the finer things in life, so the only thing he wants to give you is what you deserve.

you’re raving on about how nice everything looks, leaning back into your seat as you sip on a flute of sheer-pink rosé. he’s relieved to know that he was able to make you smile tonight. a waiter presents themselves, and reiner effortlessly engages with them in german conversation. his words are smooth and fluid as he translates all the entrée and sides you asked for. even when placing a simple order, he’s still the sexiest man on earth. would now be a bad time to kiss the hell out of him?

the next three hours go by quick. you’re chatting and laughing and trying bits of each other’s platters ( though, it's mostly you eating a over half of the food from his plate . . . ) you got yourself salted-caramel ice cream for dessert, and reiner’s mischievous enough to lean close and lick the dripping residue off the corner of your lips. you gasp at him and deliver a playful kick to his foot from under the table.

“what? you had somethin’ there.” is the given excuse for his rascal behavior. naughtiness twinkles in his golden-brown eyes. there aren’t many people up here on the expensive floor, apart from two other occupied tables located on the other end of the room, and a handful of waiters that leave the kitchen every now and again. he’s lucky there isn’t anyone to catch you both.

“you’re crazy,” your laugh is infectious, “don’t make me return the favor.”

in a quick motion, reiner swipes a finger into the ice cream, his touch meeting a subtle cold. before the caramel gets the chance to melt all the way down the length of his digit, he smears some across his bottom lip. his tongue juts out to lick up the rest of the treat from his index finger.

“oh, please do.”

being away from probing eyes has made reiner bold as ever. you take him up on his request, tilting forward so that your tongue can eagerly swipe over his lips and wipe them clean. mostly sweet, just the tiniest bit salty. you want more of him already.

there’s isn’t a soul watching, so reiner escalates it. in an instant he’s got your lips merging, his hand squeezing your thigh from under the table, hot puffs of air escaping you both. “oh my god— you’re g’na get me in trouble, rei!”

“so be it,” reiner mumbles in reply, his words ticklish against your lips. from underneath his fingertips, reiner senses how tightly you press your thighs together, hungry for friction. he’s even beginning to feel worked up himself. but, the pair of you haven’t gone that far yet. the most you’ve done are hour-long makeout sessions on your king-sized bed in the earliest points of the day, when you have enough privacy to get away with it. but you wouldn’t mind feeling him in a new way tonight . . .

“you wanna get out of here, don’t you, mama?” reiner coos, cheeks rosier with his eyes slightly lidded. “mhm,” you’re quick to agree. so he puts the payment for the meal on his tab, takes your hand in his and leads you back down to floor one until you’re out of the building and back inside your window-tinted g-wagon.

mister braun is big. you’ve always known it from his appearance alone, but fuck, it holds a much greater meaning when he’s got you tucked into the backseat of your mercedes with his slacks pulled down to his ankles and your dress strewn sideways, making a slow attempt to press himself into you.

“fuck. let me in, princess,” reiner’s grunt is low, throaty enough to make you clench. your flesh feels hot and your pussy’s leaking all over the coffee-brown suede seats. he knows well enough to play around with your clit, reveling in the noises you make when his pressure increases. simultaneously, his lips suction at the smooth flesh of your neck. it feels like you’re burning up, and he’s the only one who can quench your fire.

experimentally, his hips tilt forward, and another two inches make its way in. he’s only got his fat tip and then some past that dripping hole of yours, but it’ll take much more to stretch you wide open for him. he’s groaning and muttering all sorts of profanities— about how tight you are, how good you feel, how fucking nasty this is of you.

“c’mon, woman,” reiner sucks a sharp breath into his lungs, goading you on, “lemme fuck this tight pussy.” he’s got you dangerously aroused, done by the effort of a few dirty words. wetness dribbles down from your slit to the place you and reiner carnally join, slicking up his girthy shaft as he continues to break himself past your tight rings of muscle. you claw at his solid arms, basking in the stretch. his size is imposing, forcing you open to accommodate all of him. it burns in the best way possible.

“m—more, papa,” you make out a pretty whine, knowing just how he loves your begging. you’ve got your lips agape, kissed raw from reiner’s earlier advances. you grow restless and begin to rock your hips, aching to take the entirety of him.

“mm, don’t worry, baby. i’ll give it to you so good,” it takes a little more of reiner bucking his pelvis, movements careful and shallow, for him to finally make it in. he’s bottomed out, and you can feel the throbbing from his underside. having you wrapped around him feels so incredibly right. you clench rapidly, enveloping him in an incomparable warmth.

by the time he’s made everything fit, you’re a darling little mess. your hair’s gotten frizzy and your eyes are all big ‘n glassy, with your lower lip tucked underneath your teeth. one moan after another escapes you, streaming into his ears like liquid gold. reiner throbs at the sound of every little mewl. he licks away your tears which you hadn’t even known began to fall, catching them before they can roll down the apples of your cheeks. you love the feeling, it’s just that there’s so much of him to handle at once— his fat cock, searing-hot tongue, large roaming hands . . . he's this close to consuming you whole, and you want him to.

reiner’s attentive with the way he fucks you. out, in, the pattern goes, hips drawing back before he slams back into your shaking frame all over again. he hits so unbelievably deep every time, like the width of him can’t help but prod against every spot you have. he manages to stimulate every inch of your walls, bumping every crook and ridge possible. not a part of you goes unattended to. reiner dips his head low to catch your beaded nipple between his lips, while his cock drives further inside and impels you to make more room, just for him.

as gentle as he may try to be, reiner’s undeniably a hefty man. taking it slow won’t make any difference; every deep plunge he makes into your cunt has the car creaking on its very own wheels.

“i fuckin’ love you,” he drops the heated words, punctuated with drilling thrusts; but the dick’s got you goin’ all dumb on him. it’s cute, he can’t deny, but reiner needs you to know exactly what you mean to him. so he grips at your chin from either side and lightly squeezes your cheeks together, tender with care but steady enough to make your eyes uncross and focus on him alone.

“you hear me? i— goddamnit, love you more than anything. love you so much,” the deeper he pushes in, the less you can manage to breathe. you feel the pulsing of his cock in your tummy, and it’s like the tip snags so deep that it nearly lingers in your throat. you feel yourself bounce against the seat, tits jiggling whenever he sinks inside, draws out, and snaps right back into you. your gut feels tightly wound up, and your pussy’s become impossibly more sensitive.

you’re close, he can feel it. your walls flutter with more ardor than before, squishing against the base of him with a tightness gratifying enough to spur moans from deep within his chest. you even bring your hands down to claw at his asscheeks, firm and round to the touch; the perfect source of leverage.

“r— reiner!” you cry out to him, and he’s sure his name hasn’t sounded so good up until now. he wonders if you can actually hear yourself and just how slutty you sound. “you’re close, aren’t you, baby?” to that you nod, head bobbing desperately. you don’t have to tell him, he knows. reiner’s knowledge is keen on the topic of you. what you like, what you don’t, and when you’ve had enough. now he’s truly taking his sweet time getting to know you from the inside out.

he presses a consoling peck to your forehead, maintaining that undoing pace of his. the repetitive ‘plat’ of his heavy balls smacking into your sticky cunt is dull compared to the huffing, panting and whining, but it’s there in all its vulgarity.

“ooh, i know exactly what y’need, princess. papa’s g’na take care of you . . . ” reiner doesn’t even say it above a whisper, just declares his devotion in the softest way he can. he slips a hand down the middle of your sweat-streaked bodies to bring some attention back to your precious clit, lewdly slick and much puffier than earlier. he gives swift strokes using the pads of his fingers, combined with the fluid roll of his hips, until you're arching into his broad chest and snapping your quivering thighs closed, trapping his wrist in between them.

reiner can unravel you with such ease, like he lives for the sole purpose of your pleasure and nothing else. you convulse against him, so he slows. but reiner hardly lets up. not completely, that way he’s able to ride you through it. he continues on, feeding you shallow thrusts to near his own high. his movements turn borderline erratic; thighs trembling, cock throbbing. he’s so close, “gonna cum,” his warning comes off as a groan, straight from the depths of his gut, erotic and primal. he’s clenching his teeth again— this time, for good reason. “where do y’want me?”

not a second is wasted before you plead, ‘ inside! ’ and with that, you’ve officially fucking broken him. never did he think his wildest dream would’ve come true by the very first date. lucky mister braun, getting to fill you up— especially when it’s what he’s been stroking himself to the thought of every other night. now, you’re practically crying for him to give it all to you. undoubtedly, he will.

he comes through one final, sloppy jerk of his hips. with a breathy grunt released into the car’s stuffy atmosphere , his warm seed spurts into you, tainting your womb. once reiner slips out, his thick cum pours down to present the most obscene view. it’s all so slippery, seeping down until there’s a wet puddle of your and his making beneath your ass. reiner’s body goes lax, thoughtfully balancing himself over you with his face propped onto your boobs. it’s only now that he realizes, legs cramped up, that he’s a bit too large for the backseat.

“ . . . i meant what i said earlier.” reiner’s voice comes off muffled, with his face stuffed between your tits and all. he looks adorable this way, gazing up at you with his lips curled into a slight pout. his arms loop your waist, snug and secure.

“mm, you said a lot of things earlier,” is your soft laugh, recalling his crude mouth and how worked up it made you. he allows you to rake your nails through his short blonde fringes.

“applying for this gig is the best thing that’s ever fuckin’ happened to me,” reiner makes an attempt to sit upright and show his conviction, but he ends up with his back hunched over in the restrictive space. he disregards his comfort and reaches for your hands, clasping them in his own. “i said that i love you . . . and i mean it.” his words are airy. he’s still winded from the sex.

“and i love you,” you mean it, too. with all your being. you love him in a way you've never loved anybody else. mister braun keeps you safe, sprinkles you with compliments, slips on your heels for you, puts you first. he makes you feel like this pairing has a chance, like you don’t have to hide it. besides, he deserves your all. you should be proud to call him yours, and that you are.

reiner always wants your kisses. in the morning when you wake, right before dinner, and as you’ve recently discovered, after sex too. you’re always eager to receive his lips pressed to yours. “i love you,” reiner adds in between pecks. he now says it like it’s second nature— he loves you. it makes your heart leap from beneath your chest. he kneads your bare thighs in his palms, slowly gliding his tongue into your mouth. without shame, you moan against his lips. slivers of spit tether you both even after you part.

“i want everyone to know that we belong to each other, reiner . . . my family, too.” you admit, peering up at his handsome face through your curled lashes. you’ve got your hands planted at his chest, feeling at the solidity of his pecs.

“tonight?” he asks, tone unsure.

“yes, tonight, rei!”

he adores your sudden zeal for honesty. he truly does, but—

“maybe another day would work better, princess,” reiner muses, “when your parents wouldn’t kill me for all those hickeys on your neck.”

©PINKMIRTH! . . . all rights reserved! do not steal, plagiarize or repost any of my works. please and thank you! ୨୧

[111aas34]

#Exileverse something something bc why not???

Sooooo I happened to run into an mlp AU called exileverse by @thiscatdraws a while ago, and then got invested in it SO bad that I kinda got into my mlp phase again after like 8 years. What would be a better gift for this amazing AU than some good old fanart and exileverse-ifying my OCS, so meet the siblings Lilybell, Pale Star, Scorching Storm and their father, White Night! Here’s some lore for them Imanaged to make: In the farthest norths of Equestria is a cold, barren land, with frequent blizzards and dozens of nightless days.(A bit northern Europe-ey, like Sweden! The one who governs this land is the House of Light, the forefront defending Equestria from many dangers of the north- especially, the Umbrum. The House of Light,(The House, in short) is a clan of white, fierce pegasi, adapted perfectly to the harsh environment and always ready to fight. They are also known as devout followers of Queen Celestia, holding the Sun, light, and strength as their most important values. Though however fearless these ponies are, the House of Light has its dark sides. Living in an arduous environment, the need for survival changed into obsession for physical strength, and the House relentlessly trains their children for battle, exiling weak members out of the family. Also, countless wars with the Umbrum has led the House to resent the darkness as a whole, rejecting nighttime and even dark-colored ponies. All three of the siblings have fell victim to this, as Lilybell and Scorching Storm both were kicked out each due to weakness and a black pelt, and Pale Star is often overwhelmed by his duties as the only heir of the Patriarch and the pressure to be strong that his father constantly burdens him with. As ponies that dislike the dark, the House is one of the few that actually preferred the time when Nightmare Moon was defeated and Equestria had no proper nighttime. You can probably imagine their disdain when Twilight Sparkle ascended into the Night Deity, providing darkness to Equestria…and when they found out what she did as one…and when, after all those years of fighting, one of the princesses decides to marry an Umbrum.

[simbiotictears]

LnDs Boys if they were an Idol!boy group:

I won’t hear anyone out. I need this group to become a reality. Infold make a card of them as idols and I am yours!!

Pt2

Leader + Main Rapper: Zayne

Appears to be the most mature but isn’t. He was voted the pettiest by the members followed by Sylus and Rafayel. He was given the role of leader due to his ability to keep the fans and his members under control (minus Sylus).

Designated translator: he can speak the most languages in the group. As a result, he leads the international interviews and fan interactions.

His fans know he likes sweet things, so they often gift him sweet treats in fan meets. The staff end up confiscating most of it to stop him from eating them all and getting cavities.

His stage persona is the cold nerdy type, this is because he refuses to wear contacts, so this allows him to wear his glasses when he's not performing on stage.

He gets injured the most. Don't even try to tell me he doesn't.

In terms of his voice, he has a mellow voice. He doesn't really sing but he raps well.

When it comes to dancing, he can’t really dance, but he works hard. After the main and lead dancers, he trains the third hardest. If dance was a science, he'd have top marks. It's the moving the body part he struggles with.

He did aegyo once and it got clipped and shipped and he hasn't been able to live it down since.

He doesn’t post on social media often, but when he does, he posts book reviews (mostly nonfiction and medical books) on Substack.

His day in the life YouTube video for the group channel was him visiting Cafes and testing their sweet treats. All of those Cafes have been packed ever since he went.

He is the third most popular in the group, and his fans are the most mature and peaceful. However, they do go feral when he gets freaky for the concepts.

Main Dancer + Lead Vocalist/Rapper: Caleb

He is a jack of all trades. If he was the youngest, he’d be golden. But he’s not, so he’s just the most versatile.

He sings, he dances, he raps, he’s pretty—what can’t he do?

His rapping is far better than his singing, but his singing is nowhere near terrible. He had to work very hard on his vocals before debut, but only his bandmates know that.

He is a hit or miss with the fans, still extremely popular, but those who love him are very devout.

He’s had the second most scandals in the group, after Sylus, for fake rumours and clips taken out of context.

He’s a big nerd and is very chaotic despite his cool more chill front he shows sometimes (when he’s not in the mood). His stage persona is the popular boy next door/big brother type, and he fits the role perfectly.

He is the one to say the most random facts in the middle of a video. Definitely watches 'Cunk on Earth.' He is chronically online.

He has 'Train with me' videos which sound a little questionable due to his loud breathing.

He surprised his fans with the news of his piloting license by randomly uploading a video of him piloting a fighter jet.

He pranks Zayne often and likes to dance late at night in the studio with Xavier.

Him and Sylus have beef that no one else understands— but they do and that’s all that matters.

He has a girlfriend who he unapologetically talks about, whilst not mentioning anything at all. This has got him into a lot of trouble, but he doesn’t care. He doesn't want his fans to try and hit on him. He is a committed man. Other than that, he is very private.

Designated cook: he used to cook for the members when they all lived in the dorms together.

Visual + Sub Rapper: Sylus

Actually, the most mature. He is the oldest and hottest. People ignore the fact that he can’t sing (though he is getting better) because of how hot he is.

He usually leads when the concepts are suaver and sultrier.

I can't emphasise this enough, but he got in because he’s hot— can’t lie, that’s most of the reason he got in.

His stage persona, much like his real life personality, is the bad boy/daddy type. (I am not sorry, you know he's going to be in a suit giving it an ateez level performance)

He speaks the second most languages in the group, so he usually sits behind or at the end of the line in interviews and takes some of the stress off of Zayne. Once the interviewers know he speaks their language they do try to get him to answer a lot of questions just to hear him speak... and you know what? same.

