#mayhem writes

[reveling-in-mayhem]

Sherlock Holmes is nine years old when he makes a wish. John Watson is twelve years old when he starts to dream of a boy with sad eyes.

Sometimes, the wishes we make come true. Sometimes, eventually, we wish for something different.

This is the story of how one wish changes the lives of two boys forever.

If you’d like to be tagged in future posts, please let me know!

[mayhemwrites]

to hold or to break

(or, 5 times Zoya almost said "I love you" and 1 time she did)

5 + 1 zoyalai fic for the @grishaversebigbang mini-bang event!!

read on ao3 here

materialki: @jmie-draws, who created this amazing art piece, and @soupdreamer, who created this amazing art piece!!!

Summary: Zoya is usually excellent at speaking her mind. Except, apparently, when it comes to telling Nikolai she loves him.

full fic under the cut!! angst/pining with a cute fluffy ending, 1966 words

-------------

Zoya is not going to think about how much she hates this. Because if she thinks about it, then she won't let it happen. She'll call the whole plan off, and that would be a disaster. She knows it would be a disaster. Nikolai has to get married, for the good of Ravka. He needs to make a strong alliance, especially with Fjerda threatening war. Especially with the demon as an ever present threat to his stability.

Knowing all of that doesn't stop her from hating it, though, so she writes up a list of all the people he should consider marrying, and brings it to him in his office. The quicker she gets this done, the less she has to think about it.

He's quick to veto half the names on her list (not because she deliberately picked outlandish suggestions, of course), but she stays firm on the others. However much she wants to forget about the list.

"You just don't want to go along with this," she tells him, and he shrugs in acknowledgement.

"Of course I don't."

So don't, then.

But he would never want her instead, even if he didn't need to marry for the good of Ravka. So she says nothing except: "You have to."

He shrugs again. "I'm aware. That doesn't mean I have to like it."

She nods. Both of them know the sacrifices that need to be made for a country. For Ravka.

He is sacrificing his freedom to marry the person of his choosing. In return, in that moment, she gives up her childish dream of him returning her secret love. Not that she's in love with him. There isn't any point. Not when he's agreed to court the remaining few women on her list.

-------------

She realizes that her plan to ignore her growing feelings for him has failed about a week into their journey across Ravka.

As she watches him charm some duke of some country town - she's stopped keeping track, at this point, because really, who can be bothered to learn the names of dozens of idiot men who hold a title simply because of their birth - and wishes, just for a second, that he would turn a fraction of that charm, just an inch of his dazzling grin, on her.

She pushes that down quickly enough, but it's the next morning that she stops being able to.

It's nothing special. They're sitting together, in a room of the duke's mansion (yes, a mansion, when the people living in this town have just had their third failed harvest in a row and are struggling to feed themselves). They're doing paperwork together, just as they always do. Nothing special.

So why does the way he catches her eye across a particularly tedious piece of legislation make it impossible for her to ignore the fluttering feeling in her stomach?

Honestly. Fluttering. She might as well be a teenager again, infatuated with the first man who paid her the slightest bit of attention.

But it's impossible to deny that she feels something for Nikolai, as futile as it is.

-------------

The night before Nikolai is due to attempt the obisbaya.

She almost says it, then.

She doesn't, though. Because if he survives, then he will still need to marry for the good of Ravka. And if he doesn't survive…

She's not thinking about what happens if he doesn't survive the ritual. There's a lot she's not thinking about. The list keeps building up, and she keeps pushing all her inconvenient, unwanted thoughts down. It never works for long, but she can hope.

Besides, in 24 hours she won't have to worry about whether Nikolai will survive the obisbaya. Either he will have survived, or he won't have. Whatever the outcome, there's nothing Zoya can do about it, so there's no point worrying.

That doesn't mean she doesn't want to say the words she's been pushing down for so long, though. As Elizaveta seals her in amber, she desperately wants to tell him that she has complete faith in him. Not just because she is a general and he is her king, but because she knows him. (Possibly better than anybody else does.) Because she knows that if anybody could survive a deadly ritual and not only that, but come out of it with his clothes uncreased and that damned crooked grin on his face - well, if anybody could manage that, it's Nikolai.

She doesn't say anything, in the end. She lets herself be sealed in amber for the final time, and watches as Nikolai begins the ritual.

-------------

Zoya looks out of the window of the carriage, trying to ignore the man sitting beside her. Why did she agree to this, again? She wishes Alina were less self-sacrificing. Then she wouldn't have to transport the Darkling across the country.

Her second cross-country trip in as many months. Except this time she's on her own. (Well, she has the Soldat Sol, but they hardly count as company.) No Tamar to spar with at rest stops, no Tolya to share comfortable silences with. No Nikolai.

No Nikolai this time, because he's at Genya and David's wedding. She should be there too, smiling up at her two closest friends from the front row of seats. But Ravka comes first. It always does. It has to.

So here she is, travelling across the country with the one person she hates more than anybody else, trying not to think about the boy she left behind in Os Alta.

-------------

Zoya is a fool. She knows this. Why had she said nothing?

(Because of Ravka. Because he wouldn't have said what he had said, if he'd known how miserably fucked-up she is. Because he undoubtedly regrets it now, so it's too late.)

The moment Nikolai leaves, she wants to curl up into a ball on the floor of the airship and sob like a heartbroken teenage girl. But she hasn't been one of those for six years now, and she doesn't intend to go back to the person she had been.

She runs through the list of reasons in her mind why he shouldn't choose her. He needs to marry for the good of Ravka. He deserves somebody who can love him wholly, not Zoya, scarred and afraid, who can barely admit that she does love him.

Saints, she loves him.

More than she has ever loved anybody, she loves him. More than she thought herself capable of loving anybody. She loves him in a way that makes her want to tear down the walls surrounding her heart and give it to him, to hold or to break. Like she had let him into her garden, she wants to let him into her heart, let him see all of her - the good, the bad, the horrifying, even the part of her that has not quite hardened into a soldier yet. (The part of her that is nine years old at the altar, thirteen years old and bleeding in the snow, nineteen years old frantically searching Novokribrisk for Liliyana, twenty-three years old standing at David's grave.)

And that is exactly why he can never know that he has even the slightest effect on her, because she is a general and he is her king, and she cannot afford to be acting like a lovesick teenager when Ravka is on the brink of war.

She certainly can't tell him that she loves him. Especially not now that she knows he loves her. She knows him well enough to guess that if he knew the truth, he would gladly damn Ravka for a singular promise of her love. So one of them has to be responsible about this.

She will let her heart shatter silently a hundred times over before she lets even a single crack appear in Ravka for her sake.

-------------

Zoya is fairly certain that the last twenty-four hours have been a dream. Something she hallucinated.

Since the early hours of the morning, she has: defeated the Fjerdan navy, rescued and reconciled with Nina Zenik, seen the Apparat almost torn to pieces by corpses, turned into a dragon, been hailed as a Saint by Ravkans and Fjerdans alike, seen Nikolai Lantsov give up his throne, become Queen herself, and perhaps most unbelievably, she has confessed her love to him and the world has not ended yet.

Quite the opposite, in fact. If she were one for grand romantic declarations, she might say that it feels as if her world is only just beginning.

It is six o'clock in the morning, and the sun is not even close to rising. Ordinarily, she would already be up at this hour. (So would Nikolai, not that she pays close attention to his daily routine - except no, now she can freely admit to doing so. He would probably find it endearing.)

But she is not up. She is not washed and dressed, or getting in some early-morning training before breakfast. She is not taking this excellent opportunity to work on the stacks of paperwork that are undoubtedly waiting for her.

Instead, she is still lying in bed, debating whether or not to wake Nikolai up. On one hand, they have things to be doing and he probably should be awake by now. On the other hand, she could stay here and watch his face, at peace for once, for ever.

This is why she hadn't wanted to confess her love for him - because her own greed to have as many moments of peace and domesticity with him would outweigh her sense of duty. Now that it's actually happening, though, she finds she doesn't mind in the slightest.

He takes the decision out of her hands, though, by waking up himself. The moment his eyes open, they land on her face and he breaks into a smile.

"I thought I might have dreamed you," he admits, and she has to laugh.

"Dreamt up my entire existence? Don't be ridiculous."

"You know what I meant," he says, his eyes never once leaving hers. (And she is not looking into his eyes, because that really would prevent any sort of productivity this morning.)

"I do, yes. You're fun to tease, though," she tells him just to see his cheeks turn faintly pink.

"So yesterday really happened?"

"Of course it did," she says. "Unless we both had the same very vivid dream, you did give me your throne and I did turn into a dragon."