The camera loves him.

People beg him to do aegyo and he only does it very rarely. Not even losing a bet could force him to do aegyo. It has to be if one of the boys has got his (secret) girl on the line.

Has the rich man laugh. Hear me out, he once accidentally laughed at the end of a recording session when the mic was still on, and they kept it in the track… let’s just say that track and that specific part of the track won them their first seven awards.

He has the most ravenous, horny fans. Even straight men go feral for Sylus.

He is the most likely to be put on stage shirtless or told to rip his shirt mid performance; he’s not opposed, he works hard for his abs.

His 'Day in the life' YouTube video on their group channel where he drank wine, played the organ, made steak, boxed, and watched a movie over the span of ten hours has over 109 million views.

Still, he goes live the least. Mostly because he doesn’t know how to use the live feature properly.

Naturally, he has had the most scandals in the group, not by his own fault mind you. And there have been public issues with their company's unfair distribution of his lines in most songs. (Sometimes they’re lucky if he gets four lines.)

He calls his fans “kittens” which makes all the other members hurl.

Face of The Group + Centre + Main Vocalist: Rafayel

The pretty boy of the group.

Designated Brat: he will argue with everyone about everything. He is the sassiest of the group and also the whiniest. He acts like the youngest but isn’t??

Has the voice of a literal angel and the face to match.

He spends the most time with Xavier because Xavier doesn’t argue with his insane logic (the boy is exhausted, save my boy Xavier).

He pretends to hate acting cute, but he secretly loves it.

People ship him with literally everyone in the group, but mostly Xavier and Zayne. It’s the icy x sunshine dynamic.

Designated model: He has the best fashion and always dresses like he’s about to hit the runway. His airport photos are basically photo cards in and off themselves. And a few times they've ended up on the cover of high fashion magazines. He would never be caught dead in anything less than the best.

He is the laziest in terms of training, but who needs to train when they’re that beautiful? (His words, not mine.)

Zayne has to threaten him to get him to go to dance practice.

He goes live with Xavier most often.

He is the one who controls the social media pages. He loves posting the most random stuff.

His ending fairies always go viral.

One time a fan asked him to marry them when he was live and he asked how big their paycheck was.

Should have more scandals than he does, most of his drama is people arguing about his sexuality— to which he tells everyone to mind their own business.

He’s terrified of cats. The group went on a YouTube Channel where they got to play with cats as they answered questions. Rafayel hissed at any cat that came near him and hid behind Sylus.

He once did a paint with me stream and everyone was shocked at his skills and art knowledge to which he said he went to art school.

Maknae + Lead Dancer + Sub Vocalist: Xavier

The youngest of the group.

His stage persona is the shy boy/prince type. Because of this, everyone thinks that this sweet man is innocent, but he’s a freak.

Can pull off literally any concept.

Has insane dance skills. (I don't want to hear it. In a world where they are idols that man can dance.)

Him and Caleb are the most likely to be in the dance studio late at night practicing.

Because he works so hard at night and off camera, the fans think he is lazy or “always tired.” He is anemic, but his sleepiness mostly comes from his excessive training.

He has a secret dance TikTok called Lumiere; where he dances with a hood on, a face mask, and in baggy clothes. Some fans have hypothesised that him and Lumiere are the same person, but he never confirms it.

He nearly got caught once when Rafayel was live, and he walked back into their hotel room with the same hoodie on as his latest TikTok video.

He mostly enjoys releasing dance videos on their group TikTok and YouTube channel with Caleb because their styles blend well together.

When they do more lifestyle like content, he is either with Rafayel or Caleb.

He has a very soft and pretty voice, which makes most people swoon though he actually prefers rapping, but the group would have too many rappers, so he sticks to singing.

He once sat in on Caleb’s live with Sylus and Zayne and rapped a whole cypher, which shocked all the fans because he sounded so good! He’s got insane flow.

It started the #letXavierRap trend.

Has a secret partner, and his biggest scandal was a hickey that wasn’t covered up properly.

People love the princely concept on him. He lowkey hates it. He only wears it on the stage.

He grew out his hair once and everyone begged him not to cut it again (he did, it got in the way of his face when he was dancing.)

They once had a concept where they all had to act. Much to everyone’s surprise, Xavier did so well that he started to get offered acting gigs. He mostly turns them down, but once in a while his fans might spot him as the lead in a C drama or two.

He can’t cook to save his life.

He relies on Caleb and Sylus to make everything; however, he does eat pot noodles when they refuse.

He once tried to cook for the members, and they had to move dorms because the place caught fire. Of course, that was before they all moved to their own places.

[therogueflame]

Mercy

Hi my little degenerates,

enjoy your food. based on this ask.

✨ My Masterlist ✨

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Summary: An arranged marriage forces two guarded strangers into an unexpected reckoning. What begins as duty becomes something far more dangerous—intimate, unraveling, and quietly consuming.

WC: 5.6k

Warnings: 18+, sex (p in v), oral (m!recieving), first time, arranged marriage, light angst, emotional repression, power play (light d/s), sub!aemond

Aemond Targaryen x Baratheon!Wife!Reader

MDNI!!!

They say the match is a strong one. Baratheon blood, storm-forged and loyal. Valyrian blood, sharp as steel. A union to steady the realm. A bond to bind two great houses. They say many things, and none of them matter. The only thing that matters is him.

He stands beside the altar like he’s being sentenced. Stiff, composed, unreadable. Aemond Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, kinslayer in waiting, heir to something not quite the throne but close enough to taste. His hands are clasped behind his back, knuckles pale, shoulders square. Not an inch of him moves that doesn’t need to. Not an inch of him gives anything away. You have seen statues with more expression.

He does not look at you when you approach. Not when your father gives your hand to the crown. Not when the septon calls you lady, wife, good and faithful. Not when your vows are spoken with a clear voice and he answers them in turn. His eye tracks the floor. His mouth stays in a line. When the kiss comes, he does not flinch, but you feel the breath he holds like a man bracing for the gallows.

It is not fear of you. It is not disgust. It is something older. Something buried so deep beneath pride and purpose that most men would not know to look for it. But you are not most men. You are not soft. You are not blind. And you know what it looks like when someone spends their life trying not to be seen.

You have heard the rumors. The boy who lost an eye to a cousin’s blade and never wept. The boy who tamed a dragon older than time and never once smiled. The boy who walks like a blade and breathes like a storm but keeps his nights silent, untouched, unspent. Some say he’s devout. Others say he’s cruel. You know better. You’ve seen what he does when no one is watching.

You see it in the way he hesitates when someone reaches for his shoulder. In the way his fingers twitch before they curl into fists. In the way his breath catches when your sleeve brushes his at supper and he does not move for the rest of the meal. He does not touch. He does not take. He does not want to be wanted. And yet.

The court celebrates. Music swells. Wine is poured. Your names are toasted. But he does not drink. He does not dance. He stands to the side like a ghost wearing silver and black, and the flames of the candles lick his profile in gold. His mother watches him with narrowed eyes. His brother laughs too loudly. You sit beside him and say nothing, and he is grateful for it.

When the hour grows late and the guests grow restless, you excuse yourself first. He follows minutes later, quiet as a shadow, and joins you in the chamber they’ve prepared. The bed is wide. The sheets are clean. The fire is low, and the silence is louder than the drums had been.

He does not speak. He does not undress. He stands by the door with one hand on the frame, breathing through his nose like he’s waiting for orders. You watch him for a long time before you say anything at all. And when you do, it is simple.

“Are you going to look at me?”

He does. Slowly. Carefully. His gaze finds your collarbone first, then your throat, then your mouth. He stops there. You let the moment stretch. He does not move.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you say.

That gets his eye. His good eye. The sapphire stays hidden under its leather patch, but you see the flicker beneath. Something brittle. Something caged. He holds your gaze for a breath too long before his lashes drop and he turns away.

“I do not require affection,” he says. His voice is low, nearly flat. “Only cooperation.”

You hum, noncommittal. “Is that what this is?”

He says nothing.

He’s afraid you’ll see too much. Afraid of what might slip out if he lets himself want anything at all. Because want is weakness. Want is hunger. And he was taught that hunger must be hidden, starved, shamed. His mother taught him to swallow it. His brother taught him to ignore it. His own reflection taught him to flinch from it. But you are not them. And you are not interested in performance.

You sit on the edge of the bed, gown pooling like poured ink, and you let him stand there in his silence. You do not take your eyes off him. You do not reach for him. You simply wait.

And after a long pause, you ask, “You’ve done this before?”

His jaw clenches. He doesn’t answer.

“Then why,” you murmur, “do you look like I’m going to hurt you?”

He doesn’t breathe for a full second. Then another. Then another. The silence swells, thick and hot, stretching taut between you until you almost feel it crack. He closes his eye. Not in frustration. In surrender. For just a moment, he looks like a man unarmed.

You don’t press him. Not yet. You let the silence bloom. Let him sit in it. Let him feel what it’s like to be watched, not judged. Seen, not claimed. His hand slides off the doorframe. He takes a step forward, slow and measured, the way you’d approach a wild thing that might bolt if startled.

You tilt your head.

“Take off your boots,” you say softly.

It’s not a question. Not a plea. A command, calm and unhurried. The words settle in the room like falling ash.

His gaze flicks up, uncertain, almost startled—but not angry. Not offended. Just… confused. Like no one’s ever told him what to do in the quiet, and meant it. Like he isn’t sure if it’s real.

Still, he obeys.

His fingers go to the leather, movements precise, too controlled. He keeps his eye on the floor as he works, lashes low, lips parted just slightly. When he finishes, he straightens—and hesitates. You don’t tell him what to do next. You just look at him.

“Closer.”

Another order. Not cruel. Not cold. But clear.

He comes.

And when he stands before you, close enough to feel your breath, you rise slowly from the edge of the bed and reach up—not to touch, not yet—but to hover your hand beside his cheek. He flinches anyway. Only a flicker. But you catch it.

You don’t move. You don’t blink. You let the space speak for itself.

“You’re not used to this, are you,” you murmur. “Someone who doesn’t want to take from you. Someone who waits for you to give.”

He swallows.

You lower your hand.

“Then you’ll need to ask.”

His throat works. His eye closes again. He doesn’t move.

“I said—” your voice dips, velvet over steel “—you’ll need to ask.”

His breath comes faster now. You see it in the rise of his chest, the flush beginning at his collar, the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. But he nods. Just once.

You smile.

“Good,” you whisper. “Then let’s begin.”

"What would you have me say?" His voice is barely audible, a tremor beneath the surface of carefully maintained control.

You step closer, close enough that the heat of him reaches you, but still not touching. "The truth. What you want."

His jaw works, and for a moment, you think he might retreat. But then: "I don't know what I want."

"You do," you counter, circling him slowly. The silver threads in his doublet catch the firelight as you move. "You've just never allowed yourself to name it."

When you complete your circle, standing before him again, his breathing has changed—shallow, uneven. The prince who tamed Vhagar, who strikes fear into the hearts of men twice his age, looks lost in this quiet room.

"Would you like me to touch you?" you ask, voice neutral, offering rather than taking.

His eye widens slightly, and he gives a single, sharp nod.

"That's not asking," you remind him gently.

The muscle in his jaw tightens. You watch his pride war with something deeper, something starved. When he speaks, his voice is rough with disuse, as if these particular words have never left his throat before.

"Touch me," he says, then adds, "Please."

You raise your hand slowly, telegraphing every movement, and rest your palm against his cheek. His skin is warm, feverish almost, and you feel the slight tremor that runs through him at the contact. His eye closes briefly, lashes dark against his pale skin.

"Where else?" you ask.

His breath catches. "I—"

"Show me," you suggest, letting your hand fall away.

After a moment's hesitation, he takes your wrist—his grip surprisingly gentle—and guides your palm to his throat. His pulse hammers beneath your fingers, quick and desperate. His eye opens, meeting yours with something raw and unguarded.

"Here," he whispers, his voice barely a breath.

You press your palm flat against the column of his neck, thumb tracing the hollow at the base of his throat. He shivers, a full-body tremor that he can't suppress, and his hand tightens fractionally on your wrist—not to stop you, but to anchor himself.

"And here?" you ask, letting your other hand hover near his chest.

He guides it to rest over his heart, which pounds so hard you can feel it through the layers of silk and leather. His breathing has gone ragged now, all pretense of composure abandoned. When you begin to work at the fastenings of his doublet, his hands fall to his sides, useless. The fabric parts under your fingers, revealing the pale expanse of his chest beneath. He stands perfectly still as you push the doublet from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a whisper of silk. His skin is marked with old scars—thin white lines that speak of training yards and real battles—but he doesn't flinch when your fingertips trace them.

"You're beautiful," you murmur, and he makes a sound low in his throat, somewhere between protest and plea.

"I'm not—"

"You are." Your hands map the planes of his chest, the sharp cut of his collarbones, the lean muscle earned through years with sword and dragon. "And you're going to learn to believe it."

His head falls back slightly, exposing the long line of his throat. When your lips brush against his pulse point, he gasps—a broken, desperate sound that he immediately tries to swallow. His entire body tenses beneath your lips, as if the simple contact has sent lightning through his veins. You can feel the war within him—desire fighting against the instinct to withdraw, to protect. Your mouth moves slowly along the column of his throat, tasting salt and warmth, and his breathing fractures into something ragged.

"Tell me to stop," you whisper against his skin, "and I will."

His hand finds your waist, tentative at first, then gripping with sudden urgency. "Don't," he says, the word rough-edged. "Don't stop."

You smile against his pulse. Progress.

Your fingers find the laces of his shirt, working them loose with deliberate patience. He stands perfectly still, watching your hands with an intensity that makes heat pool in your belly. When you push the fabric from his shoulders, revealing more of him to the firelight, his breath catches.

You step back to look at him—truly look. His chest rises and falls rapidly, skin pale as moonlight save for the flush spreading down from his throat. The firelight plays across the lean planes of muscle, the elegant architecture of bone and sinew. He's all sharp angles and careful control, but beneath that you see the hunger he's kept leashed for so long it's become part of him.

"Lie down," you say softly.

He hesitates, uncertainty flickering across his features. The bed looms behind him, vast and intimidating in its implications. When he doesn't move, you reach for the ties of your gown, loosening them with slow deliberation. The fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

His breath stops entirely.

You stand before him unashamed, letting him drink in the sight. His good eye travels over you with something approaching reverence, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing. The leather patch over his other eye seems darker in the dim light, a shadow against his pale skin.

"Lie down," you repeat, and this time he obeys.He sits at the edge first, then reclines slowly, his body rigid with tension. The firelight plays across the planes of his chest, casting shadows in the hollows of his collarbones. He looks both powerful and vulnerable, a contradiction made flesh.

You approach unhurried, watching how his eye follows your every movement. When your knee dips the mattress beside him, his hands clench in the sheets.

His eye widens slightly, darting away and then back, as if he's fighting the urge to look at you fully. The struggle is visible in the tension of his jaw, the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides.

"Do you want to see me?" you ask, voice steady despite the vulnerability of standing naked before him.

"Yes," he whispers, the word escaping before he can catch it.

You step closer. "Then look at me, Aemond. Not at the floor. Not at the wall. At me."

When his gaze finally rises to meet yours, there's something almost painful in its intensity—like a man who's been dying of thirst suddenly confronted with water. His eye traces the curves of your body with such focus that you can almost feel it like a physical touch. The flush spreads down his throat, across his chest. You watch it bloom beneath his skin and something primal stirs in your belly at the sight. He's beautiful in his hunger, in the way he tries so hard to contain it.

"Touch yourself," you say quietly.

His breath hitches. "What?"

"You heard me." You settle beside him on the bed, close enough that your thigh brushes his hip. "I want to watch."

"I don't—" His voice cracks slightly. "I can't—"

"You can." Your hand hovers over his chest, not quite touching. "Show me how you've touched yourself when you thought of this. Of being wanted."

A tremor runs through him. His eye closes tight, as if he's fighting some internal battle. When it opens again, there's something desperate there, something that's been caged too long.

"I haven't," he admits, the words barely audible. "Not... not like this."

You tilt your head, studying him. "Never?"

His throat works as he swallows. "I was taught that desire is weakness. That to want is to be vulnerable."

Something aches in your chest—not pity, but understanding. You shift closer, your naked hip pressing against his clothed one.

"Then I'll show you," you murmur.

You take his hand in yours, guiding it to your waist. His fingers tremble against your skin, hesitant yet eager. You slide his palm upward, over the curve of your ribs, until it cups your breast. His breath catches, a small, broken sound escaping his lips.

"Feel," you instruct softly. "Learn what pleases."

His touch is tentative at first, then grows bolder as you arch into his palm. His thumb finds your nipple, circling with surprising gentleness, and when you gasp softly his eye widens as if the sound has shocked him.

"Like that?" he asks, voice rough with wonder.

"Yes," you breathe, and guide his other hand to join the first.

He learns quickly, watching your face for every reaction, cataloging what makes you sigh and what makes you arch against him. There's something almost scholarly in his attention, as if he's studying a text written in a language he's never been taught to read. When you rock against his touch, seeking more friction, his breathing becomes ragged.

"I want to taste you," he says suddenly, the admission torn from him like a confession.

"Then do it."

He sits up slowly, eye never leaving yours, and leans forward until his breath ghosts across your throat. His lips find the hollow beneath your collarbone, hesitant at first, then growing bolder as your breath catches. His mouth trails across your skin, exploring with careful precision, as though mapping territories previously unknown. When his lips close around your nipple, a soft moan escapes you, and you feel him shudder in response.

His hands find your waist, steadying you as he draws you closer, his exploration becoming more confident with each sound you make. The leather patch brushes against your skin as he moves, a reminder of what he's lost and what he's guarded. You reach for it, fingers hovering at its edge.

"May I?" you whisper.

He freezes, tension rippling through him. For a moment, you think he'll refuse, retreat back into that carefully constructed fortress. Instead, he nods once, a sharp, decisive movement.

Your fingers slide beneath the leather, gently lifting it away. The sapphire gleams in the firelight, a brilliant blue stone fitted perfectly into the hollow where his eye once was. It catches the flames and throws them back in fractured pieces, beautiful and terrible at once. You've heard whispers about it—the Targaryen prince's pride, his defiance made manifest. But seeing it now, this close, you understand it differently. It's not pride. It's armor.

Your fingertips trace the scarred skin around its edges, gentle as a prayer. He flinches but doesn't pull away, his remaining eye watching you with something between terror and desperate hope. The scars are old, silver-white against pale skin, mapping the violence that stole his sight and gave him this cold, careful beauty in return. You tilt his chin toward you and make him look. There is no resistance, only hesitation, the kind that trembles at the edge of need. His jaw tightens. His breath shortens. His hands stay still, clenched in the covers like a boy holding himself together. You press your lips just below the corner of his mouth, soft, not teasing, not tender, just sure. Then lower. The line of his throat. The hollow of his collar. Each kiss is placed like a seal, like a mark only you are allowed to give. He shudders. Not because of fear. Because he is losing the last of whatever he thought made him strong.

You sink to your knees between his legs and he doesn’t breathe. The silence stretches. He looks down at you, blinking like he’s not sure this is real. You wait. One second. Two. Then your fingers find the laces at his waist and he stiffens again, breath hitching as you begin to undo them. You move slowly. No rush. No ceremony. Just deliberate, unhurried control. One knot, then another, until the fabric parts and his breath leaves him in a slow, uneven exhale. You peel the breeches down over his hips and let them fall to the floor. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare.

"Hands behind your back."

It comes out quiet. Flat. Unshakable. You watch him hesitate. Then obey. Elbows stiff, shoulders tense, wrists locked behind him like you’ve bound him there. You smile, not kindly. Not cruelly. Like this is the only thing that’s ever made sense. He is shaking already, legs tense, chest rising too fast. You lean in, brushing your mouth along the inside of his thigh, and feel him twitch beneath your breath. He’s already falling apart and you haven’t even touched him properly.

You glance up, eyes sharp.

"I'll tell you when you can let go."

His response is immediate and visceral—a sharp inhale that catches in his throat like he's forgotten how to breathe. The tendons in his forearms strain where his hands are locked behind him, knuckles white with the effort of staying still. You can see the war playing out across his features: the desperate need to touch warring against his ingrained obedience to command.

"Good," you murmur, letting the word ghost across his skin.

Your mouth finds the sensitive junction where his thigh meets his hip, lips barely grazing the heated flesh there. He jerks as if struck, a strangled sound escaping him that he immediately tries to swallow. The effort of holding himself still is written in every line of his body—the rigid set of his shoulders, the tremor in his thighs, the way his head falls back as if the weight of sensation is too much to bear.

"Please," The word escapes him like a prayer, raw and unguarded. It hangs in the air between you, this confession he cannot take back.

"Please what?" you ask, your lips hovering just inches from where he strains, hard and aching. "Tell me exactly what you want."

His breathing fractures, ragged and uneven. The prince who commands armies, who speaks with authority in war councils, struggles now to form simple words. His head is still tilted back, throat exposed, vulnerability written in every tense line of his body.

"Your mouth," he finally manages, voice barely above a whisper. "I want... your mouth on me."

You reward his honesty with a slow smile he cannot see but surely feels. "Was that so difficult?"

Without waiting for his answer, you grant his request. His reaction is immediate and violent—his hips buck involuntarily, a harsh sound torn from his throat that seems to surprise even him. His entire body goes rigid, trembling with the effort not to move further, not to reach for you, not to break the unspoken rule you've established.

You take him deeper, watching his control fracture with each movement of your tongue. His eye is squeezed shut, head thrown back, lips parted in silent gasps. The prince who never shows weakness is coming undone before you, and the power of it rushes through your veins like wildfire.

When you pull away, he makes a sound of such raw need that satisfaction curls hot in your belly. His eye snaps open, finding yours with desperate intensity.

"Did I say you could stop?" he asks, voice hoarse.

You rise slowly, letting your body slide against his as you stand. "Did I say you could speak?" you counter, and watch his pupil dilate, black swallowing the violet of his iris.

His mouth opens, then closes. The muscle in his jaw jumps as he clamps down on whatever words were trying to escape. You can see the effort it takes, this man who's used to commanding dragons learning to submit to your will.

"Better," you murmur, trailing a finger down his chest. "You're learning."

You step back, just far enough to drink in the sight of him—naked, trembling, hands still locked behind his back despite the obvious strain. His cock stands rigid against his belly, flushed and weeping, and the sight sends heat pooling low in your core.

"Look at you," you say softly. "The mighty prince, reduced to begging."

A flush spreads across his chest, but his eye never leaves yours. There is something in his gaze now—not shame, but recognition. As if he's finally seeing himself clearly for the first time.

"Do you like it?" you ask, circling him again like a predator studying prey. "Being told what to do?"

His throat works, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. When he speaks, his voice is barely audible. "Yes."

"I can't hear you."

"Yes," he says louder, the admission seeming to cost him. "I like it."

You stop in front of him, close enough that your breasts brush his chest with each breath. His nostrils flare and his hands flex behind his back, but he doesn't move to touch you.

"Then you'll do exactly as I say," you murmur, letting your fingers trail down his stomach. He shivers, muscles jumping beneath your touch. "Won't you, my prince?”

"Yes," he breathes, the word barely a whisper but weighted with surrender. "Anything."

The raw honesty in his voice makes something dark and satisfied unfurl in your chest. You step back, putting space between your bodies, and watch him struggle not to follow. His eye tracks your every movement, desperate and hungry.

"Lie back," you command.

He obeys immediately, sinking onto the bed with careful control. His hands remain locked behind him even as he settles against the pillows, and you can see the strain in his shoulders, the tremor in his arms from maintaining the position.

"You can let go now," you say, and watch relief flood his features as his arms finally relax. But before he can reach for you, you catch his wrists. "Here," you guide his hands to the headboard. "Hold on to this. Don't let go unless I tell you."

His fingers wrap around the carved wood, knuckles white with tension. He looks almost painfully vulnerable like this, stretched out before you, unable to hide or deflect. The sapphire eye catches the firelight, throwing fractured blue across his cheekbone.

You climb onto the bed, straddling his thighs but not touching where he needs it most. He watches you with a desperate intensity, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. When you trail your fingernails lightly down his chest, he arches into the touch, a soft sound escaping his throat.

"You've thought about this," you murmur, rocking slightly against him, close enough that he can feel your heat but not enough to give him relief. "Haven't you?"

He nods, then remembers himself. "Yes," he says, voice rough.

"Tell me." You lean forward, bracing your hands against his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palms. "Tell me what you imagined."

His eye closes, a flush spreading down his throat. "I... I can't."

"You can." Your lips brush against his ear, voice soft but implacable. "You will."

The command hangs in the air between you. You feel the moment his resistance crumbles, the subtle shift in his breathing that signals surrender.

"At night," he whispers, so quietly you have to strain to hear. "When sleep wouldn't come. I would think of... of hands that weren't gentle. Of someone who would take what they wanted."

"Like this?" You shift against him, drawing a sharp gasp.

"Yes. No." His hands tighten on the headboard. "Worse. Better. I wanted—" His voice breaks.

"What did you want, Aemond?”

"To be used," he gasps, the confession torn from him like it's been clawing at his throat for years. "To have someone take control so I wouldn't have to be... to think..." His head thrashes against the pillow, eye squeezed shut. "Gods, I can't—"

"You can." Your hand finds his throat, not squeezing, just resting there. A claim. A comfort. "You already are."

His eye opens, wild and desperate. "I thought about being helpless. About someone who wouldn't ask permission, who would just... take. Make me feel without having to choose to feel." The words pour out of him now, unstoppable. "I'm so tired of choosing. Of being responsible for every breath, every decision, every consequence."

You absorb this confession, this raw honesty that he's probably never spoken aloud. The prince who carries the weight of kingdoms on his shoulders, who commands dragons and armies, wants nothing more than to surrender that burden to someone else. The irony isn't lost on you—that absolute power breeds the deepest need to relinquish it.

"Then stop choosing," you whisper against his lips. "Let me."

You rise above him, positioning yourself carefully, watching his face as understanding dawns. His grip on the headboard tightens until his knuckles are bone-white, his whole body taut as a bowstring. When you sink down slowly, taking him inch by careful inch, his back arches off the bed and a sound escapes him that's part prayer, part curse.

"Look at me," you command when his eye starts to drift shut. "I want to see you break."

His gaze snaps to yours, violet fire and desperate need. You begin to move, setting a rhythm that has him gasping beneath you.

His gaze snaps to yours, violet fire and desperate need. You begin to move, setting a rhythm that has him gasping beneath you, his body straining upward to meet each roll of your hips. His fingers clutch the headboard so tightly you can hear the wood creak in protest, and you wonder if it might splinter beneath his grip.

"Good," you murmur, watching his face contort with pleasure he can no longer hide. "So good for me."

The praise undoes something in him. His eye widens, pupils blown so wide the violet is just a thin ring around bottomless black. You can feel him trembling beneath you, every muscle taut with the effort of restraint.

"Please," he gasps, the word barely recognizable. "I need—"

"What do you need?" You slow your movements, hovering just above him, denying the contact he craves.

"More," he chokes out, hips bucking desperately upward seeking friction you refuse to give. "Harder. Please, I can't—"

"Can't what?" You sink down fully, drawing a broken cry from his throat. "Can't handle it? The mighty dragonrider?"

His response is incoherent, a string of broken syllables and gasped pleas. Sweat beads along his hairline, and the flush has spread down his entire torso now. You've never seen anything more beautiful than Aemond Targaryen coming apart beneath you.

"You're close," you observe, feeling the tension coiling through his body. "I can feel it."

He nods frantically, past the point of speech. His breathing has devolved into harsh pants, and you can see him fighting against the approaching edge with everything he has left.

"Not yet," you whisper

His body goes rigid beneath you, a sound escaping his throat that's pure anguish. "Please," he begs, voice cracking. "I can't—please, I need—"

"You need what I give you," you say firmly, stilling completely. "Nothing more. Nothing less."

He writhes beneath you, desperate for friction, for movement, for anything. But you remain perfectly still, watching him struggle against the bonds of his own obedience. His knuckles are white against the headboard, tendons standing out in sharp relief along his forearms.

"Tell me who you belong to," you command softly.

His eye flies open, meeting yours with something wild and unguarded. "You," he gasps without hesitation. "I belong to you."

"Say it again."

"I belong to you." The words come easier now, like a dam breaking. "Only you.”

"Again," you demand, beginning to move once more, but slowly—torturously slowly. Each roll of your hips draws a shuddering gasp from him, each withdrawal a whimper he can no longer suppress.

"I belong to you," he repeats, the words tumbling out like a prayer. "Gods, I belong to you."

You increase your pace, watching as his composure shatters completely. His head thrashes against the pillow, throat exposed, every defense stripped away. The sapphire catches the firelight as he moves, flashing blue against his flushed skin.

"Let go," you whisper, and for a moment he looks confused, still clutching the headboard like it's his last anchor to sanity. "Not your hands. Let go of everything else. Give it to me."

Understanding dawns in his eye—wild, desperate understanding. His breathing hitches,and then he's sobbing—not tears, but raw sounds torn from somewhere deep in his chest, years of careful control unraveling in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His body convulses beneath you as everything he's held back comes crashing down at once.

"That's it," you breathe, riding him through the storm. "Give it all to me." The sounds he makes are broken, desperate—part pleasure, part release of something far deeper. His hips buck wildly beneath you, seeking more contact, more friction, more of anything you're willing to give. The careful prince is gone entirely, replaced by something raw and needy and utterly yours.

"Now," you command, and his body obeys before his mind can catch up.

He comes with a cry that echoes off the stone walls, his back arching so sharply you think he might break. His hands finally release the headboard, flying to your hips in a desperate grip that will surely leave bruises. You don't reprimand him for breaking your command—not when he's shaking apart beneath you, vulnerable in a way you suspect no one has ever witnessed. His eye is squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream as wave after wave crashes through him.

You ride him through it, watching every flicker of emotion cross his face. When your own release builds, you don’t fight it, letting pleasure spiral outward as you clench around him. Your combined cries mingle in the heated air between you.

In the aftermath, he lies beneath you, chest heaving, utterly spent. His hands have fallen limply to his sides, and his eye stares unseeing at the canopy above. The carefully constructed mask he wears for the court, for his family, for himself—it’s gone completely, leaving behind something raw and new. You don’t touch him. You don’t speak. You just stay there, legs still wrapped around his hips, watching the rise and fall of his chest. There’s a stillness to him now, a quiet so deep it doesn’t feel like surrender—it feels like silence after a storm.

Eventually, you shift. Gently. You climb off of him and gather the discarded fabric from the floor. He doesn’t move. Not for a while. When he finally does, it’s slow, mechanical, a man retreating into armor. The moment dies quietly.

By the time morning light filters through the heavy curtains, he’s already half-dressed, facing the window with his back to you. The silence has changed. It’s not peace anymore. It’s defense. He won’t look at you. Not directly. Not now. He’s afraid of what you saw. Afraid of how much he gave. Afraid you might speak it aloud.

You brush past him on your way to the basin, your fingers grazing his shoulder just lightly enough to make him tense.

“Sleep well?” you ask, not bothering to wait for an answer.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

But when you cross the room, you feel his gaze follow you—slow, heavy, almost reverent—like he’s still trying to understand what you’ve taken from him.