"Good," he says, still smiling. "Because I nearly died yesterday. Three times, in fact. And yet it was still the best day of my life."

Her heart races. "You're being sentimental, Nikolai."

"Am I not allowed to be?"

"No, I'll allow it. If you must be."

"Indeed I must. And I have about three years' worth of sentimentality to get out, so prepare yourself."

She pretends to groan, but secretly, once again, she finds she doesn't mind at all.

"By all means continue to flatter me," she says. "In fact, if you must know, I welcome your sentimentality. However impractical it may be."

"I suspected as much," he says, now grinning that damned crooked smile of his. "Then may I continue?"

"You may," she says, heart beating even faster in anticipation of what he might say next.

"In which case: Zoya, are you aware that I am completely head-over-heels in love with you?"

She can't help smiling softly. "Yes, I was aware."

He pauses, raising an eyebrow at her. She knows what he wants to hear. Is this the moment she finally says it?

Yes, it must be. And now that the moment has arrived, the words feel less like an insurmountable obstacle, and more like the words she has been searching for her whole life.

"I love you too, Nikolai."

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 5]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 6.8k

Summary: 'Rule 27: It’s a poor choice to help a hare at high noon, but it will certainly appreciate you if you do.'

WARNING for some descriptions of violence

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

You’d first set foot on The Rose Queen when you were the tender age of eleven. Or, well, something close to that. It wasn’t like most peasant orphans were taught numbers, let alone how to interpret calendars well enough to mark the passing of years.

It was the first ship you’d ever seen up close—sleek, and salt-stained, and creaking beneath your toes. The Boy King at its helm had turned his nose up at you in his too big coat, with his too big boots and tricorn hat that kept slipping down over his eyes. It was a ragtag crew that you’d wandered into, made of nothing but runaways and street rats. The ship itself was just as unusual and fresh-faced. It was built in a very impractical sort of way, with hallways that led to nowhere and portholes that opened up into endless seas of shadow where you could tumble down, down, down for hours and never see an end (or so you’d been warned). There were paintings on the walls, all off-centered and hanging on crooked nails that wobbled with every dip in the waves. The masts and rails were stained a deep, bloody red, in honor of its title. And no matter how the raging winds and waves battered at those petals, your Captain would have you out there the next morning to paint them anew. The Rose Queen was the finest pirate ship in all the ocean, and you only half-said that out of personal bias.

The vessel of the Silver Songbirds was… not like that.

It was grand, certainly. But there was a barren cleanliness to it that didn’t feel lived in. Sure, Riddle’d had you literally scrubbing stains out of the deck with a toothbrush and pot of turpentine, but this was different. Sterile, rather than squeaky. The wood planks didn’t whine with a weary, seaworthy groan beneath your feet that you could feel through the heel of your boots—as if to reassure you it was there. The air smelled of salt, sure, and you could see a group of gulls circling overhead, but the whole of it felt… empty. Lonely.

The black haired man led you to a small, private room in the ship’s hull. That alone was strange. You’d been sharing quarters for the whole of your seafaring career. This new little suite of yours had a bed, and white paint on the walls, and a porthole for a window. He gently coaxed you into sitting at the foot of the mattress and readjusted the coat resting along your shoulders. His smile was soft, kind. The sort of warm, pretty expression that you could read about in a love poem.

You remembered your Siren’s vicious, pointed smirk—red, and haughty, and sharp enough to cut glass—and fought a pang of something you absolutely refused to put a name to.

When you blinked back into focus, his lips were moving in a slow, steady flow and you focused your best on the shape of them. It was hard, with how placid his expression was—with how little there was to make out of anything he was attempting to get across. And whether it be your furrowed brow or a sudden memory that oh right, you’d told him your ears worked as well as a three-legged horse pulling a one-wheeled cart, he startled into silence. His face twisted up with chagrin, and he offered you an apologetic smile with round, pink cheeks.

He fumbled around in his pockets for a piece of paper and scribbled out a hasty note to press into your palms.

‘My name is Neige Leblanche, and I’ll be taking care of you for this journey.’

You paused, fingers worrying at the sides of the neat, square bit of parchment. It felt right to offer your own name in return. That would be the polite thing, surely. But you paused, throat tight with uncertainty and a prickling, unpleasant sort of heat. Because you’d never even told your Siren your name, had you? Not even once.

And beneath that sudden, sour gut punch was something else.

‘Rule 116, your name is not a number, but it is your value. Do not offer it to any whose own interests are undue.’

The first time Ace had found himself with a wanted poster (‘Ugly,’ he’d complained, bitter. ‘How am I supposed to hook any tail with this? I look like a mutant potato. This stupid portrait is worse than prison.’), Riddle had taken your handwritten Book of Rules and underlined that one thrice over. You hadn’t thought much of it until you’d had to cut a hangman’s noose from around your idiot, foxy friend’s throat—the handiwork of the tavern folk he’d been boasting to only an afternoon before. And then it had made sense. Ace had survived (with a new, grand tale of woe that he liked to repeat ad nauseum until you wished you’d left him strung up), but the lesson had remained.

Carefully you swallowed the words resting on your tongue and offered a polite-ish nod in their place.

“Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you. For saving me.”

Neige shook his head in a panicked sort of rush, hands waving back and forth with a clear ‘none of that! None of that!’ before reaching back into his pockets to search for another note.

‘It was my honor,’ he wrote, words jumbled and sloppy in his haste. ‘It’s the duty of all officers to help those in need.’

Your brow pinched. Officer? Officer of what?

Your Siren had called these Songbirds dangerous. ‘Not safe’ written into the sand over and over again with his curled claws. You didn’t know much of mainland politics and other such nonsense, but maybe there was some sort of… Siren Hunting Order? Soldiers of the King sent out to scour the seas and keep them safe for a host of weary, would-be-merman-meals? That would make sense. It would make a lot of sense, actually.

Another note was pressed into your hands.

‘How did you end up stranded on that island?’

Islet, you wanted to correct petulantly. Riddle would have. Your Siren would have.

You opened your mouth and hesitated. Telling Nigel, or Nergal, or whatever his name was that your ship had been besieged by a pod of ravenous mers (and one fair-faced asshole who you already missed far, far too—) was as good as serving them up on a silver platter, wasn’t it? Siren hunters probably traded information like how pirates traded maps or merchants traded gold. And you’d be damned if your loose tongue was what led to your friend companion co-strandee’s family being hunted for sport just after he’d finally managed to make his way home again.

So you stiffened your upper lip and turned to look your savior in the eye.

“I fell overboard,” you said, firm. “Because I’m an idiot.”

He blinked, startled, and you could recognize the spluttered ‘…oh’ shaping his lips.

He handed you another scribbled bit of parchment, gaze averted and awkward.

‘I’m sorry.’

“Never apologize to the half-wit for whatever fallacy of their own led to them falling into the pit,” you recited naturally, and Nigel startled. His doe eyes went round with confusion and he tilted his head at you like a curious hound. Nothing intimidating, more like some kind of fluffy cocker spaniel or primped up lapdog staring up at you with too-long-lashes and too-few-thoughts.

You shrugged.

“Just a rule I was supposed to follow,” you shrugged off. You offered a slanted grin. “Though when you’re the idiot in question, it can be pretty hard to avoid.”

Neville smiled at you with a soft sort of laugh that you swore you could feel dancing along your skin.

Another note.

‘I’ll be back in a bit. Please enjoy the amenities here and get some rest. If you need anything, let us know and I’ll get it sorted personally.’

You dipped your chin in thanks and collapsed back against the small, flat mattress in the corner. It was soft, sturdy, probably good for your back and all that nonsense. The sheets were crisp and white, and they rubbed blandly at your weary hide. You could smell the lingering, sharp fragrance of some kind of tacky soap in the cotton. Totally not unpleasant at all. Theoretically, it should have actually been the best bed you’d ever slept in. But a part of you missed swaying back and forth in a net hammock, and an even bigger part missed plopping down in the sand with the heat of a crackling fire at your front and the even steadier warmth of the long, curling, press of gemstone scales at your back.

You flopped over onto your side and stared at the empty, carefully manicured surface of the desk opposite you and wished more than anything that you’d brought your shell.

.

.

The room was cold when you next woke, and you shivered into the jacket Neige had draped along your shoulders (because it was ‘Neige.’ It had been signed on the bottom of the note he’d left you that morning alongside your breakfast. Which was stupid. The dumbest name you’d ever heard). The starched fabric of it all wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than shivering through the chilly ocean mists that were seeping in through the porthole.