[yuansie]

ocean memories : why, then, did thy fall?

synopsis. desire is influenced by the impulsive need to have something in one's heart. desire is bad and it is dangerous—you learn this from the very being that was supposed to have a blessed bond with you, the being that was meant to protect you all.

pairing. rafayel x fem! non mc! reader

warnings. (implied) death, an argument somewhere in there, mentions of hatred, destruction (?), reader prays bc lemuria going through it oops 💔💔 if there is anything i'm missing, please let me know!

genres. angst

rating. pg-13

w/c. 2.1k

a/n. HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAYYYYYYYY this is my gift to you heh... not proofread. we die like them today I MEAN WHAT

YOU FOUND A HUMAN BOOK ON ONE OF YOUR IMPROMPTU VISITS TO THE SURFACE WHEN YOU WERE A TEENAGER, and it had described an interesting concept that fascinated you to no end: time for humans. to humans, time is precious for they don’t have a long lifespan. time can fly by fast for them before they know it. for lemuria, time goes by slowly. lemurians have longer lifespans, immortality making a day for a human seem like a hundred years to the ancient civilization.

yet time has flown by fast for you in these recent months.

perhaps it is because you do not speak to the god of tides anymore, or it is because of the appearance of his most devout follower.

when it was revealed that rafayel had taken a human to live in his temple, lemurians were baffled. you spoke to them in a calming voice, easing the worries that began to swim in their heads.

the attention the devout follower was receiving, the words being whispered about her, eventually reached rafayel. he appeared to them while you lead a prayer, revealing to them that she is his devout follower before leaving.

of course, you were left with the aftermath of a panicked lemuria, one that questioned the intentions of their god. you told them that it is a good thing, the appearance of the devout follower, for it means that he will soon be the sea god.

lemuria calms down, and you are left with a heavy heart.

“please, put the flowers at the base of the pillars,” you instruct, watching the lemurians helping you prepare the temple for the ceremony. “and have them go up and wrap around the pillars.”

“yes, divine priestess.”

you smile, glancing to your side. arabelle stands next to you, her attention elsewhere. you tuck her black hair behind her ear, making sure it won’t tangle itself with the string of the veil she wears around her mouth—the one you used to don when you were training to be the god of tides’ priestess. “what is on your mind?”

arabelle looks at you, her silver eyes hesitant. “…miss priestess.”

“yes?”

“why are you not with him? are you not his devout follower?”

are you not his devout follower? the words echo loudly in your head.

“…it is because i am his priestess,” you answer carefully. “i cannot be the devout follower for the ceremony for i am needed by both the temple and the people.”

a deep and vibrant blue taints her silver eyes, seeping into the irises until it is fully consumed. glowing, blue eyes stare into your widened ones.

“you are his most devout follower,” a voice rings out from arabelle’s throat, sounding like rafayel’s yet different. “you are the one with the most blessed bond with him, the only one chosen by the deep sea and sea god.”

you watch as silver slowly replaces the blue in her irises. arabelle frowns, “it should be you in the temple tomorrow, miss priestess.” she quickly waves her hands in a panicked manner, shaking her head. “not that i doubt the god of tides! it just makes more sense for you—” she stops, her gaze downcast as you chuckle.

“it is fine to have doubts,” you tell her, gently ruffling her hair. “just don’t let anyone hear of them.”

the bells ring, and you and the girl watch everyone inside the temple trickle out before the doors close. you hold out your hand, arabelle grabbing it, and lead her to the room you used to stay in when you were younger. your eyes rake around it, noting how it lost all of your quirks and now reflects arabelle’s personality. her desk is piled up with neatly stacked books and sea shells decorate her walls.

“you know where to find me if you need anything, right?” you ask by the door. arabelle nods as she takes off her veil, grinning at you. “then i wish you a goodnight.”

“goodnight, miss priestess!”

you make it down the hall before a familiar voice speaks up.

“i did not know that i appointed a new priestess.”

he emerges from the shadows of the corridor that leads to your room. you spare a glance at him before walking past him, merely letting out a huff. “is that so?”

the god of tides follows after you. “why did you not tell me?”

“i am busy,” you shrug. “after all, i have to prepare the temple and the citizens accordingly for the ceremony. it is only natural i take in a child in these… lively times.”

“but that child was not chosen by me.” there is exasperation in his tone, and it irks you. what is there for him to be annoyed at?

“did she have to?” you swivel around to face him and tilt your head to the side, your eyes slightly narrowed. “you are busy with… your own affairs, so it falls to me to make these decisions for the greater good of lemuria.”

dual toned eyes stare at you with a sort of emotion you can’t pinpoint. perhaps it is anger that swirls in his blue and pink irises. “you—”

“i do not have time for this,” you mutter, turning around and continuing your walk back to your room. “and neither do you.”

“but y/n—”

“priestess y/n,” you correct, stopping at the entrance of your room. you push the door open and pause, “it is priestess y/n, my lord.”

“my lord?” the god of tides repeats, baffled. “since when have you called me that? since when have we used titles?”

“i have realized that i have grown lenient,” you reply, taking a step into your room. with a deep breath, you continue, “you and i have grown lenient.”

“lenient?” he repeats. “why do you say that?”

“because a priestess should not be calling their god by first name. our relationship should not be what it is now.”

“what are you—”

you take another step inside, twisting around to face him. your heart pounds in your chest, painfully aching at the words you’ve uttered. yet, you do not back down. he chose this as soon as he brought forth the human as his devout follower, and you are finally drawing the line. you should’ve done it ages ago for your relationship was never supposed to grow to this extent.

there was always going to be a line separating the two of you, and you both chose to ignore it when you were younger. but you are older now, so you will finally address it.

“goodnight, my lord,” you say, slowly closing the door. “rest now, for the ceremony is tomorrow.”

there is a soft clicking sound the echoes quietly in the dark corridor as soon as the door closes.

there is a statue outside of the temple, one that the head of the village had commissioned to get done when you were a kid, of the god of tides. you kneel in front of it, eyes closed and your hands clasped tightly. you are tense and rigid, arabelle’s words repeating in your head like a broken record.

the sea god and his devout follower have gone to the surface.

you want to let out a bitter scoff, you want to roll your eyes to the back of your skull at his sheer audacity to do such a thing on this important day.

but you don’t.

you instead pray, but you don’t pray to the god of tides. no, you pray to the deep sea. you pray that today be blessed, that the ceremony would go smoothly.

there is a shift in the currents, the singing of the fishes of his arrival flows into your ears.

“the ceremony will begin now,” you mumble, eyes still closed. “go tell them. i will continue to pray.”

there is a shuffle next to you followed by running footsteps that soon fades away.

you sigh, shoulder slumping. let the ceremony go smoothly, you pray, give him the strength to do what must be done. you pray to the deep sea because you aren’t sure if he will do what has to be done.

a sudden chill falls on you like a blanket, making your eyes snap open. whalefall city is plunged in darkness, and the sea is silent until your ears pick up the panicked shouts of the lemurians. you rush into the city, finding everyone gathered at the bottom of the road that leads up to the temple.

“divine priestess! has the ceremony gone wrong?”

“what are we to do?”

“divine priestess, what is going on?”

“are we doomed?”

“my brethren,” you say softly, holding out an open hand. bright, blue swirls appear, rendering everyone silent. “you must stay calm. the ceremony is still ongoing. we—”

everyone screams and yells as the ground suddenly shakes, the sea growing violent as it sends currents everywhere.

“stay close to me!” you yell.

you’re about to fall onto the ground after another violent shake from the seafloor, yet the water holds you above the ground. the deep sea, despite its anger, is still looking after you.

but the same cannot be said for the rest.

much less for him.

because everyone gasps, their attention drawn to the crumbling sight of their beloved temple. your eyes are wide with shock.

the ceremony has—

the shaking stops and the sea is calm.

“miss priestess,” arabelle walks up to you, a slight tremble in her hands as she places it on your arm. “has the ceremony gone wrong?”

you don’t know what to say. “arabelle—”

“look!”

the sea god emerges from the rubble, holding onto a tiny flame that flickers dangerously so… the devout follower is nowhere in sight.

“the ceremony is a success!” someone shouts.

cheers erupt amongst the lemurians.

“the sea god is among us now!”

no, you think. he is not the sea god.

the ceremony was a failure, and he has doomed you all. it is just as the deep sea had told you: disaster.

the sea god disappeared, leaving whalefall city alone with the divine priestess of the deep sea. he has not appeared in many years, not even as the city plunges to the depths of the sea. he does not show his face when you help everyone evacuate the city, though you don’t go with them.

“must you stay here alone, miss priestess?”

arabelle now reaches your shoulders, having grown quite the bit over the years. you smile and ruffle her hair, “i must stay here and pray for everyone’s safety.”

“i can do that in your place!”

“you cannot,” you answer firmly. “as the divine priestess, i must stay here to pray in order to ensure everyone’s safety.” you sigh and grab arabelle’s shoulder, squeezing them softly. “arabelle, i chose you for a reason. you must lead them, help them build anew.”

the girl slowly nods. “i will do as you say, miss priestess.”

you smile wider, pushing her slightly towards the lemurians that wait for her. “go now.”

“miss priestess, will i… will i see you again?"

all you can do is continue to smile, “goodbye arabelle. may the deep sea protect you on this journey.”

you watch the lemurians leave their home until your eyes no longer can. that’s when you head to the ruins of the temple and watch with disdain at the crumbling statue of the person you used to love. you will the anger to go away, not wanting your last moments to be of hatred. no, you want your last moments to be filled with hope that the lemurians of whalefall city may build their new lives easily without trouble.

your eyes close when you start feel your tail grow lighter and how it travels up your body slowly. you mournfully sing goodbye to your people and to the sea you love so much, stopping to utter a final prayer to the deep sea.

“do not let me meet him again, oh deep sea,” you mumble. “i wish to not see him again.”

and then you’re gone, reduced to foam.

you’re gone and he heard you whisper your final words in the form of a prayer to the deep sea and not to him, making his chest feel like it is about to cave in.

you’re gone and he watched as you turned into sea foam, the color so alike to your hair that it makes him sick.

rafayel closes his eyes from where he is, letting out his final breath. what was the color of your hair before it had turned into the color sea-foam? he cannot remember.

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taglist (open). @bakutual @nadinefromwhere @justmystical @holywaterbucketchallenge @megufushi @bellslovemachine @roobiedoobiedoo @reiofsuns2001

OCEAN MEMORIES, yuansie 2025

[red5cars]

shepherd's pie - the meeting

soap x f!reader tags: mentions of religion and purity culture (purity rings), lighthearted, soap being an ass an: been thinking of johnny tormenting his poor religious neighbor and this came to be. moreso for fun (a rarity). enjoy!

imagine moving across the world for your faith. maybe that wasn't the entire reason but the little town you picked were filled with people like you.

devout, condescending, catholics.

it was different, but familiar, home away from home. at the very least, you wouldn't feel out of place.

or so you thought.

the apartment was.. quaint, to say the least.

nothing outlandish considering the budget you were working with, but it seemed it was made with the intention of hosting one person and one person only.

though, who were you to complain about one of god's gifts? (or rather, your pastor's connections if you'd like to get specific)

moving to a different country is no easy or cheap feat, packing up your life to start anew in a place where no one knows you.

in truth, you were aching to get away. there was nothing wrong with the town you originated from, all the citizens sweet and southern, but static. unchanging in a world that was known for nothing but change.

it was like a broken record, interacting with the same people day in and day out. a change of scenery was in order the moment you realized you could predict miss julianne's answer to "what did you do this weekend"?

prophetic gifts or not, staying there offered nothing but stale comfort. and you needed, deserved something fresh.

which lead you here; standing in the middle of an unfurnished, off-white, cramped flat. aka, your new home.

well, you need to make it feel like home first.

knock knock.

before you can even start sifting through boxes, a firm knock on the door interrupts you. strange, you're positive the moving company got everything (if they didn't, it's no big deal. you had to downsize a considerable amount for the move), so it could just be someone knocking on the wrong door.

you chalk it up to just that, moving back to the task at hand. grabbing your key, lining it up with the edge of the tape before digging it in and-

knock knock knock.

okay, maybe they have the right door.

the knocks continue, becoming quicker in succession as you make your way to the door. your fingers pinch the lock, taking a deep breath before twisting it and then the doorknob.

"'bout time ye opened up th' door, makin' me wait till fuckin' christ- …mas.."

a man, with the most obscene haircut you've ever saw, stands in front of you. for a moment, it seemed every bone in his body had nothing but hate. that is, till he laid his eyes on you, disappearing and leaving confusion in it's absence.

"..ye're not mitch," he says, looking you up and down, deciding if you're real or not.

in response, you shake your head, offering up a soft smile, "no, i'm not. i'm actually the new tenant, and you?"

he stares at you for a minute longer, darting between your face and the space behind you. it's almost uncomfortable how long it takes for him to process this information but the moment he does, his lips curl upwards, body leaning against the frame.

"new tenant?" he repeats, watching you nod your head in confirmation, "well, didnae ken mitch left his place ta such a bonnie thing," he sucks his teeth in after, eyes roving over your form in a different way. secular, sensual, words that begin with 's'.

strange and discomforting flattery aside, you've only just met the man. may as well give him the benefit of the doubt.

you hope he doesn't notice the slight strain in your smile, "yes i actually just moved in this morning." you give him your name, which he immediately tries on his lips. "bi' foreign," he says, and you can only nod in agreement.

"and you are-" he hardly gives you a chance to ask, reaching out and taking your hand in his. he shakes it enthusiastically, the force of his movement making you follow along. whatever benefit you gave him is long forgotten now, as well is the appropriate amount of time for strangers to make physical contact.

"johnny, but a'body calls me th' most braw jim ye'll ever meet," while not the most clear, his cocky attitude communicates enough. to think one of the first people you meet in this apparently "holy" town seems anything but.

the smile on your face becomes harder to maintain, especially when he has not let go of your hand. desperate to get away, you begin to slip your hand out of his, the other pushing on your door, "well, it was nice meeting you, johnny, but i'm a bit busy so if you'll excuse me," you manage to retract your hand completely from his grasp, only needing to close the door and you'll be rid of him.

unfortunately, it isn't that easy.

it happens in a blur, johnny grabbing your hand again, not to shake, but to examine. his sudden movement takes you by surprise, and you can no longer maintain pleasantries with this brute, "johnny!"

"this a purity ring?" he asks abruptly, turning your hand over in his, steel blue eyes honed in on the metallic band on your left finger.

his question stuns you. this.. caveman, who has done nothing but eye you, squeeze your hand, and just make you uncomfortable is now brushing his thumb over the engravement of Matthew 5:8 on your purity ring, which you didn't even expect him to know what it is!

then again, he has done nothing but subvert your expectations since meeting him five minutes ago.

rather than a simple slip, you go ahead and yank your hand away, cradling it in it's partner, "yes.. why?" it's like soothing a burn, the memory of his skin still hot on yours.

his eyes are still glued to your ring, slowly ascending to meet your gaze. in a way, it's intense, holding all of your attention. then, he eases it by breaking into a simple smile, "well, didnae take ye for a religious hen, bonnie. i myself am a believer," his hand moves to his shirt, fishing out a necklace from beneath the collar. no way, he can't, it-

sure enough, dangling from his gold chain is a dainty cross.

"..oh," it should reassure you, but does anything but.

johnny only nods, tucking it back under his shirt, "aye, nae as devout but i still partake every now an' then," he says, rambling a bit as you attempt to make sense of who the man before you really is.

"..got a purity ring myself," you tune back in when he says it, noting the way his smile has shifted back into a grin. you're tempted to say something in response, but nothing comes to mind, still reeling from the prior discovery.

"y'ken," his voice drops to a whisper, "i hav' it on me" it's like he's sharing a secret, the way he inches closer as he speaks.

your mouth remains shut but your eyes ask where is it? which makes him crack into a full grin.

he gets closer, a hairs breadth keeping you apart. johnny's hand reaches back out for your ringed one, stroking your finger as he tells you:

"well, had ta get it resized to fit 'round my cock."

it's the last straw, pulling yourself back and slamming the door shut on him. as you lean against the door, you can feel your heart pounding in your ears. oh gosh, this man, he's.. he's..

"nice t'meet ye, neighbor!"

he's the devil himself.

[anneapocalypse]

Urianger’s Faith

I think Urianger’s faith is a core part of his character. In fact, I think that most other things about him—his history of secrecy and deception, his lifelong fascination with prophecy, and his growth over a multi-expansion character arc—are better understood in the context of it. So that’s what I want to talk about today!

This essay contains major plot spoilers through Endwalker. It's also really long.

Urianger’s Religion

We should probably talk about what, exactly, Urianger's faith is—or, to start, what his religion is. Like the majority of Eorzeans, and so far as we know, all of the core Scions, Urianger is a Twelve-worshipper. Rites and customs vary widely between the different regions of Eorzea depending upon their patron deity and the local culture, but while the worship of Rhalgr may look very different from the worship of Halone, they all fall under the same pantheon, and their devotees ascribe to a shared mythos regarding these gods and their relations with one another. In brief, there are believed to be Twelve deities, with various familial relationships to one another, who rule over and guide various aspects of the world and life within it. There exist seven hells and seven heavens, created and presided over by the gods, to which mortals will be sent in death according to their deeds in life.

Born in the Sharlayan colony (according to anecdotes about Urianger and Moenbryda in Encyclopedia Eorzea), and presumably raised there until the exodus when he would have returned to the motherland, Urianger’s patron deity is Thaliak, and accordingly when he invokes a singular deity it tends to be the Scholar, as in this rather sarcastic-sounding greeting to Alphinaud in the Heavensward patches:

Why, Master Alphinaud. Would that the Scholar had seen fit to grant me knowledge of thy coming. What bringeth thee and thine here this day?

As in the real world, it’s not uncommon for characters to invoke the names of their gods in casual, humorous, and downright irreverent ways, such as the well-known exclamation of “Thal’s balls!” among Ul’dahns. Similarly, just as an utterance of “Jesus Christ!” does not necessary indicate a profound Christian faith in the real world, characters exclaiming “By the Twelve!” or “Gods be good!” does not alone indicate that they are especially devout.

I think it’s probably safe to say that the followers of Louisoix who comprised the Circle of Knowing are, at the very least, more than nominal adherents of Twelve-worship. As seen in the “End of an Era” video, it is in part their prayers that summoned primal versions of the Twelve in an attempt to contain Bahamut.

I think it is possible, however, to single out Urianger as especially religious even relative to his comrades. There are numerous instances in his dialogue that I think demonstrate a singular faith. He regularly interprets good fortune in terms of the favor of the gods to a greater extent that his colleagues. As late as Shadowbringers, for example, when Y’shtola is rescued from the aetherial sea for the second time, he says:

In all of history, there are but few who have returned from a misadventure in the aetherial sea possessed of mind and body both. To have done so twice beggereth belief. 'Tis plain Y'shtola wanteth not for favor among the Twelve.

However, I think it would also be inaccurate and incomplete to say that Urianger’s faith is wholly centered around the Twelve.

Hydaelyn as Mother-Goddess

If you’re going purely by 2.0 onward, I think it’s easy to miss that a broad awareness of Hydaelyn as a personage (as opposed to simply the name of the star) is a fairly new development in Eorzea. Sharlayan, at the forefront of aetherological studies, has been well ahead of the curve on this, with scholars theorizing not only a concentration of aether at the core of the star which they have termed "the Mothercrystal," but possibly even a consciousness, a "will of the star," sometimes also called "the will of Light." This theory was confirmed when the scholars of Sharlayan succeeded in contacting Hydaelyn through the Antitower in the Dravanian colony, granting them knowledge of the Final Days, and directly leading to the exodus from the colony and subsequent preparations for a potential exodus from the star itself. This knowledge was intentionally kept extremely secret, however, even from most Sharlayan citizens, nevermind the rest of Eorzea.

Any conception of Hydaelyn as a deity is a novel concept, and not a part of traditional Twelve worship. We don't generally hear common people invoke Hydaelyn as they would a deity; it's usually one or all of the Twelve. As recently as five years ago, in 1.0, the true nature of the Echo was still widely unknown; Minfilia’s Echo support group was called The Path of the Twelve because the phenomenon was, understandably, believed to be a gift from the gods. The various powers granted by the Echo had been previously documented, but it is only in recent years that they have been hypothesized (Encyclopedia Eorzea specifically uses the word "hypothesized" rather than "believed") to be a gift from Hydaelyn. "Blessing of Light," likewise, is a broad term referring to a variety of phenomena in which Hydaelyn seems to directly communicate with Echo bearers or intervene on their behalf. EE1 tells us that "despite their frequency, little is known about them. However, it is assumed that many of the 'miracles' which appear in myth and legend are actually instances of Hydaelyn bestowing Her blessing upon an individual." Again, this appears to be a recent theory recontextualizing a set of long-documented but poorly-understood phenomena. Any understanding of the struggle between Hydaelyn and Zodiark is also noted here as a recent discovery by the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.

(As a sidenote, I don't think it's necessary for our purposes here to get too hung up on where the Echo ends and the blessing of Light begins, as at the end of the day both are umbrella terms for a broad set of distinct but overlapping phenomena that come from Hydaelyn.)

It's probably also important to note that this evolving understanding of Hydaelyn is one both spiritual and scientific. By the time we meet them in ARR, it does seem clear that the Scions have already developed a view of Hydaelyn as a mother-goddess figure, but they're also devoted to deepening their understanding of the world through observation and study. They're working closely with the Students of Baldesion from the beginning of ARR (and a couple of Students can be found hanging out in the Waking Sands in the early game). They are willing to modify their beliefs based on new evidence, and indeed, over the course of the next few expansions, a whole lot of new evidence is going to surface. The political leaders who stood with Louisoix at Carteneau—Admiral Merlwyb, General Raubahn, Elder Seedseer Kan-E-Senna—are also familiar with these novel theories. When the Warrior of Light has their first direct contact with Hydaelyn in the introduction to ARR, thereby receiving a Blessing of Light, it is both their Scion representative and the leader of their starting city who explain to them the meaning of their vision and the crystal of Light they now bear.

And novel though it may be, it is clear that the arrival of the Warrior of Light only strengthens the Scions' belief in Hydaelyn. I think this adds important context to the Scions' reception of the player character and the way they look upon that character as such a beacon of hope. It's not just that the WoL is possessed of great strength and skill, or even that they have the Echo; it's that their experiences are actively confirming the Scions' developing theories about Hydaelyn.

Yet for all their approach to understanding Hydaelyn is of a scientific bent, their relationship to Hydaelyn on a personal level still has a distinctly religious flavor—particularly for Minfilia and Urianger. I'll be bringing up Minfilia a few times here, both because her story is deeply intertwined with Urianger's and because I think in some ways they have a lot in common.

Minfilia herself is an Echo-bearer, though it seems like prior to the end of the ARR patches, she has not experienced the blessing of Light in the way the Warrior of Light has. Nonetheless, as she escapes with the Warrior of Light through the watercourse, it is to her that Hydaelyn speaks—and Minfilia heeds Her call, urging the Warrior of Light onward without her, while she runs back to be caught up in Y'shtola's Flow spell and carried into the aetherial sea.

This much, it seems, was Hydaelyn's doing. But something that I think is often missed about Minfilia is that she does not become the Word of the Mother against her will. Hydaelyn does not pull her into the aetherial sea and simply consume her; with Her power so diminished, she probably couldn’t have done that even had she wanted to. Hydaelyn merely guides Minfilia back toward Y'shtola to be caught in the Flow spell. Whatever Hydaelyn’s intentions (which we can’t know for certain), it’s entirely possible that had Minfilia not made a choice, the Seedseers might have pulled her from the aetherial sea alongside Y'shtola, or she might have eventually materialized malms away in the wilderness like Thancred.

In Minfilia's own words:

There, adrift and alone, Her voice silent once more, I prayed... For those we have lost. For those we can yet save. To Her I would make an offering...

Minfilia gives herself to Hydaelyn. She understands—all the Scions understand—that Hydaelyn is profoundly weakened after protecting the Warrior of Light against the Ultima Weapon. She understands that the only way Hydaelyn might intervene in the present crisis is if She can regain some of her strength, and for that, She would need an offering of aether… and Minfilia, having faith that Hydaelyn will intervene, offers herself.

Though it comes at great cost to her and to the people who love her, Minfilia's faith is rewarded. The Warrior of Light survives. Little by little, Hydaelyn does regain strength, and is finally able to speak to the Warrior of Light again and begin to restore what Midgardsormr stripped from them. The Scions rebuild themselves and continue their work. Through Minfilia, Hydaelyn is able to communicate truths lost to time, to help the Scions better understand the struggles they face. And ultimately, Minfilia goes on to save another reflection and its people from total destruction.

What Minfilia understands, Urianger also understands.

The first time Urianger really caught my attention was in the Warriors of Darkness storyline in the Heavensward patches. I love that whole storyline and what it established about his character, and I love how much it set up threads that will be further explored and paid off later. Shadowbringers was a true delight for me, not just because Urianger is so central to it, or because I love the story in its own right (though those are both true things) but also because it is the resolution of this storyline.

The way Urianger calls upon Hydaelyn after the invocation of the crystals has always stuck in mind:

Mother Hydaelyn, hearken unto Your children's plea! From two worlds do we gather, and from two worlds do we offer a bounty of Light. In this desperate hour, we do beseech Your intercession! We beg an audience with the Word of the Mother─with Your chosen, Minfilia!

Urianger possesses a flair for the dramatic generally, of course. And at the same time, this has always struck me as such an earnest prayer. Even in Her weakened state, he has faith that if they can only invoke the combined power of the crystals of Light—an offering of aether!—She will be both willing and able to work with them to save another shard, which is Her aim as well.

And he’s right. Though it comes at great cost, Urianger’s faith in Hydaelyn is rewarded here.

The Invocation of Saints

While Thaliak may be Urianger's patron deity in the strictest sense, I think his faith rests much more strongly in a figure closer to home: his late master, Louisoix Leveilleur.

All of the core Scions have great respect for Louisoix, even what might be called reverence. I don't think it's a reach to say that the Archons of his Circle of Knowing view him, not only as an expert in prophecy, but as a kind of prophet himself. In an Echo flashback to a time before the Calamity in the introductory questline, you might see Y'shtola saying, "It is as Louisoix foretold…" or Papalymo saying, "…just as Louisoix forewarned," depending on your starting city. Thancred, notably, seems to take a more practical view, saying, "Louisoix will know what to do. We need only trust in his judgment," focusing more on his master's wisdom in the present than foreknowledge of the future. Nevertheless, it is clear that all of them put a profound faith in their mentor. Later in ARR, we see Thancred berate himself for arriving too late to prevent Ifrit from tempering nearby soldiers, saying, "Lousioix would never have allowed this to happen."

For Urianger and Minfilia, this reverence takes on a particular flavor.

Urianger's very first words to the Warrior of Light in 2.0 are: "Dawn may banish even the darkest night…" This is the beginning of a well-known writing of Louisoix, which we later hear in full from the Wandering Minstrel, who has arranged them into verse (though he notes that they were not originally written as poetry):

Dawn may banish even the darkest night, Yet ever shall primal desires burn. Two swords shall vie to lay them low─ A blade born of light and a blade forged of might. Alas, man may entrust his fate unto but one.

I think it's very likely Urianger meant to recite the whole thing, finding it a prescient introduction both to the Scions’ work and what role the Warrior of Light might play in it. However, Minfilia gives him a Look which I think suggests he is losing his audience, and Urianger seemingly course-corrects, saying, "The words of a dear friend. I am glad of our meeting." Nonetheless, it seems clear to me that he holds the words of Louisoix in the same regard he would any canonical prophet, and looks to them for guidance in the man's absence.

In the middle of A Realm Reborn, while the Waking Sands are still bustling with Scions going about their work and new recruits waiting for their first mission, Urianger may be found conversing in a very animated (if perhaps one-sided) fashion with a group of adventurers. If spoken to, he has the following to say:

Knowest thou the import of the broken staff within the solar? It fell from the grasp of Archon Louisoix, the man who, in his abiding love for all Eorzeans, shielded us against the storm of the Calamity.

The way he describes his late master feels almost like a christ figure. Have you heard about our lord and savior Louisoix, who so loved the world that he died to save us?

Both Minfilia and Urianger pray directly to Louisoix at certain points in the story. Furthermore, they both make reference to Louisoix watching over them and even guiding their path forward. Y'shtola, too, seems to hold this view. After the attack on the Waking Sands, she says, "It is as if the benevolent hand of Master Louisoix guides us still. He would not see us undone so easily. Not now, when the need is so great." In an Echo flashback, just before the attack on the Wakings Sands, we see Minfilia look up to the fragments of Tupsimati upon the wall of the Solar and say, "Louisoix, do you see? Your light shines brightly in this one. And in time, it will illuminate the realm once more." In the patches, as the Scions prepare to depart for Mor Dhona, she asks, "Tell me, Louisoix... Would you have done the same?" And in learning that Hydaelyn has been silent to both herself and the Warrior of Light, she says, "Then She speaks to neither one of us. Hydaelyn's silence portends naught but ill, I fear. Louisoix… I pray you yet watch over us…"

And as Urianger brings his plan with the Warriors of Darkness to fruition, just before calling upon the Warrior of Light to invoke the power of their crystals, he utters, "Master Louisoix, guide my hand, I pray you, as fate's thread spinneth upon this most capricious spindle." (Note that as with Hydaelyn, and with Louisoix’s grandchildren, Urianger uses the formal you rather than the informal thou.)

While for other Scions, these invocations largely fall away after ARR, for Urianger they do not. As late as Endwalker, he still prays to his late master and invokes his protection:

'Tis no meager delight to watch Alisaie and Alphinaud grow more resolute in mind and heart. And remarkable though their accomplishments may be, I doubt not that they are destined for still greater things. Grant them thy protection, Master Louisoix. I implore thee…

As the Scions call upon their various allies and prepare to use salvaged Allagan technology to craft a vessel to ferry people to the moon, Urianger has this idle remark:

What serendipitous irony that the remnants of the Seventh Umbral Calamity would become the keys to mankind's salvation. Never more certain have I been that Master Louisoix watcheth over us from the aetherial sea...

In this, it is plain that Urianger's faith is deeply tied not merely to distant gods, but to one particularly trusted mortal leader.

Faith, Science, and Flexibility of Mind

Above, I discussed how the Scions’ understanding of Hydaelyn is both scientific and spiritual. It is also worth noting that this idea of the dead watching over them from the aetherial sea seems somewhat divergent from the standard beliefs of Twelve-worship, the seven heavens and hells to which mortals ascend or descend upon death depending on their deeds. Devout as they may be, the Scions’ beliefs about the afterlife are more aligned with the scientific findings of Sharlayan’s aetherologists. This is evident in 2.3, when Urianger and Minfilia review the principles of aetheric dissipation:

Minfilia: Before discussing our new discoveries, it may benefit us all to recall what we know of aetheric behavior. Minfilia: Let us begin at what some might call the end. When we who dwell in the material realm die, our spirits dissolve into the flow of aether, and are returned to the aetherial realm. Minfilia: In turn, the restless energy which suffuses that plane streams back into our world, giving rise to new life. Urianger: 'Tis as the heavens did decree─the way of all mortal souls. Urianger: 'Twixt this world and the next do the aetherial currents swirl, bearing the very essence of life. Thus doth the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth continue unabated.

I find this exchange particularly interesting, because it does not seem to me that the Scions see any conflict between their faith in the Twelve and their understanding of aetherological phenomena. In fact, Urianger explicitly frames the latter in spiritual terms: “’Tis as the heavens did decree.” Integrating a scientific understanding into his nonetheless devout worldview does not seem to be an issue for him, or for the Scions generally. This seems perfectly in keeping with the Sharlayan ethos to me, but it also seems pretty consistent with who Urianger is as a person, with his love of esoteric texts packed with metaphor and poetic imagination. Even were the tenets of Twelve-worship strictly codified across Eorzea, which I suspect they are not on the whole (Ishgard's strict textual orthodoxy seems to be the exception and not the rule), Urianger is not a literalist. It’s probably not a reach for him to interpret "hells and heavens" as poetic interpretations of observable reality.

Urianger will later say that his studies in prophecies have granted him a “flexibility of mind,” and I think that’s an accurate descriptor.