You burrowed into the swathe of white and blue wool like a rabbit in a hole, and then winced in irritation when another of those stupid, gaudy pins dug into your cheek.

You plucked the first from its place—the duo of silver songbirds. It really was quite pretty, despite the ominous undertones and all. Two, graceful, delicate sets of feathered wings arching up into the sky—forever frozen in a dance to the clouds. You dropped it into the little, dark crevice between your bed and the wall. Good riddance.

Next came a crest that was familiar in a distant sort of way—a memory that tickled that back of your brain from days long past. You hadn’t noticed it before, what with the echoes of ‘not safe, not safe, not safe’ blaring in your head like an alarm, but it was just as neatly polished as the birds pinned above. It was diamond shaped, the edges embossed in twining lines like the cut of a rope. At its head sat a strange sort of crown, with the arches and more familiar pointed designs replaced by the billowing arcs of sails.  All of that gallantry surrounded a pair of rearing stallions—hooves crossed along a golden edged sword and circled with blue ivy.

You twisted it between your fingers, watching the metal glint in the low light. You hadn’t set foot in proper society since Riddle had let your young, dumb self abscond into the ocean all those years ago. You could hardly remember the flag of our home country, let alone the specifics.

You frowned and the edges of the badge pricked at your fingers.

You dropped this one behind the bed too, with a petulant flick of your wrist to make sure it really stuck.

.

.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around more often, there’s some business I’ve been having to take care of.’

You handed the note back with a shrug.

“It’s no bother.”

Neige offered an apologetic grimace nonetheless and another of those smiles that looked a bit too sweet to be real.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

You bristled before you could help it, thoughts spiraling away to harpoons, and nets, and hunting parties. And then you settled your shoulders into a polite, easy line and offered one of your own too-put-together smiles in return.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, you saved me after all.”

Neige smiled again, easy and comfortable, and pressed another slip of parchment into your palms.

‘Where were you headed? When you fell overboard?’

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck you with a barbed cactus branch dipped in—

Ahem.

You cleared your throat in a way that was surely a Very Normal Person Thing To Do, and tried to ignore the fact that he was so brazenly attempting to map out his plan of attack—to pinpoint the route that the sirens had been chasing and run after it like hounds tracking a fresh scent. Which, to be fair, sirens were a scourge on the seas. Hundreds upon hundreds of good men and women had been lost to their crooning songs and wickedly sharp teeth. They were vicious, often cruel, and so much stronger than any mortal sailor that of course the world above would fear them. You’d been very much of the same opinion until only quite recently, and now—now you just couldn’t.

“I don’t know where we were going,” you lied, and Neige’s brow pinched in a dour, rejected kind of way. “But,” you tried, sprinkling in a touch of truth to make the lie go down easier, “I know we were coming from Port o'Bliss.”

He nodded, that uncongenial expression slipping off his face as easily as it’d settled there.

He rattled off something quick and bubbly, and you pointedly arched a brow. The brunette blushed bright pink and hastily scrabbled for another bit of paper.

‘Thank you for being so helpful. I know it can’t be easy.’

Your neutral expression froze on your face and when you smiled it felt more like a polite bearing of teeth. Did he know? Could he see right through you? Or worse, was he getting all the answers he wanted from you either way, no matter how you tried to coat it in a veneer of misdirection.

“Sure thing.”

He handed you another note, this time for his pocket. Crumpled and soft, the ink a bit smeared along the curling letters.

‘It’s a poor choice to help a heron at high noon,’ it said, ‘but it will certainly appreciate you if you do. So my thanks to you.’

Something settled in your gut at the familiarity, something deceptively warm and homey.

“It’s a hare,” you said, without much thought. “Not a heron.”

Neige nodded with a polite, smiling mumble that looked like another apology, and then left you to your own devices.

That night, a veritable feast was delivered to your tiny, white-walled cabin. A grand spread of food fit for a king. There was roasted fowl, pools of thick, spiced gravies, mountains of vegetables that you’d never even seen before. And tarts. So many colorful, fruity tarts that were so sweet they almost made your tongue curl.

“What’s the occasion?” you asked as Neige took a seat at your desk to nibble at the meal alongside you—a cloth napkin folded neatly across his nap and a clear glass flute for wine placed a bit precariously by his elbow.

He smiled, honey warm, and offered you another note.

‘For helping the hare.’

.

.

Neige didn’t come to visit you the next morning, and his absence had the hair at the nape of your neck standing on end.

You paced and paced around your cube of a barrack. It was maybe four steps from one end to the next, but the constant bumping your toes against the wall was better than just sitting there doing nothing. The worst part was the silence. Not the one in your head. Yes, yes, you were more than used to that. On and on, yada yada. But the silence of the ship. The Rose Queen had always felt like a living thing, a great, wooden beast with a pulse you could feel thrumming beneath your toes, your palms. All you had to do was lay a hand against its side and you could feel the rumble of the tide beyond, the rushing footsteps of sailors sprinting about to meet one of Riddle’s orders or other, the thump of heavy, wet mop heads smacking the deck overhead. It was quiet, but it wasn’t quiet. This ship? No matter how you laid against the boards or pressed flat to the walls, there was nothing. And it made you feel like you were trapped aboard a vessel full of ghosts.

The sun had long begun to set by the time Neige returned, and by then you were nothing but a livewire of nerves.

Had they found him? Your Siren? Was he there somewhere, just a few floors above—strung up like a fish in a net? Caught and displayed like a fine trophy? Or had they killed him outright? Had they found his pod? Had he put up a fight? Had he—

A piece of rolled parchment was held out for you to take, a satin blue ribbon tied along its belly. Neige’s soft, brown gaze was glued to the floor and you snatched the paper from his hands like a rabid cat and tore it open. You could barely keep your eyes steady to read it all—fine, pointed print done up in a neat hand.

‘—danger to those who venture—'

‘—for the safety of the people—’

‘—therefore, the decision has been made—'

‘—with the greatest consideration—’

‘—with immediate effect—'

‘—we have declared the extermination of—'

“You can’t!” you wailed, and Neige’s doe eyes darted up to yours and immediately away once more in guilt. “He’s—he’s not bad. I swear! I know how things look—and—and I know he’s not—that’s he’s a—but you can’t—”

Neige’s wavering stared jumped back to you in open surprise, and you saw his lips twitch on one word—delicate brows pinching in question.

‘He?’

You frowned and fought the urge to stomp your feet. Because, okay, fine. Sure, you were arguing tooth and nail for someone whose name you maybe didn’t even know. Someone who had swum away from your stupidly sentimental ass with all the power and grace of a beast fit to rule the depths of the oceans while you could barely flounder at its surface. And sure, sirens killed people and ate them. But this one was—he was special, and you’d be damned if you let some primped up fishermen try to reel him in on a hook just because he’d maybe eaten a few people. And—

There was a hand on your shoulder, and Neige was staring down at you with an expression not dissimilar to that of a parent about to tell their child that the cat had got out and met a terrible, squishy end beneath the wheels of your neighbor’s carriage. He sighed, dark lashes brushing along his cheeks, and then reached out with his other hand to tap a finger between your collar bones.

“What?” you snapped, and he tapped again. “Me? What about me?”

He paused, gaze meeting yours with a pointed sort of melancholy.

Oh.

Oh.

You remembered the pins you’d dropped behind your bed, one by one. You remembered the strange coat of arms crowned with golden sails and bearing a great, shining sword. Something regal, something imperial that a commoner like you would have only caught fleeting glimpses of in parades, and marches, and war calls.

Something like, say, Pyroxene’s Royal Naval Fleet.

You glanced down at the parchment again, crumpled between your fists, and smoothed it out into something legible beneath your fingers. You reread the text with careful focus.

‘For the Crime of Piracy’ it said. Right at the tippity top. In red ink.

“…ah,” you blinked. “That makes a lot more sense.”

.

.

You were to walk the plank on the ‘morrow.

Which honestly, you hadn’t even thought was really a Thing—walking the plank, argh. Fiddly dee and a yo-ho-ho. That sort of storybook nonsense. The parables that parents passed onto their children to try and scare them away from a life of villainy. Real pirates were put to the rack, or hanged in the town squares to scare the adults away from doing the same.

But you supposed it was practical, at least. Blood was hard to scrub out of wooden decks, so beheading would have been a bit of a mess. Bullets were best to be conserved out on the high seas where stocks were already low, and honestly, your body would just have to be thrown overboard anyways before it stunk up the barracks. So, like, doing it all in one would be quite efficient. You could appreciate that. 

Your hands would be bound at your back and you’d be given three breaths, three steps, and then you’d be tumbling down into the waves below. Claimed by the waters that you’d patrolled for so many years now. Fitting, honestly. Riddle would be proud (beneath the raging, spitting indignation of you being caught at all, but that was another matter). At least you wouldn’t be going out from food poisoning or something mundane like that, so that was a win. And who knew. Maybe your Siren would find you again when you were nestled to rest in some seabed not too far from here, and he could finally make a meal of your dumb ass yet. Happy endings abound.

You wondered idly at the dual branches of fate you’d wandered along in these past weeks, and if it would have been better to hide away when you’d first seen those sails on the horizon. To keep to the little, crescent island you’d found yourself on and slowly starved to death. Alone, abandoned, and sitting in a forever stillness worse than any silence you’d known before.  Forever staring out over the horizon for a glance of amethyst fins that you knew you’d never see again.

If given the choice between the two, you’d take the plank.

.

Neige brought you another feast that night, and you gorged on it merrily. 

When he nervously kept piling your plate with choice cuts after choice cuts, gaze diverted to the floor and looking like a kicked puppy dog with its tail between its legs, you rolled your eyes and swatted at his fingers.

“Unclench yourself,” you huffed, and he puffed up stuttery and pink in horror. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re just doing your job, right? If we’d met under different circumstances I bet I would have shot you first. So, really. All’s fair.”

He worried his lower lip between his teeth, guilt still swimming heavy and warm in those doe eyes of his.

He said something under his breath, something that you’d bet even if your ears were working at full capacity you wouldn’t have been able to parse out. He leaned forward to scrawl a note on the napkin beside your plate.

‘You’re happier now? After all this? I don’t get it.’

You reached out to pat him merrily on the shoulder, more a smack smack smack then anything really pleasant. He could see him fighting a wince with all the trembling sort of bravery of a field mouse. Poor dear. What was the Royal Navy thinking? Hiring on someone who looked like they belonged on an advert for rouge and sweets. This was the last face a pirate was expected to jeer into? This one? Really? It was a wonder this little, squirrely man hadn’t keeled over the first time someone spat on his boots.

“It’s a poor choice to help the fish at high noon,” you said around a mouthful of crumbs. “But it’s my choice. And I’m happy to do it.”

“Fish?” you saw him mouth, brow pinched, and you batted at his shoulder again before reaching for another of those too-sweet tarts.

.

.

There was a whole procession for your execution. With speeches. Which even with the slowly encroaching panic worming into your guts, you couldn’t help but think was at least a little funny.  

The whole crew was lined up in solemn formation, listening stalwartly to some judge, or high ranking officer, or whatever rattle off who even knew what. Your crimes? A homily? The lunch menu? Fuck if you had any clue. And you were the one being fed to the sharks. There had to be some joke hidden in here, right? The scoundrel pirate who could never be tried, simply because they couldn’t hear their own sentencing. You wouldn’t even know when to stand up and shout ‘I object!’ It would probably be pretty funny, right? If you just did that out of nowhere. And what was the worst that could happen? Oh, no. A fine. Please, sir. Add it to the list of debts I owe from beyond my watery grave. Amen.

A hand at your lower back gave you a gentle nudge forward and you shifted against the ropes binding your wrists. They were nicer than your own stores aboard the Rose Queen. Not nearly as itchy, the fibers neat and clearly expensive. Neige stepped up beside you and offered you a look that was likely meant to be kind, but your growing nerves had started to eat through your willingness to play friendly. You could feel the weight of the crew around you, even if you couldn’t hear them. The creak of the deck beneath your toes as they shifted about, the way their bulk must have been shielding you from the worst of the wind. Unlike with your own mismatched family of castaways, their presence wasn’t reassuring. And you kept your eyes locked forward and away from the field of sharp gazes eating into your hide.

The plank was narrow, and immediately you were fighting the urge to sway on your toes. Having your hands bound at your rear only made it worse. It threw off the whole of your center of gravity and had you feeling dizzy and seasick.

You took one breath, stuttery, and one step. The wood whined beneath your heels in a vibration you could feel all the way up to your knees.

Another breath, another step. You could feel the salt soaked board starting to bend now. Clearly it wasn’t meant to support much of anything, let alone a whole person. And for some reason the idea of it breaking beneath you was so much worse than taking that last step all on your own. A sudden plunge that was out of your control. It had your heart hammering in your throat and cold nausea bubbling in your belly.

You looked down. You didn’t want to, but it was like your gaze was a weighted, magnetic thing. Pulled down into the salty depths below. The water looked rougher than it had a moment ago, or maybe you were just really starting to panic. You could see the white froth of the wake breaking against the ship’s hull. It churned like the start of a storm, which was really, terribly inconvenient. Seeing as it’d been so still and calm just a few minutes before. And, y’know, the fact that you had to fall into that mess of sharp peaks and rocking waves. You swore you could see dark shapes flitting about just beneath the surface, a flash of grey, or maybe green. It was hard to tell, with the brightness of the early morning sun in your eyes.

No one was poking at your back, urging you forward, which you thought was quite odd. You’d been taking your sweet ol’ time sauntering to your demise. You’d assumed they’d have less patience for a pirate with cold feet. Instead, the world around you was just silent and still. Shifting with the raging waves below, but empty and quiet as a tomb for all you knew otherwise.

You took your last breath, your last step.

And then the ship lurched and you were plummeting towards the water. The dissonance between having something beneath your feet—no matter how frail—and then nothing was jarring, and it had you gasping on impulse. Hair whipping at your cheeks and lungs squeezing tight as the air screamed past your throat. It felt like you were drowning before you even hit the water.

When you did finally crash into the waves, it hurt. You’d always been a fairly proficient swimmer, but whether it be the mind numbing panic or the ropes binding you tight, tight, tight, you just started to sink. The salt stung like an open wound, and the water was cold. Frigid. Like being tossed into the jagged side of a glacier. You at least had the sense not to gulp down a mouthful of water out of reflex, but that didn’t make things much better.

You screwed your eyes shut, bubbles frothing at your nose, and tried to find that peace that you’d clung to all night long. A life for a life, one catch for another. No one was going to miss you anyways. And if you had to meet the reaper some way, then of all the ends the universe could have spun for you, at least this one had some meaning to it.

You sighed into the darkness, soft, but when your lips parted next around what should have been a mouthful of icy saltwater, all you could taste was air.

Your eyes shot open in the gloom to a mess of familiar golds and purples that you’d thought you’d never see again.

Your Siren pulled back, bubbles curling from the edge of his lips into a soft stream of warmth between the two of you. Nestling as deep as a full breath all the way in the tightest corners of your lungs. You could feel the dip of his claws as he settled his hands at your shoulders—keeping you in place. And immediately you shrieked and flailed in your bindings.

“You—!”

You promptly choked on another mouthful of sea water and your Siren wailed—all that molten fondness in those lovely amethyst eyes of his sharpening into familiar, pissy exasperation from one second to the next. He dragged your face back to his, slotting his mouth against yours and pushing more air into your lungs. You leaned into it before you could help yourself. Half for the whole oxygen thing, and half, because, well—

When he pulled away this time he smacked a hand over your mouth with a sneer, his thumb and index finger hooked upward to pinch at your nose. He jabbed a claw in your face with a clear ‘stay put’ and immediately went to work cutting through the bindings twined along your arms. The ropes fell away beneath his talons like butter to a hot blade, and he fretfully ran his palms up and down your limbs—looking for any stray bits of netting like a compulsion. Once he seemed certain that you’d been properly freed from your ties, he hauled you up against his chest in a grip that had you losing all the air in your lungs all over again. You could feel the cool jut of the sea glass around his neck pressing into your collar, and he buried his head down into your throat until you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The frills of his tail fluttered in the water, and the bulk of those twining strands curled up and around your legs like a barnacle.

He was warm. Warmer than you’d been expecting, for a creature who spent his life patrolling the darkest depths of the ocean. It wasn’t the same sort of heat that would beat off a human’s hide, but it was more comforting than any you’d ever known. You burrowed down against his shoulder, nose scrunching against the side of his neck and the fins at his ears brushing your temple. You could feel his claws flexing at your sides, feel the shift of his scales against your skin. And just as your lungs were starting to burn, he ducked forward to pull you into another kiss—filling your chest with wonderful, wonderful oxygen all over again.

You blinked blearily past the sting of salt in your eyes and he scrubbed a thumb against your cheek.