The Art of Foreknowledge

At the heart of Urianger's faith is his belief in foreknowledge and fate.

We are told that prophetic works have fascinated Urianger from a young age—and at this point, I think we need to take a step back and talk about what, exactly, prophecy is in this world. So far as I know, Final Fantasy XIV doesn’t ever really give us a clear definition, but we can deduce some things from context.

Divination takes a variety of forms in this universe, from the astrology we see in Sharlayan and Ishgardian practice, to tomes of poetic verse which are accepted as having some true bearing on the future or the nature of the world or both. It is the latter which is Urianger’s primary field of expertise, though he does seem to have some background in the theory of astrology, and takes it up in practice later on.

That part about certain texts being widely accepted as prophetic is pretty important. We can guess that among scholars of prophecy there is an accepted canon of sorts—works which are acknowledged by scholarly consensus as bearing prophetic relevance. In the cutscene with Elidibus in the Great Gubal Library, Urianger initially scoffs at the Gerun Oracles as “apocrypha”: non-canon, not accepted in scholarly circles as significant. (Elidibus, of course, refutes this by calling it “a truth long forgotten.”)

Prophecy in fantasy fiction often focuses primarily on predictions of the future, but there is a more nuanced understanding to be had of prophecy as speaking of past, present, andfuture, and of truths fundamental to the nature of reality. This is certainly true of many of the texts we hear Urianger recite. Some offer a more vague sort of wisdom, such as the verse Urianger recites for the Scions upon their departure to the Far East:

Look ye where the sun doth rise, see crimson embers, dark'ning skies... Look ye where the sun doth fall, see azure lost amidst the squall.

There is certainly some meaning to be found in these words with regard to the events of Stormblood: conflict in both east and west, war on both horizons. "Azure lost amidst the squall" might even be interpreted as a poetic reference to Estinien's activities. Still, these words offer no great revelations. Compare this to the Gerun Oracles, which Urianger comes to accept it as not only true, but corroborating the revelations of the Word of the Mother with regard to the Sundering, the Reflections, and their destruction in the Umbral Calamities. Even of this text, Urianger acknowledges, "their copious use of allegory defieth any single interpretation." Prophetic texts, it seems, are rarely straightforward.

So, we return to the question: what is prophecy? Where did these writers gain the insights which they put to verse? Did they even understand their significance at the time of writing? Unfortunately, in this regard we really have only conjecture. I think it's easy enough to come up with plausible theories. The prophets might have been experiencing the Echo; they might have had contact with Ascians; they might have been spoken to by Hydaelyn Herself. The game, alas, does not offer us these answers. Indeed, even of the text most central to Louisoix's journey into Eorzea we know almost nothing.

The Divine Chronicles of Mezaya Thousand-Eyes are a series of prophetic writings that seem to describe each of the first six umbral calamities. This text is so widely-known that even Garleans are familiar with it and the Legatus Nael van Darnus of 1.0 fame also apparently regarded it as prophetic (according to GamerEscape’s 1.0 summary, The Rise and Fall of the White Raven). Of the famed prophetess who penned it, we have almost no information at all. The various fan wikis don't even have pages for her, as there is basically nothing to include there. Her writings, however, seem to be accepted as prophetic. In fact, the six verses of the Chronicles were widely cited as proof that no further Calamities would occur… until a seventh verse was found inscribed on a stone tablet in a cave.

Louisoix Leveilleur, Sharlayan's foremost expert on prophecy, believed this verse pointed to a seventh impending calamity. According the the Unending Codex, it was for this reason that Urianger joined the Circle of Knowing, seeking to understand the truth of this text. And the belief that Eorzea would soon be plunged into another calamity led Louisoix to leave Sharlayan with his followers and venture south into Eorzea to help her city-states prepare for the worst.

In their understanding of this prophetic text, they found purpose. Which leads us to…

Fate and Purpose

I want to return to Urianger's words about Louisoix in the Waking Sands, specifically the latter part of it:

The stars wheel across the heavens, and the skies brighten once more. The survivors gather, and ignite a fiery dawn to burn away the glowering shroud. Ah, but destiny, thou art beautiful...

Destiny, thou art beautiful. This is how Urianger conceptualizes the Scions gathering in the wake of their beloved master's sacrifice. We're still about mid-ARR here, before the Warrior of Light has slain Titan. Compare to Y'shtola's idle dialogue at the same point in MSQ:

As you have doubtless witnessed in your travels, the lands of Eorzea are gasping under the pall of a suffocating darkness. I must wonder if it is this darkness that invites disaster, or simply that disaster has left such gloom in its wake. One thing is for certain: now is not the time to relax our vigilance.

Urianger is hardly unaware of the trials facing the Scions and Eorzea at large, and yet his framing of their present circumstances is distinctly one of hope. Where Y'shtola speaks ominously of "the pall of a suffocating darkness," Urianger speaks almost rapturously of "a fiery dawn to burn away the glowering shroud."

Keep in mind, too, that these words about the beauty of destiny follow directly from Urianger speaking of Louisoix's death. This sentiment will be echoed later when, upon the death of his oldest and dearest friend, Urianger declares, "The moon sinketh, taking her leave of the heavens. Yet her passing heraldeth the coming of a new day. Moenbryda hath fulfilled her destiny, hath she not?"

This is Urianger's response to loss. He affirms his belief in fate—not simply in predestination, in a future that may be foreseen, but in a brighter future that will give purpose to such sacrifices.

Encyclopedia Eorzea Volume 3 tells us that Urianger’s parents rarely had time for him as a child, occupied as they were with their own research. I think this likely impressed upon him from a young age that there was always something more important than him. And when his parents effectively abandoned him with the neighbors and departed for “parts unknown,” never to return, that idea would only have been solidified.

For a child already fascinated by prophecy and the idea of fate, I imagine it could have offered some kind of comfort to believe that the pain of his abandonment was all for a higher purpose, a greater good.

I can imagine how this belief, so ingrained in him as a child, could lead him to go along with his mentor even when Louisoix declared that Moenbryda must stay behind, and offered her no explanation as to why. It's clear that Urianger felt some guilt in the wake of this decision, specifically his choice not to explain Lousioix's intentions, believing their master wanted Moenbryda to come to that understanding on her own. As he laments after his friend's death, "Knowingly did I deny my friend the comfort she craved." Yet he did all of this, undoubtedly, not only out of faith in his mentor's judgment, but because he believed it to be in service of a greater good. And in fact, he seems to take Moenbryda's final words as affirmation that Louisoix was, in fact, correct. "The realization hath set her free. She may now find the peace which hath for so long eluded her."

So in the end, to his thinking, it all worked out as it was meant to.

I don't think Urianger believes that the future is set in stone. If that were the case, then personal choice would be meaningless; there would have been no reason to intervene in the first place, to warn the Eorzean nations of the Calamity, if the future would play out the same regardless. Indeed, Urianger speaks frequently of choice, and agonizes over the difficult choices he holds himself responsible for making.

What he does believe for a long time, I think, is that in the face of an impending and forewarned crisis, there is often only one path forward to avert it. The role of the one who would heed the warnings of the prophets is to make the necessary choices no matter how painful, to take the necessary actions, to make what sacrifices must be made.

When he overhears his oldest and dearest friend about to sacrifice herself to destroy an Ascian, he does not intervene to stop her. He speaks of her having "fulfilled her destiny," even as he will torment himself for this decision for a long time to come.

And as the Scions face mounting challenges for which they are increasingly unprepared, Urianger increasingly decides that his role is to take those burdens upon himself.

Changing Roles

I did not get to experience 1.0 for myself, and so what I know of Urianger's role in it is sadly limited to what has been preserved by other fans. To the best of my understanding, his role was as a kind of doomsayer, traveling from settlement to settlement and sharing prophecies of the Calamities in an attention-getting manner. Though his approach was off-putting to many, his performance ultimately succeeded in its aim: serving as a diversion for the Garlean Empire, leading Legatus Nael van Darnus to fixate on apprehending him, while in the meantime Louisoix and his fellow archons were able to rally the Grand Companies to face the coming crisis. (@mirkemenagerie has a great post about that.)

By the time ARR begins, this performance is no longer needed, and Urianger has taken on a much different role in the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, an organization formed from the merger of Louisoix's Circle of Knowing and Minfilia's Path of the Twelve. He is now the keeper of the Waking Sands, and the Scions' primary adviser on primal lore, and only rarely ventures out in the field with his fellow Archons.

And I think that initially, Urianger seems happy enough with this role. Though he may not get out as much as he once did, the Waking Sands are lively with new recruits. Urianger can be seen at various points during ARR having spirited conversations with other NPCs. In one bit of idle dialogue, he says, "As the primals fall, so do our spirits soar. Though mine aid be but modest, I nonetheless am heartened in my duties."

Urianger is happy here. Though the Scions face many mounting trials, he is surrounded by a community united in purpose with a leader in whom he may place his trust, and his duty is clear.

It's not until the ARR patches, when things really go awry for the Scions, that we begin to see the seeds of doubt in our steadfast arcanist.

The Seeds of Doubt

The defeat of the Ultima Weapon fundamentally alters the Scions' path and their role in Eorzea. While they have always been in communication with Eorzea's leaders and called upon for aid, now they are thrust into the public eye in an unprecedented way. 2.1 opens with Minfilia reflecting upon the myriad support from various parties suddenly on offer—and the price that inevitably comes with it. Urianger seems to share her ambivalence:

'Tis the lot of the powerful to attract the covetous as well as the needy. Thus doth prudence dictate that those with power proffer aid with one hand whilst the other resteth ever on their hilt. Alas, we have not the luxury of time to decipher our petitioners' machinations─nay, not while the beast tribes do labor unseen, defiant in defeat, to raise up their fallen primals once more. Doubt not that they shall return─stronger and bolder both─nor that we shall be the ones to meet them. This sacred charge shall ever be ours. 'Tis but a pity we are so few, and our fortune so finite...

By this point, tragedy has already altered Urianger's surrounds irrevocably. The Garlean attack on the Waking Sands has left dead many of the people with whom he once socialized on a daily basis, leaving the Scions' headquarters a much quieter and more somber place. Urianger himself, fortunate enough to be one of those spared, endured capture and imprisonment.

And further change threatens to unsettle the place and the people amongst whom he has found a home. Despite Minfilia's reticence, we see her increasingly bow to the vision Alphinaud has for the Scions—what he sees as continuing the work his grandfather began. Repeatedly, we see the two of them clash over what is best for the Scions—and each time, we see Minfilia cede ground.

Urianger is not without his own concerns about the Scions’ new direction, though he refrains from clashing directly with either Alphinaud or Minfilia, likely out of his deep respect for both of them. Nonetheless, he chooses to stay behind in the Waking Sands and continue his research there. "I had thought to relinquish the property," Minfilia explains, "but he was quite adamant, and I had not the heart to disagree."

As the Scions prepare to depart for Mor Dhona, Urianger confides in the Warrior of Light:

Thou art ever welcome, [Forename], but I require no assistance. Pray take thy leave unburdened by concern for my well-being. Verily, thy countenance bespeaks a desire to quit this place without further delay. Hm. Mayhap thou thinkest this chapter of our tale concluded─that these halls should rightly be consigned to the annals of history...? In man's eagerness to seize the future, how readily he doth set down the past. Full many a proud pioneer hath bravely stridden into the great unknown, only to find there the banner of his ancestor, faded by the eons. And still man glorieth in his discoveries. 'Tis through his pride that wisdom doth ever give way to ignorance, while they who lurk in shadow remain hidden, lost no sooner than they are found. <sigh> Be not offended, [Forename]. Thy conduct hath ever been beyond reproach. Despite thy surpassing strength, and all thy many victories, thou hast never been so convinced of thine own greatness as to imagine thyself above the failings of thy forebears. Mayhap it is the Echo which hath opened thine eyes to the lessons of history. Would that the same could be said of─

(At which point he is cut off by Minfilia's scream as she is accosted by Elidibus.)

It is not difficult to imagine that in the midst of so much upheaval, Urianger's remaining in the Waking Sands might be his way of clinging to one familiar thing, a place he feels at home, even if it cannot be for him what it once was. That said, he clearly has very real concerns about the Scions' direction on the world stage, and worries that his trusted leader is failing to heed the lessons of history.

I have no doubt that Urianger has great love and respect for Minfilia, but I do think this is when his faith in her as a leader begins to waver a little. Whether he meant to name her or Alphinaud before he was cut off is ultimately irrelevant, as Minfilia has capitulated to Alphinaud's vision for the Scions. (And I don't mean to pick on Minfilia here; she's another one of my favorite characters, and I think she does the best she can with the circumstances in which she finds herself and largely does manage to rise to the challenge of leading the Scions in Louisoix's absence. Through no fault of her own, she's simply ill-equipped to handle the increasing visibility and political volatility of the Scions' position, and the deference with which all the Archons seem to feel they should treat Louisoix's grandchildren only further complicates an already messy situation.)

And the hits just keep coming. Up until now, the Scions have worked closely with the Students of Baldesion, receiving substantial support from the Sharlayan organization and frequently consulting them for their research. They've barely arrived at Revenant's Toll when Urianger brings the news that he is unable to contact the Students, and fears the worst. Not long after, contacts in Sharlayan confirm the shocking news that entire Isle of Val, where the Students had had their base, has vanished. Once again, these likely include colleagues and friends, people with whom Urianger once communicated regularly for a common purpose. Now missing under terrifying circumstances, and feared dead.

It is in the midst of such turmoil that Urianger makes a rare trek out into the field to observe a primal firsthand—feeling, perhaps, that in the absence of the allies who had once provided valuable insights, it is his duty to observe all he can, even if it's quite a departure from his usual domain of written lore. And not long after that, faced with the puzzle of tracking down Lady Iceheart's hidden aetheryte, he calls upon Moenbryda.

In the light of all that has come before, this is such an interesting choice. Moenbryda’s expertise in aetherology is certainly invaluable to their present crisis, but there’s no doubt that it would have been valuable at many points prior. Louisoix Leveilleur has been dead for five years. Only now, after the Scions have suffered major losses at the hands of the Garleans and lost even more with the disappearance of the Students of Baldesion, does Urianger contravene the will of his late mentor, and ask Moenbryda to come to Eorzea.

So far as we know, this might be the only time he’s ever done that.

I bring all this up because it is here, in the ARR patches, where we see Urianger begin in subtle ways to question the wisdom of his trusted leaders. I don’t think this means that he in any way doubts the intentions of Louisoix or of Minfilia, or their principles in the broad strokes. His reverence for Louisoix persists all the way to Endwalker, and he continues to behave with great deference toward Minfilia, as well as toward the twins. There’s just a subtle shift here from Urianger simply doing as he’s told, to Urianger acting out of his own sense of duty to do what he believes necessary.

I didn't realize until the conversation in Endwalker that the implication of Urianger’s “I heard all” is meant to be that he was there just offscreen listening when Moenbryda died, not simply that he heard the others discussing her death after the fact. Though he clearly did not overhear her words about understanding Louisoix’s sacrifice (as the Warrior of Light has to tell him), his Endwalker dialogue makes it clear that he could have called out to her and begged her to live—and he did not. Knowingly, he allowed her to sacrifice herself to destroy an Ascian—for the greater good.

Moenbryda hath fulfilled her destiny, hath she not? Thus does Urianger justify her sacrifice, as well as his own part in it, and thus does her death serve to reinforce his existing beliefs, even as it torments him with undeniable regret.

A Creed Sacrosanct

At the end of the ARR patches leading into Heavensward, the Urianger approached by Elidibus has seen nearly every person and institution in which he placed his faith crumble and vanish. Louisoix is dead, the Students of Baldesion missing and presumed dead, many other friends and colleagues lost, Minfilia missing, the remaining Scions scattered to the winds, the Waking Sands near-empty. Beyond what he may contribute to the search for the missing, coordinated by Tataru from distant Ishgard, Urianger is rudderless and leaderless both.

What remains is his faith in a greater good, in a higher purpose. And this time, when duty calls, he will choose to place that burden on none but himself.