Now that those high, wonderful, heart bursting emotions were settling back into something manageable beneath your ribs, you took a moment to look at him. Really look at him. Because you’d sent him on his way, hadn’t you? Waved him off with well wishes and a hope for his happiness. And all that aside, how had he even managed to find you—

Bubbles streamed from your nose as that newest shared breath began to run dry, and your Siren hooked an arm around your waist to propel you upwards.

You crested the surface with a gasp, paddling instinctively against the churning wake. When all that did was leave you smack, smack, smacking at your Siren’s chest like a flailing toddler, he hissed—a spitting, pissy thing you could feel on the breeze—and hauled you back up against him. Just like he had all those times you’d swum together in your cove. You forced yourself to settle, bobbing gently against the tide as he kept you both aloft.

Once your body had managed to catch up with your brain to realize that it was, in fact, not drowning, all of the adrenaline rushed out of you like a broken spicket. You slumped against the Siren’s chest, fuzzy headed and dizzy. Because he’d saved you. Which made no sense in the least. But you’d almost died, and he’d saved you—

Your gaze drifted back up to the ship from which you’d only so recently taken your Cannonball of Doom and startled.

There was blood everywhere.

Staining the railings, splashed along the low flying flags, dripping along the deck. A macabre mess of gore and claw marks gutting the once grand vessel like a beached whale. Some of the crew still seemed to be hanging onto the life rafts, others were taking running leaps into the water like they were under compulsion—eyes glazed over and distant. There was a prickling all along your skin, something twisting familiar and strange in your gut, and oh. Oh.

One of the grander looking officers (the one who had been giving your pre-execution speech, perhaps? He looked similar enough) was shouting something from his place at the bow of one of the life rafts—arm extended in a grand show of valor and sword glinting into the light of the morning. And then a great, emerald siren was rearing over the side of that tiny vessel with a sharp grin on his face and sharper talons on display. The officer was dragged overboard, and the siren’s tail came down on the guardrails with a force that had the wood splintering and the already haphazard little boat rock, rock, rocking until it caught on a high wave and capsized.

You could see the flash of colorful scales and the tips of even brighter fins all around. Cresting above the water just long enough to grab hold of another wailing victim and drag them down to the depths. There was enough blood in the water that you could smell it. Acrid and copper against the ocean’s already sharp, salty musk. And sure, you were a pirate. You’d been in raids, you’d seen death. Plenty of it. But this. Well. It was unfamiliar. In a strange, detached sort of way. These assholes had chucked you overboard, after all. So you only really had a teensy, tiny pinch of sympathy for the fact that being eaten alive probably hurt like a sonofabitch.

It was more strange, you supposed, to be at the center of a sirens’ hunt and not be the one facing down the angry, bitey end.

You kicked in the water, nose scrunching when the red tide lapped against your chin.

“This isn’t going to attract sharks, is it?”

Because if you were saved from drowning at the hands of a royal militia only to wind up as a fish’s dinner, you would be terribly annoyed.

Your Siren rolled his eyes at you, like you were just the most ridiculous and stupid creature in all of creation. And then he made a languid swipe of his large, fully-healed tail and began to swim away from the literal bloodbath he and his pod had wrought. With you and all your silly, fragile humanness in tow.

It was far too relaxing, being pulled along against his side. The gentle rocking of his tail beneath you as he swam at the surface—always ensuring to keep your head above the water as he did so. You could feel your eyes starting to dip, feel a yawn cracking along your lips. Maybe it was just the adrenaline crash hitting, or maybe it was the relief that you hadn’t even wanted to address. He’d come back. For you.

The earless pirate who never seemed to do much but stumble into one conundrum after another. Who had only annoyed him at best and shorn his fins to shredded, useless bits at worst. Who had thrown shells at his head and only nicked him a little when you cut the ropes from his hide.

Who had made him human foods with fire and taught him your language in a messy scrawl of sand and snark. Who swam with him in the bay and twined a necklace of shining, purple sea glass around his neck. Who braided his hair, and laughed at his pouting, and—

There was a rough roll of surf that splashed in your face and you spluttered against the white froth.

The Siren paused and beat his tail against the deeper waters, propping you upright as you hacked and fretfully patting at your back. You could see his mouth moving as he mumbled something, brow pinched, and stared back at him with your own wobbly frown—confused.

“Why did you come back?” you asked, and the Siren’s brows jumped up into his hairline. He looked startled, genuinely. And that only had you even more befuddled. “And how did you even find me?”

This time when he huffed, there was a subtle sort of irritation there that you’d learn to recognize well.

He was pouting.

Something brushed against your fingers in the water, soft and fleeting. You glanced down just in time to catch a blur of lavender flitting nervously below the choppy waves, never dipping close enough again to touch, but looking hesitant to keep much further either.

The Siren followed your gaze only to narrow his eyes, pointed teeth bared as he swatted at the poor, round, little octopus with his tail. A clear shoo, shoo if you’d ever seen one. The octopus squeaked, sending bubbles spiraling in all directions, and frantically looped out of the way of the mer’s petulant tantrum. You whacked him right back, indignant on your teeny friend’s behalf. Because—!

“You followed me,” you burbled, and the little octopus spun in a fretful circle. If you didn’t know better, you’d say the poor, little dear was wringing its hands. Your Siren bared his teeth and smacked out again. “Hey! Don’t be an ass! He saved me,” you argued, and your bitch of a merman just snapped his fangs in your face like a feral cat.

You gawked.

“No way. You can’t be annoyed that you were beat out by a baby, purple octopus the size of an orange.”

He huffed and turned up his nose, and you burst out into laughter for the first time since you’d watched him swim out of your cove all those days ago.

You laughed and laughed until tears were beading at the corners of your eyes, and your Siren was grumbling in complaint and pinching your sides with his curved claws. There wasn’t real malevolence in that stern glare of his, though—just more of the prickly, teasing sort of snide side eye he’d given you in your latter weeks together. Fondness, you realized. That’s what was softening it all. The same sort of warmth you held for him.

Your favorite, pissy, preening, self-righteous goldfish.

You snorted into his shoulder, still shaking on giggles, and you could feel his sigh against your temple. You burrowed down against his side, feeling his fins brush along your hips as he kept the both of you afloat.

“Thanks,” you said, soft. “For coming back.”

You were expecting another melodramatic sigh, another plaintive roll of the eyes. Instead, his fingers came up to twine with yours and tugged your hand to rest against the pendant at his throat. You blinked, confused, and he just curled your palm around that little, sand-smoothed piece of glass.

You arched a brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

This time he did roll his eyes at you, and when he spoke he mouthed the word dramatic and wide so he was sure that you could see it.

‘Moron.’

You whined in complaint and smacked his fingers away. “But I’m your moron.”

Another huff, soft against the nape of your neck. And you could see the barest twitch of a smile on his red lips as he turned back into the tide and continued his trek home.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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[siplick]

Late night letter

[duckdodger]

the current tmnttwt art trend

[meruz]

lend me an arm

[the-iceni-bitch]

𝕸𝖆𝖉𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝕾𝖙𝖊𝖊𝖑 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝕮𝖑𝖆𝖞

𝙾𝚛𝚌 𝙰𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜. 𝙲𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎.

𝙰𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊 ~ 𝙰 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜.

𝙰𝚕𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚊 ~ 𝚂𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜.

Words: ~1.1k

Relationship: August Walker x princess!female reader

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (non-con, bondage, manhandling, cum marking), mean August, size difference, SMUT!! 18+ ONLY!!

A/N: I love a bad boy so much and I’m not even a little bit sorry about it. If I’m going to hell, so be it.

August grinned as he walked through the horde’s camp, holding the head of his conquered foe high and roaring before tossing it to one of his clansmen and instructing them to boil it so he could add the skull to his collection. His blood was still up from the battle, and there was only one thing on his mind. He took a mug of grog from someone before throwing aside the flap to his tent and striding inside.

“Little princess!” August threw his head back and howled with laughter when you flailed against your bindings as soon as you saw him, taking a swig of grog before setting the tankard down and starting to remove his leathers. “Did you miss me, little one?”

“Fuck you!” You spat at him when he reached out to demeaningly pat your cheek.

“That’s rude language from such a pretty princess,” This time he slapped you, licking his tusks lasciviously when you gasped and shuddered. “I’m assuming this means you’re still rejecting my proposal.”

“Of course I’m rejecting it!” You thrashed even more, determined to get free from your bindings even though you had no luck in your attempts during the past few weeks of your captivity. “I’ll never be the mate of a filthy, murdering orc bastard!”

“Tsk, how disappointing,” the way you were writhing and squirming against your bindings was making him hard, as it always did, and it only got better when you screamed furiously as he began to undo his breeches. “It’s not as though you have many options, princess. I just killed another one of those suitors of yours who thought he could rescue you. His skull is going to look rather fine hanging around my neck with those of the other failures.”

That made your already fraught emotions sink even lower, but you were determined not to let him see you cry. There were now four different prince’s and their armies who had tried to take you back from the horde after they had pillaged your family’s kingdom. Every single one of them was dead, along with their armies, and you didn’t know how many more would make the attempt now that so many had been killed. A sense of dread started to settle over you at that thought, but you refused to be defeated. So you just continued to struggle against the ropes that bound you, glaring at him and ignoring the way your eyes stung with unshed tears.

“I fucking hate you,” you kept your eyes fixed on his face while he pulled out his massive cock and started to stroke it over your restrained body. “You’re disgusting and I’ll never be yours.”

“Your stubbornness only makes the fact that you’ll eventually break all the more delicious,” August snorted when you jerked away from him as he gave your head a condescending pat, slapping you instead as his fist kept moving over his cock. “You have no other choice, princess. I’m going to have you no matter what, it will go easier for you if you submit willingly.”

You just snarled at him, tired of telling him to fuck himself and deciding to just try to ignore him instead. It was difficult, though, especially when he gripped your face and forced you to watch as he stroked his cock over your squirming body. The worst thing was that you were getting wet as you kept struggling, and he could tell, a wicked grin spreading across his face when his precum started to drip on your already soiled gown.

August just grunted with annoyance when you pouted and closed your eyes, rolling his own before taking his hand off your face so he could yank at the ropes binding you until they were flung over one of the tent beams so you were suspended in midair.

“Stop, what are you doing?!” You shrieked when he shredded your gown so it fell off you in tatters and left you naked as you dangled in front of him. “You bastard! Put me down!”

“Always fucking complaining. You’re lucky I don’t decide to shut you up by skullfucking you, princess,” he chuckled when that made you finally fall silent as your eyes lit up with terror. “Don’t look so scared, like you don’t enjoy everything I do to you. Remember how messy you got when I broke you in?”

“Shut up… stop it!” You thrashed wildly when he shot his thick cum all over your stomach and thighs, screaming when he grabbed one of your legs and propped it on his shoulder so you were spread wide open for him. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

He ignored you, smearing his fingers through the thick mess he’d left all over before reaching between your legs so he could rub his seed all over your swollen pussy. His first smack caught you completely off guard, making you wail when his hand cracked against your quivering folds so hard you almost blacked out. But then he leaned down and kissed you and you were brought back to consciousness against your will, gagging at the taste of grog on his tongue while his hand started slapping your cunt over and over again.

His treatment was brutal, it always was, but still your body responded to him. You cried and choked on his tongue as his fingers struck your pussy at a brutal pace, hating that each time he smacked your sensitive flesh you gushed juices all over his hand and trembled from barely controlling your climax. You held out longer than you would have thought you’d be able to, but after twenty minutes there was nothing you could do. August grinned and spat into your mouth when you sobbed as you squirted everywhere, rubbing your raw and sore folds viciously while you spasmed through your climax. As soon as you were done he released his hold on the ropes and let you drop to the floor, laying on his bed of furs and picking up his tankard of grog again as he watched you whimper and squirm.

“When are you gonna admit how much you enjoy this shit, princess?” August nudged you with his foot to turn you over and chuckled when you whined. “If you can handle this you should be able to actually survive carrying my baby. Of course you will be much more comfortable if you’re not bound and restricted during your pregnancy. So why don’t you take the night to think about how much better your life will be if you actually accept a role as my mate instead of just a brood mare.”

You sobbed when he rose to his feet and pulled his breeches back on, leaving you alone in his tent to consider just how miserable you wanted your future to be.

[the-peak-tmnt]

Oh no, the jig is up! This person has discovered my dark secret! I'm totally paying people to read my silly ninja turtle fanfic because it's just too unbelievable that people would read a long fic or leave long comments because of...

[checks comment again] ...high gas prices???

[intimidating-fettuccine]

Slender likes to say he doesn’t pick favorites. If anyone ever asks him, he’ll always say that he values everyone in his mansion the same, that he loves them all equally, however… When you’re sitting at that dining table, it’s so easy to disprove those claims.

The way he sets your plate and silverware down with such care, the way he always prepares your favorite meals, makes sure the fridge is freshly stocked with your favorite drinks. It doesn’t matter if you’re seated beside him, or any one specific resident at the table, his eyes are always on you, filled with such joy to have you there.

Your visits are the ones that bring him the most joy.

Whether you’re his employee today, or perhaps you’ve chosen to be his lover, or maybe you’ve taken the popular route of viewing him as a father, he doesn’t mind. Each and every one of you is different in how you view him, but he always views you as his favorite.

You come to him for comfort, you come to him for humor, you come to him for happiness, or to spice things up. When you’re sad, or when you’re lonely, when you’re feeling weak and crumbling to the weight of those troublesome voices in your head that tell you horrible things that aren’t true, and he’ll always be waiting there to dispel those voices for you, to remind you how wonderful you are, and how needed and loved you are. He’ll always have a warm drink and a delicious snack waiting, a comfortable blanket kept in his office just for you to wrap yourself up in. He’ll always have a new work story, or a tale about one of the others, anything to bring about a hint of a smile on those wonderfully unique faces of all of you.

When you get a victory, when you pass your tests or get that job, when you finally manage to get out of bed and eat something, or remember to drink some water. When you finally laugh for the first time in a few weeks, or go a whole day without a hint of sadness, he’s right there beside you, cheering you on. He adores you so much, and regardless of why you’re paying him a visit, he’ll always be there to welcome you with open arms.

Even when you’re not even running through those mansion doors to see him. Perhaps you’re here to play games with BEN, or you’re choosing to take care of Toby for the day, or you’ve finally decided to see what it’s like to pay Jason a visit and let him care for you for a change. His arms are still open, still welcoming you into the mansion, whether you’re going out for coffee with Jane, or here to spend time goofing off with Jeff forgetting the world, it doesn’t matter to Slender. So long as you walk out those front doors feeling better, feeling even a bit happier than when you entered, he’s at peace.

When he can hear your resounding laughter amongst the group and crowd of the mansion, when you’re happily bundled up next to your chosen partner of the day, he’s always blessed to see you. He often wonders, what have you chosen today? Have you searched for angst, or fluff, or comfort? Why have you chosen a new person to read about? What draws you into them? Does this new resident make you just as happy as your comforting favorite you’d always turn to on those lonely late nights curled up in bed? Do they treat you well? He hopes they do. He hopes that no matter where you’re finding the words your eyes are skimming over that you’re happy to be in their company.

Or, maybe he’s not greeting you at the door. Maybe he sees you in passing as you run down the busy streets in the Underworld towards Zalgo’s castle. He always checks in with him, to make sure he’s treating you well on these days, that you’re doing alright, and of course, Zalgo always reports back that you’re being well taken care of. It makes his heart happy to hear that.

He hopes you’ll visit him again soon. He’s content to know you’re happy living out whatever idea your brain has come up with, whatever you’ve requested to have written or stumbled across in your endless hours of scrolling. He just hopes you don’t forget him, and that you’ll stop by and say hello. He’s taken care of you all these years, and he misses you.

For some of you it could be months, for some of you it could be a decade, but the time doesn’t matter to him. He’s stood beside you and watched you grow, watched as you’ve stumbled and watched as you’ve stood back up, and that brings him more joy than he can say. There are times where you don’t visit for a few days, or weeks, or months, or years. You move on to new places to visit, different people in different worlds, and that’s okay. That’s okay, so long as they take care of you and cherish your company in the same way that he does.

He just wishes you the best, in everything, and he wants you to always remember that. No matter how much time passes, you’ll always have an open seat at his dining table, wherever you want it, so don’t be shy, and remember that you can always stop by to greet him.

He’s always ready at those marbled double doors, waiting for them to swing open so he can greet you with a hug yet again, just like he always has.

[fabuloustrash05]

I want a TMNT crossover movie or special where when the Turtles all meet each other they aren't all teenagers. They are all the ages they would be if they canonly age in their timelines.

So imagine the MM Turtles meet their other counterparts from other series and while these boys are teens...