The way Elidibus speaks to Urianger, I don’t doubt that he’s been observing the Archon for some time, because he seems to know exactly what buttons to push. For one thing, he approaches Urianger just when he is at his most vulnerable and alone. The Warriors of Darkness don’t actually come on the scene until post-Heavensward; Elidibus didn’t strictly need Urianger yet and doesn’t seem to have had him doing anything throughout Heavensward, but nonetheless, this is when he chooses to make contact. Upon their first meeting, he says, “I would speak of fate, Archon. Yours, mine—the fate of this very star.”

Later in 3.1, when we see them in the Great Gubal library and Urianger scoffs at the Gerun Oracles as apocryphal, Elidibus replies:

It is a truth long forgotten─a tale of the beginning, and of the path we have been set upon. Our fates were ordained long ago, Archon. The Garleans are no exception. Nor the Triad. You know what must be done.

We have only a few brief scenes of their interactions, and yet in these few words it’s made plain how Elidibus gained Urianger’s faith, not in his intentions, but in the truth of his words. As Urianger says later:

‘Twas in the hope of opening mine eyes to said revelation that they first came unto me, imagining it sufficient to secure mine allegiance. Nor would they have been mistaken─were my heart a temple to truth alone. But as a devoted follower of Master Louisoix's teachings, and for the love I bear him and his, I hearkened not to their words.

Elidibus is able to persuade Urianger of the truth of the Sundering, the Reflections, and the Rejoinings. Where he miscalculates is in missing Urianger’s core belief, his faith in the core of his mentor’s teachings, their entire purpose in coming to Eorzea: To ignore the plight of those one might conceivably save is not wisdom—it is indolence.

By the time his friends are found and the Scions begin to rebuild, Urianger is already in the weeds with Elidibus and the Warriors of Darkness, and that secret in itself serves to further isolate him from his friends—though clearly not without misgivings. After pushing Arbert to confront the Warrior of Light, we see Urianger in a private moment of doubt, saying to himself:

What good a creed one cannot uphold? What hurts soothed, what lives saved... O hapless fool, what hast thou wrought by thine own hands? Minfilia, my friends─I shall not now beg your forgiveness. Full deeply though it paineth me to walk it, I shall not stray from my chosen path. As Moenbryda remained steadfast, so too shall I...

And once again, Urianger places the greater good, those who may yet be saved, before all else. Once again he accepts, as a necessary sacrifice, the loss of a trusted leader and a dear friend—though in this case, it is worth noting, Minfilia is for all practical purposes already lost to her friends, having offered herself to Hydaelyn. It is impossible to say whether she could or would ever have returned to mortal life, given that she has made effectively the same sacrifice the Warriors of Darkness made; nonetheless, her willing journey to the First does, in the eyes of her friends, all but eliminate that possibility. Urianger does not send her to the First, despite what Alphinaud says in an emotional moment; he couldn’t have forced her to go, especially had it gone against Hydaelyn’s will. What he does is functionally what Elidibus did to him: he tells the truth, and offers a choice. As Urianger chose to act, as Moenbryda chose to act, so too does Minfilia.

Nonetheless, he accepts that his friends will hold him responsible, for her loss and for the deception both. This he considers an acceptable sacrifice for the salvation of a distant star. He accepts the burden of this responsibility—and ultimately, he sees his faith in Hydaelyn and in Minfilia rewarded. The First is saved from absolute destruction by Minfilia’s intervention.

It’s no wonder, then, that it takes Urianger so long to change direction. Every sacrifice up to this point has been devastating, but still seemed ultimately necessary. Louisoix. Moenbryda. Minfilia.

It’s no wonder that, upon arriving in the First and seeing what his actions have wrought, he agrees to go along with the Exarch’s plan.

The Point of Failure

Once again, Urianger accepts a temporary deception and a permanent sacrifice as necessary in the service of the greater good.

Though Elidibus and the Exarch have very different motives, I think there are some striking similarities in the way they approach Urianger. Both, it’s safe to say, have observed him and his personality, and deemed him the best choice of accomplice. Both persuade him by getting him alone, and once persuaded, keeping their secrets will further isolate him from his friends. When the Warrior of Light arrives in the First, the Scions are scattered and distant, each pursuing their goals alone, and I think it’s safe to say that the secrecy has contributed to that—particularly for Y’shtola, who seems to have realized early on both that the Exarch was hiding something and that Urianger’s vision didn’t pass the smell test.

Once again, we see Urianger having clear reservations about the path he’s chosen. He appears anguished in the Echo flashback with the Exarch, asking whether this is truly the Exarch’s wish before he agrees. When Y’shtola expresses her concern for the Warrior of Light, and questions him about the veracity of his “vision,” his eyes drop to the floor as if in shame. Still, as before, Urianger accepts that he will face condemnation for what he has been party to. Once again, he has faith that it will all be worth it. The Warrior of Light and the First will be saved, his faith will be rewarded, and he will accept the responsibility for what it cost.

It’s not without cost even for the Warrior of Light, who is kept in the dark about what’s happening to them as they slay the Lightwardens, and clearly suffers considerable pain from the accumulation of Light once it reaches a critical mass. Urianger bears witness to this, and I don’t doubt that he feels remorse for it, even as he is committed to his path.

There’s this beautiful moment after the defeat of the Rak'tika Lightwarden where Y'shtola asks Urianger to describe the night sky to her. He describes it thus:

A sea of shimmering stars. Diamonds strewn across a raven gown, boundless and beautiful. 'Tis an exquisite sight not unlike that of the Source. Calm and gentle... and forgiving...

This comes directly after Y'shtola presses him for the second time on telling the Warrior of Light the truth about the Light's corruption.

Once again, the cost weighs upon Urianger. He longs not only for the reassurance of faith rewarded, of a higher purpose served, but for forgiveness.

In his conversation with Ryne, Urianger speaks of life as "a tapestry of fates," and of the difficult decisions that must be made by those who strive to do good. He concludes with this:

Thou needst but have faith. Have faith and all will be well.

And I don't doubt that he means it. Is this not, after all, what he is doing? Continuing to withhold his knowledge and deceive his friends, out of faith that the Exarch's plan will succeed, and all will be well? If the Warrior of Light declares their trust in his plan in Kholusia, he swears to them that that trust is not misplaced. That their faith will be rewarded, that all will be well.

Thing is, in the end, that sentiment is proven wrong.

Faith isn't enough. The Exarch, however well-intentioned, fails to account for Emet-Selch's interference, the plan fails, and now Urianger is forced to confess his deception, not in victory, but to a friend on the brink of death.

After the revelations with the Warriors of Darkness, Urianger speaks frankly to the Warrior of Light, saying, “Speak thy mind. I do not expect thy forgiveness.” He even says later that Alisaie was right to condemn his choices. But he does not quite say he was wrong, and I think that’s apparent in the fact that when confronted with a similar scenario by the Exarch, though it is with obvious reluctance, he makes a similar choice.

And though Urianger even now does not openly beg forgiveness… his posture toward the Warrior of Light is very different. He goes to one knee, bowing his head before them. He says, “I offer no excuse.” He asks to be allowed to join them in setting things right, promising that his talents are at their disposal. He effectively throws himself upon their mercy. If the Warrior of Light forgives him, the look on his face is one of absolute relief, joy, and gratitude. There’s no doubt in my mind that that is the outcome he most desires, though he hardly dares hope for it.

This time, I think he knows he's fucked up. Perhaps it took the Exarch's plan going terribly sidewise for him to reach that point. I think this is a critical turning point for Urianger, one that sets him on the path to genuinely reevaluating his world view.

A Different Path

I've spent a long time pondering the fact that Urianger never has much of a visible crisis of faith upon learning the true nature of Hydaelyn.   

He remarks upon it, of course, following Emet-Selch’s revelations about Hydaelyn and Zodiark in Shadowbringers:

'Tis oft said truth is a matter of perspective. Yet upon this matter, there can be but one truth. I only pray it is not his.

From that moment on, I was honestly waiting for more of a reaction from him, especially after the confirmation in Endwalker by Hydaelyn’s own words that She is, in fact, a primal. You’d sort of expect it, right? More and more, as time has gone on and their understanding of the world has broadened, the faith of the Scions as a whole and Urianger’s devotion in specific has shifted away from the Twelve and toward Hydaelyn as an all-encompassing mother-goddess. To learn now that She is truly a primal—one of the very beings the Scions have sought to eradicate, for their devastating effects on the land and on people… Can they still trust Her guidance? Are the Echo-blessed merely tempered? What does it all mean?

Indeed, I think that these revelations very likely would have triggered a crisis of faith in pre-Shadowbringers Urianger.

But by Endwalker, Urianger is not that person anymore.

In Endwalker, we see the culmination of Urianger’s long character arc in several key scenes. The first of these comes on the moon, after the Loporrits, well-intentioned but anxious for the success of their venture after the lukewarm response to their preparations, have taken him aside and asked him to act as a liaison of sorts—to use his powers of persuasion to convince their collaborators that the moon will be a suitable vessel for the people of Etheirys.

On the surface perhaps, the Loporrits aren’t asking him to tell any really dramatic falsehoods—just talk up the moon, make it sound good, while passing along any information he can on what could improve it. And all in the service of saving a whole world full of people. He’s done far worse for that.

The subtext, however, is that Urianger would be acting to push the evacuation plan—perhaps at the expense of putting his efforts toward a way to halt the Final Days for good. Though this plan might well save the people of the Source, the reflections would be lost—a sacrifice beyond anything that’s been asked of him before. And yet if they fail to stop the Final Days, and exodus proves the only option left… could his powers of persuasion prove the difference in saving who they still can?

It all seems to immediately strike a nerve. “And so fate doth conspire to set my feet upon this path once more...” Moreover, Urianger hones right in on why he has been chosen for this task. “Is it so plain that these strangers could intuit it at a glance? My capacity for silence and secrecy... and duplicity.”

For a moment, it even appears that he might be considering going along with it. Once again, he references fate… but almost immediately, I think, he begins to turn away from that path. Y’shtola even remarks, “Urianger usually puts more effort into concealing his clandestine endeavors.” And when the Warrior of Light catches up to him, Urianger is unsurprised to see them, remarking, “Thine arrival is timely as ever.” It seems that he has already chosen not to move in shadow.

For his experiences in the First have changed him, and in the conversation that follows, he will explain why.

To me, this scene is a truly inspired moment of character development. In the hands of a lesser writer, we might have just gotten a "I don't want to lie and hide things from my friends anymore, because deception is bad" kind of epiphany. And like, sure, but that's never really been the core of it. Urianger doesn't keep secrets because he loves lying and being deceptive. He actually really doesn't. He hates it. Every time he's done it, it's been because he believed it was the only choice that would server the greater good, and the critical bit, as he finally says so candidly, is that he never looked for another way. Just as he didn't intervene to stop Moenbryda from sacrificing herself so that they could find a alternate source of aether to destroy an Ascian, he didn't look for an alternative to going undercover with the Warriors of Darkness alone, and he didn't try to convince the Exarch to look for an alternate solution to the Light problem.

“Dutiful disciple of Louisoix,” he says of himself, “ever looking to the greater good…” But the greater good part has also never actually been his problem. The Scions are all about the greater good, and most of them have been ready and willing to throw themselves on the sword should the greater good require it. The real significance of this description isn’t the greater good, but the dutiful disciple of Louisoix. Louisoix, their master; Louisoix, the prophet of their age.

Louisoix, who himself once asked Urianger to travel the realm alone and act as a diversion, while he himself moved in shadow to prepare Eorzea for the worst.

Urianger may have a natural talent for theatrics and misdirection, but he didn’t learn this from nowhere. He learned it, and performed it, at the behest of his beloved mentor, his prophet, his saint. The man who said, The worst is coming, and laid before them a path to fight it. And in his absence, Urianger has followed the path that Louisoix laid out for him: doom foretold, and one path to avert it, a path marked by, as he says now, subterfuge and sacrifice.

It's only here on the moon, faced with the request that he be the hype man for evacuating the entire star’s population onto a spaceship crewed by rabbits, that he finally says: There must be another way.

Even now, while he hopes to persuade the Loporrits to consider another avenue, he initially thinks to take that burden on himself so the responsibility of failure will be his alone. But when the Warrior of Light approaches, he confides in them, takes their encouragement to heart, and invites them to join him.

Ultimately, Urianger decides to stay on the moon to offer the Loporrits his aid, while his friends continue their work down on the surface. A plan that allows for multiple contingencies, making the best of the Loporrits’ preparations even as they hope not to need them, and most critically, a plan which requires cooperation and communication, not secrecy. Even now, it is possible they will fail. Yet for the first time, Urianger accepts that he need not carry his burdens alone. He has faith that his friends have the strength, and indeed the desire, to bear them alongside him.

This is the shift in Urianger’s faith, and the reason that in Endwalker his resolve is not shaken, but is in fact stronger than ever.

Standing Together

Urianger’s second key scene in Endwalker comes after he has returned with a gaggle of Loporrits eager to see Etheirys for themselves and learn how they can help.

Here is perhaps a good time to recall again that despite the stories of his early childhood, the Urianger we know as an adult has always been a fairly social person in his own way. In his 1.0 role, he might have been off-putting to some, but he was certainly not a recluse, and the work he was doing required its own particular type of charisma. In ARR we see him not hiding away in a corner with his books, but engaged in conversation with fellow Scions. Even in childhood, it seems like he found it difficult to relate to other children thanks to his singular personality and interests, rather than any innate misanthropy, and Moenbryda’s efforts to befriend him were ultimately successful because she made the effort to understand him.

Isolation seems to mark the darker periods of Urianger’s life, the times in which he undertakes the greatest subterfuge. And even then, he is never truly alone. In fact, he seems to succeed in these situations largely thanks to his skill in understanding and relating to those different than himself—a skill learned from his dear Moenbryda, perhaps. He manages to gain the trust of the very jaded and world-weary Warriors of Darkness. He submits himself to exhausting trials to gain the favor of the pixies and becomes practically an expert in the customs of the fae. It’s little wonder that he bonds so quickly and so well with the Loporrits, facilitating a great exchange of information and a much deeper understanding, ultimately getting them involved in the Scions' efforts to defeat Meteion and stop the Final Days.

For all his eccentricities, Urianger thrives in community, perhaps even more so in community with the odd and the unusual.

And thus do Moenbryda’s parents observe with great affection when they are reunited with him in the Sharlayan hamlet:

Wilfsunn: And look at you now. At the center of the crowd─the reason there even is a crowd, having brought these people together. You've no idea how proud we are. Bloewyda: To see the boy our daughter trusted and believed in more than anyone... grow into the man she always knew he could be.

Urianger’s final key scene in Endwalker is in Ultima Thule.

It took me months to fully process the final events of Endwalker after playing through it. It's not that I disliked it—far from it, in fact. It was deeply cathartic to play through, and left me with a lot of lingering emotions. The main thing I had to grapple with was the sacrifice aspect. For the Scions, I think so much of their arc as a group has been moving past the idea that every victory must involve some heroic sacrifice. We have seen the culmination of Urianger's character arc in his understanding that sacrifice is not always necessary, or at least should not be assumed to be the only way. Moreover, Endwalker as a whole is about the need to stand together. We see not only the payoff of the Scions’ relationships, strengthened over the course of several expansions, but the payoff of the many relationships the Warrior of Light has forged in their adventures, all coming together to save the world.

So why does this story then culminate in the Scions sacrificing themselves one by one, so that the Warrior of Light can forge on alone?

I do think we are meant to understand that the Scions are not permanently dead and gone. Even in-universe, the Warrior of Light is given to understand that between the malleability of reality in this dynamis-based place and the power infused into Azem’s crystal, it is possible to bring their friends back. Hydaelyn hints at it, noting that souls were drawn to the WoL in their journey through the aetherial sea. Y’shtola says it outright:

Though my body will soon dissipate, there may be a way to restore it. Azem's magick. So long as our souls remain, you can use it to summon us back. But you mustn't, for it would mean losing our way forward. This, I only reveal so that you can promise not to invoke the magick.