The Rise Turtles are in their late teens to early 20s

The 2012 Turtles are in their late 20s

The 03 Turtles are in their late 30s

And the 87 Turtles are in their 50s

[cingulata]

[mayhemwrites]

golden (like daylight)

Genya's POV of getting to know Alina at the Little Palace, leading up to a decision that will change her whole life.

genyalina fic for the @grishaversebigbang event!!

read on ao3 here

thank you so much to the three wonderful etherealki who created incredible art for this fic: @calicoquinn (art here), @idkchatie (art here), and @0marm-alade0 (art here)!!!!

Summary: Genya's POV of getting to know Alina at the Little Palace, leading up to a decision that will change her whole life.

snippet under the cut!! canon divergent, fluffy pining, canon-typical references to genya being sexually assaulted and manipulated

-------------

Genya knocks on the door - once, then twice. No response. She knocks harder. Saints damn it, is this girl in a coma?

The person inside mumbles something Genya can’t quite hear. It sounds hostile, frustrated maybe. She doesn’t give up, though. She is not going to let this girl - Alina Starkov, the Sun Summoner, apparently - be late for her presentation to the King. No way. She is not going to take the fall for some girl who can’t wake up early.

After a solid minute of knocking on the door, the person inside (presumably Alina) calls out, “All right! I’m coming!”

She stops, relieved.

“Who is it?”

“I don’t have time for this,” Genya snaps. “Open. Now!”

The door swings open, revealing a girl in a nightgown. She looks about Genya’s age, and absolutely filthy. Immediately she sees why the Darkling had sent her. Sun Summoner or not, she can’t be presented to the royal family like this.

Looking Alina up and down, she sweeps past and into the room. “All Saints. Have you even bathed? And what happened to your face?”

She swears she doesn’t mean to be so critical constantly. It’s just a habit.

Alina flushes, and her hand goes to the bruise on her cheek Genya had pointed out. Now she’s closer, Genya can tell that the illustrious Sun Summoner is covered with blood and dirt, and she smells of horse shit. Saints. If she’s Ravka’s last hope, then Ravka has no hope.

She turns to look at the group of women who had been assigned to her this morning. “Draw a bath. A hot one,” is her first instruction, then, thinking out loud: “I’ll need my kit.” This isn’t the normal Tailoring she does - this will need a bit more effort than just getting rid of a single wart on the Queen’s face. Another thought occurs to her (it should be obvious given she’s just demanded Alina be bathed, but she wouldn’t trust any of these people to find their way out of a paper bag), and she instructs her team, “And get her out of those clothes.”

As Genya pulls bits and pieces out of her pockets, setting them on the dresser, the servants descend on the poor Sun Summoner, practically dragging her towards the bathtub and ripping her clothes off. It’s a reminder that having status doesn’t necessarily mean palace life becomes any less vicious. Not that she needs that particular reminder.

Alina fights back, batting away everyone’s hands. So dramatic. Genya almost has to admire it. Or she would, if she wasn’t in such a damned hurry.

The servants redouble their efforts.

“Hold her down if you have to,” she says under her breath, rolling her eyes at the melodrama of what’s unfolding in front of her. The servants don’t hear her, but Alina does, and her eyes widen. Damn. Genya hadn’t been serious.

“Stop!” she shouts, backing away from the servants. “What is going on?”

She looks at Genya. Everyone’s looking at Genya, even the servants, debating the chain of command; does the Sun Summoner outrank Genya? Whose orders do they follow?

“Who are you?”

Genya sighs deeply. “I don’t have ti-”

“Make time!” she demands. “I’ve covered almost two hundred miles on horseback. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week, and I’ve nearly been killed twice. So before I do anything else, you’re going to have to tell me who you are and why it’s so very important that you get my clothes off.”

Well.

When she puts it like that, it sounds almost reasonable.

(And it’s irrelevant that this filthy, blood-coated girl actually looks really quite pretty now.)

She takes a deep breath. Composes herself. Pretty or not, it doesn’t matter; she doubts the King will share her judgement. “My name is Genya. In less than an hour, you will be presented to the King and it is my job to make you look presentable.”

Alina deflates. All the fight goes out of her, and she just looks shocked and faintly terrified. Frankly, Genya can’t blame her. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” Genya says impatiently. “So, shall we?”

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 4]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 7.2k

Summary: It is very, incredibly important not to get attached to someone who will no doubt be leaving you high and dry to die stranded on an island any day now—be they man or fish. And you are definitely, definitely following that rule. For sure.

🌶️ Obligatory Warning for Mild Spice

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

The next morning, there was a conch shell set beside the familiar offering of half-mauled fish.

The insides were a shining, pearlescent pink—smooth and sleek. You picked it up curiously and turned it over in your palms. You’d never seen such a complete one before. Normally they were at least a bit dinged, cracked here or there along the thin edges. But this one was practically perfect. It sat heavy and warm in your palm, and you brushed a finger along the rough ridges.

You looked up and the Siren was lounging at the shoreline, waiting expectantly.

“Thank you,” you said. “It’s really pretty.”

He preened, the fins along the side of his head fluttering wide and colorful. You huffed, amused, and set the shell neatly at the forefront of your slowly accumulating corner of Things. You’d rebuilt the little shanty shelter that he’d had his seagull minions pick apart into useless nonsense that first day together, and it wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep some of the sun off your shoulders at the height of the afternoon and would probably (maybe) hold up under a bit of rain. And that pleasantly cozy hovel of yours was where you’d been keeping your Stuff. The best sticks for poking at the fire, a rock that you’d found with a dip in the middle that made it sort of, almost a bowl if you squinted hard enough, bunches of drying beach grasses that you’d been tediously twining together into bits of rope and other nonsense. That sort of thing.

You placed the conch shell on the roof of it, prodding at it with the tips of your fingers until it sat just so. Like a figurehead on a ship. The crown jewel on your little mess of ferns and driftwood.

“What do you think?” you asked, turning back to the Siren. “Really brings the room together, huh?”

He puffed something under his breath and rolled those amethyst eyes of his, but there was a curl to his lips that looked far more amused than irritated.

You trudged back over and plopped beside him in the sand, the soft, low roll of the waves playing against your toes.

“Today feels like it’s going to be gross again,” you sighed, squinting up at the sun overhead in distaste. The big ball of glowing fire had barely crawled its way over the horizon and already it felt like the world was beginning to steam.

The Siren curled his claws around your ankle and tugged.

You arched a brow at him and he pushed his stupidly, perfectly shaped ones up right back. Like he was positive that he could out stink-face you with ease.

“It’s too early to swim,” you complained.

He tugged again.

“I can’t be in the water that long. You’re going to turn me into a prune.”

He said something back, mouth quirking in irritation, and you focused hard on the shape of it. His expression smoothed with that familiar, near-eerie perception of his and he was reaching forward to dig his free fingers into the sand at your hip.

‘Don’t know what that is.’

“It’s like a—” you frowned, waving your hand around your head. “Y’know. A fruit, that’s gone pruney. A prune.”

He looked at you like you were the dumbest human he’d ever met, and to be fair you very well could have been. You doubted it was an extensive list. And even if it was, you tended to have a proclivity for landing near the top of those illustrious sorts of rankings either way. At least that’s what your Captain saw fit to remind you ad nauseum.

So, like the very mature and intellectually competent person that you were, you kicked a mess of seawater right into his face. And then the Siren was screaming something silent and mad that had all the goosebumps on your arms popping up to say hello, and he was dragging you into the shallows ass first. You skidded along the wet sand and landed in the white surf with a laugh that you had to swallow real fast. Because if you drowned in three inches of water just because you couldn’t manage to not choke to death on a giggle fit, you’d never forgive yourself.

.

.

That night, you were lounging by the fire with a belly full of seared snapper and the Siren curled just as contentedly only a few feet away. His fins were splayed out across the damp sands, and you couldn’t help but compare them yet again to some of the finest, spun silks you’d ever seen. Even when they’d been pinched and shredded beneath the prickly teeth of your ropes, they’d still been lovely. But now that they were near-fully-healed, the spread of them was truly impressive.

And they were. Almost healed, that is. You could barely make out the trailing, scar-puckered lines of even the biggest tears anymore. Which was good! Great, even. Because that meant he’d be able to begin his journey home soon, didn’t it? And then at least one of you would manage to get away from this barren mess of rocks and sand.

There was a thump against your thighs that had you jolting back into focus, and you looked down to see a pair of familiar, gem-cut irises staring back in the dark.