G’raha, too, as he prepares to give himself to open the way forward, asks the Warrior of Light for several promises for the future, all of which indicate faith that they will be reunited.

And this all builds on what the Warrior of Light has seen in their journeys, in particular the understanding of life and death and the aetherial sea which their descent into the Aitiascope recently confirmed: the souls of the dead do not always dissipate immediately into their component aether, but may linger, still conscious of themselves, in the aetherial sea, even for considerable time. In the Aitiascope, we see departed friends come to the side of the Warrior of Light to lend them aid.

When Bloewyda says, “I can see her in you, too. Feel her. She walks with you, wheresoever you go…” and Urianger replies, “I think… I can feel her too,” it may sound like mere sentiment at the time. When the Warrior of Light and Alphinaud see a vision of Haurchefant and Ysayle at their side as they fight to prise the Eyes of Nidhogg from Estinien’s armor and save their friend, we might doubt whether they are literally there, or whether it’s simply their memory that gives our heroes the strength to succeed. But this, I believe, is what we are meant to take from the journey through the Aitiascope: it is not mere sentiment. In this world, the departed can and sometimes do watch over their loved ones from the aetherial sea for a time, even if they cannot intervene in mortal affairs.

And thus, whatever it is precisely that happens to the souls of the Scions as they leave their corporeal forms in Ultima Thule to bend its reality to their will, they are not gone.

Thancred’s intitial sacrifice to save his friends seems to be pure impulse. He has no time to think, only acts on instinct, and bids them live, and in this asserts his will over reality. When the others understand what he has done, however, each in turn are faced with a choice.

And Urianger’s approach to this choice is somewhat different than the rest. He does not simply announce his decision on the spot, but takes the Warrior of Light and G’raha aside to confide in them. (It seems he still harbors some discomfort in revealing his thoughts to the whole group—perhaps not least because he knows how the twins will respond.) In this conversation he reveals not merely his plan, but the thoughts that have led him there, as well as some guidance for their next steps.

In true Urianger form, he speaks of faith, and of fate. Addressing G’raha, he says:

I once placed my faith in thy chosen path, walking at thy side full knowing that we were bound for thy demise. I ask now that thou returnest the favor, and abide in faith as I fulfill mine own destiny.

I think it is important here that Urianger’s belief in fate, in purpose, persists. Moreover, he uses the word destiny in the context in which he has always used it: to offer purpose and hope in the face of loss.

But no longer does he presume that facing his destiny means facing it alone. “Yet even if I must needs go to such lengths,” he says, “I cannot well feign ignorance of the answer I have found within... The answer to the question: in what moment might I stand strongest?”

It’s clear that since their arrival in Ultima Thule and Thancred’s sacrifice, Urianger has been ruminating upon this question. This time, he has the opportunity to consider the choices ahead, not simply make a decision on the spot, and he seizes that opportunity, looking for where he may do the most good.

He does not say outright what answer he found, not yet, but it becomes clear when he steps up to join Y’shtola in opening the way forward.

My resolve hath never been as strong as thine. Full oft have I wavered in my decisions, and afterwards been stricken with regret. In spite of this, I may still stand with my comrades, supporting them as they attempt the greatest of feats. This truth, I have learned in the course of our journey.

And not only does Urianger help to forge a path by bending reality, by his words and his insights he also helps to guide his friends to confront each new despair that bars the way—even after he has vanished from their sight.

Ultima Thule is not truly about sacrifice, but about a tremendous leap of faith. It’s about the strength to keep going even in the face of loneliness and despair, to know that one is not alone no matter how alone one may feel. This Urianger has learned, and the Warrior of Light will in turn as they take those final steps.

By the end of his arc, Urianger has learned that he stands strongest at the side of his friends. And perhaps this is not quite a new revelation for him, but a truth learned and forgotten and learned again and again. Character growth need not be a straight line. In his youth, Urianger was an isolated child who learned to accept Moenbryda’s friendship, and it was by her encouragement that he pursued his own path of learning which eventually led him to join Louisoix and the Circle of Knowing. I point back to the animated, talkative Urianger we see in ARR, who in the face of loss and sacrifice yet looked to the future with hope, with faith in his companions and in the continued guidance of their mentor. I think this is a truth he has known before, but one he lost sight of as his community and support system crumbled around him. We might look at Urianger’s downward spiral following Moenbryda’s death as a dark night of the soul, in which he clings to his belief in fate and ordained purpose all the more tightly, for what he has sacrificed for them, even as his insistence upon carrying the weight of duty alone sets him upon an increasingly dark and lonely path.

I wonder if he sees something of that dark and lonely path in Hydaelyn Herself, when he stands before Her and hears Her words: “There was no kindness nor justice in the tragedy I wrought.”

And as Hydaelyn is unburdened at last in entrusting the future to others… so now has Urianger found peace by placing his faith in his friends.

Conclusions

Faith has always been a core part of Urianger’s character. All his life, he has looked to forces outside himself to guide him to the truth and the right path forward, and to reassure him in the face of loss: to the gods, to prophetic writings, to trusted leaders, to the stars. And he has striven to follow what he believed was the right path, even when it meant great sacrifice and pain—even when it drove a wedge between himself and the people dearest to him.

In the end, Urianger does not lose his faith, but rather the shape of it changes. In this he finds greater peace and purpose both, understanding that he need not walk in shadow, or alone.

Having finally met Hydaelyn face to face and understood Her purpose, I think Urianger understands that this is, in fact, what She would want. In Her death, She entrusts the future to Etheirys’s people. And though we unfortunately do not get to see Urianger (or most of the Scions) react to the true nature of the Twelve and their departure from the world in Myths of the Realm… I think he’d be okay about that now, too. It is in those who stand beside him that he now places his faith, not in distant gods. And Urianger has faith that his friends will happily share in his burdens, forgive him his failings, and celebrate their victories together.

And in this new faith, he has also gained faith in himself. He can accept his own strengths and weaknesses, confide in his friends without fear of judgment, request their aid without shame. We see Urianger look to the future and embrace his duties with far greater confidence and far less doubt and torment, knowing that even in the darkest moments, he can rely on the friends who stand at his side.

Endnotes

A huge thank-you to @eriyu for her searchable transcript of MSQ dialogue at xiv.quest, without which this essay and most of my Urianger research would have been a great deal more difficult.

An additional thank-you to all the fans who have worked to preserve material from FFXIV 1.0 and make it available on YouTube, on fan wikis, and in tumblr posts; I am forever in your debt.

[retrosabers]

𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐒.

anakin skywalker x fem! reader

summary: you really shouldn’t be letting anakin touch you like this. but if it’s so wrong, why does it feel so good?

contains: 18+ content. MINORS DNI. very steamy kissing, some minor grinding, riding, choking if you squint, anakin being a little shit

word count: 1.3k

a/n: kinda a rushed/shit ending but i found this in my drafts & i’m trying to post consistently to keep inspiration coming. so enjoy this baby fic of ani ;)

there’s a certain thrill that comes with breaking the rules.

you were always one to abide by them. believed that they were created for a reason, and that was reason enough to obey.

then you met anakin skywalker, and he threw that entire notion out the window.

he was temptation personified. forbidden fruit that you longed so desperately to have, to taste. between his lidded gaze and cocky smiles you found yourself entranced with the chosen one in ways that the council would’ve deemed shameful.

no attachments. that was the rule. but could desire be confused with attachment?

you were about to find out.

anakin’s lips slot against yours like it was meant to be. your hands tug at the collar of his robes, desperate to pull him impossibly closer in the dim lighting of the hallway. your every nerve was hyper aware of both his touch, and your surroundings.

anyone could come across you in this compromising position. despite the fact that everyone else retreated to their chambers for the evening, there was still a chance that a straggler was left wandering the halls. it makes you tense in his hold and pull away reluctantly.

you breathe out his name. a soft, desperate sound that makes his dick hard. the corner of anakin’s mouth turns up in a smug little grin.

“we can’t,” you shake your head, stating it matter of factly. like it was the most obvious thing in the galaxy, because it was. you were never a rule breaker, only a devout follower with good intentions. out of all the disobediences you could’ve ever committed, this would by far be the worst.

the rules of the jedi council weren’t something you treated as a request. they were orders. defying them meant defying a belief system you held so close to your chest, and letting go of everything you’ve ever known.

anakin knows it. and he’s determined to push you to the limit.

when his mouth returns to you, it’s gentler. more intimate. as if he’s trying to convince you to let go without outright saying it. his flesh hand comes up to softly stroke your cheekbone and you melt into him once more. your body thrums not only with lust, but with something else entirely. there’s a deeper connection between you both, an electrifying sensation that’s being drawn to the surface.

it’s like the force is telling you this is what you’re meant to do. and that maybe, just maybe, not every rule is meant to be followed.

anakin lets out a deep chuckle as you drag him back to your quarters with an eagerness he’s never seen before. as soon as the door shuts he presses you against it, aligning your cunt with his growing erection while his lips attach themselves to your neck.

when he finds your sweet spot, you gasp, muttering a curse as he smirks against your skin. one hand is wrapped firmly around your waist while the other maps out your body. a brush of fingers against the top of your ass, an experimental squeeze of your breast. anakin was making haste in figuring out what little things made you tick. he knew time was of the essence, and he wanted to make the most of it.

“just tell me what you want,” anakin murmurs next to your ear. his voice was low, dripping with a desire you could only dream of. you rubbed your thighs together to try and relieve the growing ache between your legs. he takes note, ego inflating over the effect he’s had before even touching you properly. his metal hand grabs your chin between the thumb and forefinger, forcing your eyes to meet.

“whatever you want angel, it’s yours.”

he means it. fully and completely. tonight, anakin was yours to take. you could bleed him dry of anything and everything and he’d die a happy man.

your hands find purchase at the nape of his neck, threading your fingers through his sandy colored curls and dragging his face back to yours. it’s a heated mess of teeth and tongue that has you whining into his mouth when his hand lightly wraps around your throat.

he knew you weren’t just oogling at it for nothing.

when anakin pulls back, your lips seperate with a wet smack. he thinks he might cum on the spot just from how wrecked you look already. eyes on the brink of glassy, desperate and pleading for him. your lips in the most perfect pout, kiss bitten and glistening while you rake your tongue over them. and his hand around your throat, like he’s staking a claim over you. that you’re his and only his.

to him, you’ve never looked more perfect. and he doesn’t think he can wait any longer.

anakin starts undressing you with urgency. as though if he waits so much as another second, you’ll vanish into thin air and he’ll never get to have you like this again. you follow suit, shoving his robe off his shoulders and pushing him closer to the direction of your bed.

“this is wrong,” you squeak out as more and more of your clothes get thrown about the room. anakin’s top half is completely bare, his skin burning hot.

“so wrong,” he teases with faux concern, flashing his canines as he yanks your pants down. in a less than graceful stumble you kick them off, leaving you in nothing but a simple pair of underwear. suddenly you begin to feel self conscious under his gaze, but it fades when you realize his blue eyes were nearly black.

drinking in every inch of you with a look like he was going to devour you whole.

he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. and it made you long for him even more.

in a bold move, you push at his chest, watching gleefully as he falls back against the mattress. the new angle highlights his growing erection. your mouth waters at how big he looks despite the layer of fabric that still stands between you. anakin, ever the cocky observer, watches as your eyes widen and your chest heaves.

“if you want it,” he spreads his legs wider, a dangerously divine invitation. “then you’ve gotta come and get it.”

you heart stutters in your ribcage.

this was it.

the defining moment where your self control was put to the test.

an act that was so simple, yet so complicated.

when you suck in a breath and experimentally place your knees on either side of his hips, it dials up the heat. every inch of your exposed skin feels like it’s set ablaze. an almost delicious pain that slowly melts into pleasure.

when you reach below the waistband and wrap your hand around him, there’s an overwhelming sense of adrenaline. an exciting rush that you haven’t felt in what feels like a lifetime. the low whimper he elicits sends a shiver down your spine, feeling like a drug you want to take over, and over, and over again.

when you push your panties to the side and finally sink down onto his length, it feels like diving headfirst off a cliff with no end in sight. falling into an endless chasm of self reflection, realization, and ecstasy. your stomach does somersaults as you take him inch by inch, soft, breathy moans leaving your mouth the deeper he gets.

“that’s it,” he coos, brushing a stray piece of hair out your face. “i know you can take it.”

his praise makes any remaining anxiety dissipate.

you wonder if you should be disappointed in yourself at how quickly you caved. but in that very moment, as you begin to rock your hips back and forth, you realize that maybe you were wrong to be so obedient all this time.

because if this was wrong? then you sure as hell didn’t wanna be right.

thanks for reading! <3

[thequeenofcurses]

The Devil In The Sanctuary

Prologue/Chapter 1

summary: mafia!sukuna x fem!reader. you’re the sheltered daughter of a pastor who finds your world turned upside down when a mysterious and dangerous man seeks refuge in your church. slowburn. eventual smut so mdni.

A/N I understand this fic could upset other people. I worked really hard on planning this fic and I don't WANT to offend anyone. But since religion is a key theme in this story; and Y/n and her father are very devout.

If that’s a problem or triggering for you, I don’t recommend reading this fic! Thank you for reading if you choose to do so <3

tws: violence, gore, blood, religious themes and criticism, character death, eventual smut, slowburn

read on AO3

The faint glow of the setting sun filtered through the stained glass windows, casting shards of crimson, gold, and violet light across the worn wooden pews. The air was quiet, heavy with the scent of melting candle wax and old hymnal books. The faint creak of your footsteps echoed in the vast, empty sanctuary as you moved down the aisle, your broom scraping softly against the stone floor.

It was nearly six pm, and the world outside the church was cloaked in darkness, save for the dim street lights flickering in the distance. Daylight was constantly getting stolen from you with the new winter sun. The wind whispered through the cracks in the heavy oak doors. The roof finally stopped leaking since the snow started to melt.

You hummed softly under your breath as you swept away dust that seemed to perpetually settle no matter how often you cleaned. Even though you disliked chores, this was one of your favorite times; the stillness of the evening when the world seemed to fade away, leaving only you, the church, and the faint presence of something divine. You’d often sing in the sanctuary when cleaning because no one was around to hear you.

You paused for a moment, resting on the broom handle as you gazed up at the towering crucifix at the altar. You remembered your parents putting it up the day before your family opened the church to the public when you were a small child. Its shadow loomed large and solemn against the wall, a quiet reminder of faith and sacrifice. A sigh escaped your lips.

And that’s when you heard it — glass breaking? You froze, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Another sound came again, louder this time, echoing from the side entrance of the church. Was someone breaking into the church? It’s not like you guys had much to steal. The building was falling apart day by day.

Your heartbeat quickened as you turned your gaze toward the darkened corridor, where the faintest flicker of movement caught your eye.

“Hello? Father?” you called out, voice trembling slightly as it broke the sacred silence. Maybe father came back early from his conference? You think to yourself. But why would he come through the back or side entrance?

No answer. Just the soft groan of the creaky floorboards, and then… nothing.

“No weapon formed against me shall prosper,” you quietly murmur to yourself while making a cross with your right hand. You take the broom and head down the corridor to the back of the church. You believe in helping people, but you’re mama didn’t raise a fool.

When you reach what appears to be the shattered window, the only thing you find is a brick at your feet and broken multi-colored stained glass. That window was your grandfather’s work. 

But that’s not all you find. 

Red dots that seem to have dripped. You and your father haven't touched this hallway yet. Could that really be… blood? Cautiously, you followed the trail, firmly grasping the broom with every step. 

The scent of iron floods your nose. You stare in shock as the pools of blood seem to only grow further. The trail leads you to the restroom and that’s when you find a red giant hand print on the door knob.

Oh, Lord have Mercy! 

Most doors in this building were so old, they could never fully shut. You say a silent prayer to yourself and use your broom to poke at the door to softly push it open.

And that’s when you see him on the bathroom floor. 

The Devil.

A/N Please tell me your thoughts on this! This is my first ever Mafia AU/anything, so I will gladly take any constructive feedback!

ryomen sukuna