The Siren was glaring up at you like there was a Purpose to his sudden loss of personal boundaries, and you blinked down at him in confusion. After a long moment of nothing but your silent gawking, his brow started to pinch and the skin around his eyes went tight with irritation. The fins along his ears rippled like a pissy cat raising its hackles in preparation to lunge, and you cautiously placed a hand against the edge of one. The grumpy fluttering stopped all at once, and if you were a touch more sun-poisoned you would say that those delicate, purple pins relaxed against your palm. Either way, you were clearly on the right track. So you let your fingers trail down towards his temples, and then to the salt-curled waves of his hair. His eyes slipped closed with a pleasant rumble that you could feel all along your skin, and you puffed in half-hearted irritation. Prickly, fussy, bastard man.

You weren’t really sure what he wanted, but for now the gentle scratch of your nails against his scalp seemed to do the trick. After a few cycles of lazy petting, you let your fingers catch in some of the softer, pale hair beneath his fins. It was a bit tangled—possibly from all that frilly posturing of his—and you carefully began picking apart the small knots there one by one. Once those were cleared away, you found yourself with little else to do but sit and play with the newly freed waves of lavender-tipped gold. You tucked one strand over the next, twisting the familiar pattern of a simple braid beneath your palms.

“Deuce grew his hair out at one point,” you chattered idly as you wove those silky locks together beneath your fingers. “That’s someone from my ship, by the way. Deuce. Anyways. He thought it’d make him look more rugged, or whatever. But he just ended up looking like some rogue, sea elf, and everyone was teasing him about how he’d gone for ‘windswept sailor’ and ended up with ‘foppish, little lordling.’ So he chopped it all off again.”

The Siren hummed, and you could feel it against the pads of your fingers.

“Which was a real shame,” you continued. “Because obviously I spent all that time learning to braid it, but also because it actually looked pretty nice—OUCH! What is your problem—"

You yanked your hand away from his sharp teeth and cradled your smarting fingers to your chest. Because the stupid fish had bitten you! Not hard, or anything. Just a little nip. But it’d still hurt. If less as a genuine injury and more as a sting to your pride.

The Siren spat something quick and harsh under his breath, turning up his nose like you’d been the one to err here, and not his wandering fangs.

“What?” you huffed, reaching out to flick at those purple fins in irritation. They twitched against the side of his head to smack at your fingers. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I not allowed to call anyone else pretty, your highness?”

The Siren rolled his eyes with a look that screamed ‘well, duh,’ and you forced your irritation to override the little, bursting bubble of fondness in your chest. So silly, so silly. This ridiculously primped fish of yours.

“Well, too bad,” you grouched, tugging at the end of that half-bound braid. “Just because you win ‘most attractive specimen on the island’ doesn’t mean you get to tell me to pretend I’m blind on top of being deaf. Let me have something, you prick.” And it wasn’t like it was much of a competition—seeing as the entrants were you, him, and the octopus (if you were being generous). Less of a contest and more of a merciful slaughter, perhaps. A kindness that you were even allowed to share the same stage at all.

The Siren muttered something low and amused under his breath, the amethyst in his irises twinkling with the crackling, orange light of the embers beside you. He reached up to twist his claws along your palm and snatch the hand he’d so viciously nipped—bringing it down to eyelevel to observe it more closely in the dim glow of the fire. There was a steady trickle of blood bubbling up along your thumb. Honestly, not much worse than a papercut. Nevertheless, his brow quirked at the soft trail of red and his gaze jumped up to yours with a pointed sort of curiosity.

“What were you expecting to happen? Humans are fragile,” you huffed. “At least more than you are. It’s not like I have scales or things to keep me safe.”

His mouth tucked down on a frown, and his tail swept irritably back and forth through the sand.

“What? It’s not like you didn’t know that,” you tried, awkward. Because he ate stupid, little flesh bags like you for breakfast. Surely he ought to be well aware that there wasn’t much there. Just skin, and muscle, and all the gory, gooey bits beneath. Just like how you knew what it felt like to bite into a piece of bread, or the crunch of an apple. Solid enough to survive in its own right, but something that would give beneath your teeth easily enough that calling it anything other than ‘delicate’ would have been a gross exaggeration.

He turned your palm this way and that, brow pinching down more and more with each fresh prick of crimson. His tail beat against the sand and his talons curled up and away from your skin—like he was worried just touching your fragile, little, egg-shell of an exterior would burst it.

“It’s fine,” you blurted out, still far too confuddled over his progressive panic. You pulled your hand away from his claws and popped your finger in your mouth. “See?” you garbled around the faint taste of copper. And then pulled it out with a pop to show him the slowing trickle. “Totally fine. Just a scratch.”

The Siren watched that little bubble of red with all the vigilance of a hawk eyeing its super, and then he was snatching your wrist back between his talons and dragging your hand down towards his own mouth. And oh my God, this was it. He’d finally decided to eat you after all. What was it? Had your oh-so-breakable human foibles finally pushed him over the edge? Or was it the blood? Were Sirens like sharks? Driven to hungry frenzy by the very scent of your—

There was a gentle, wet warmth along your skin and you blinked through your hysteric descent into adrenaline-manic-mania to see the Siren carefully cleaning the blood along your cut, just as you had only moments before—his tongue running smooth lines along the teeny wound until the sore skin was tingling and spotless. Granted, his endeavors were carried out with a great deal more delicacy than your earlier example of just shoving your whole finger into your mouth like a gremlin, but…

“Uhm—” you spluttered, too gobsmacked to come up with much else. “You—ah—you don’t have to—uh—"

The Siren grumped something at you that you could feel the shape of against your palm, and then returned to diligently wiping away each new drop as it appeared. It was a strange sort of sensation. Not bristly like a cat’s tongue, but certainly not all human. There was a sting to it—something hot and prickly. Poison, maybe? Or… something. Whatever it was, it had the hair on the back of your neck rising to attention and a shiver working along your shoulders. He kept at, silent and meticulous, until finally—finally—the bleeding slowed to a stop. He hummed and turned your palm this way and that, looking over the drying nick in your skin like an artist admiring their work.

Once he was content with whatever it was he’d been searching for, he tucked your hand back along the fins at the side of his head and butted up against your palm in as blatant of a ‘get back to work’ as you���d ever seen.

You swallowed the weird mess of something that had clawed its way up to tangle your tongue and dug your nails back against his scalp just to give yourself something to do other than—than—

“I hope you don’t expect me to do that for you,” you babbled, still far too out of your head with What In The Fuck Was That to do much but gawk like an absolute imbecile at the fact that he’d actually, factually, just—

The Siren rolled his eyes and reached over to drag the point of his talon along the sand at your hip.

‘No need. Already healed.’

You barked out a startled laugh and tugged at the ends of his hair. Your fingers caught at the edge of the braid you’d been weaving, loosening one of the twining sections, and he was hissing and swatting your hands back into place—poking around with his dark claws at the little end you’d fussed with until it was exactly how it had been. And then was dragging your hands back to the half-woven bulk of it with a pointed snarl that was clearly an order to finish what you started, human. Or else.

“Okay, okay, jeesh. I’m on it.”

The Siren trilled low and rumbling under his breath, and beneath the weight of your palm it almost felt like the steady drone of a cat’s purr. Warm, and pleasant, and comfortable in a way you couldn’t quite place. The thin strands of chain-twined-rope you’d woven to make his necklace pressed into your thighs with a scratchy tickle, and the pretty piece of sea glass at its end reflected the low light of the fire in a kaleidoscope of purples. His fins flicked against your fingers in a steady tempo, and when you gave in and pinched one he was rolling onto his side to shove the full weight of himself into your lap. You whined, and bitched, and complained about suffocation, and the stupid bastard of a fish just smacked his tail indignantly against the wet sand and draped over you even more.

Seven, he was such a nightmare. And you were going to miss him so, so much.

.

.

The next day passed in much the same way as the one before, and the day after that, and the day after that. And as pleasant as it was, you couldn’t help but feel like the headsman's axe was hanging over your neck. Always there—just a breadth away from falling.

You were fixing your Siren’s hair—redoing that braid of his that he insisted you tuck into his golden locks each and every morning—and normally he was quite responsive to your prattling. Flicking you with his fins and curling his tail along your ankles as you rambled. A silent, steady way of expressing his interest when you couldn’t hear his own responses in return. But today he was… distant. Amethyst eyes locked on the grand expanse of the ocean before you with a forlorn sort of expression on his face. The water was still and quiet today, with sunlight bouncing off the low, rolling waves in a pretty glimmer like the glow off his own, shining scales.

You trailed off, fingers falling from his finished braid to twist in your lap. And he just kept staring. Fins half-pricked along the side of his head and gaze heavy with focus.

You swallowed around the tightness in your chest and forced a smile. You hopped to your feet with a merry, little bounce and reached down to pat him on the shoulder.

“It seems like a nice day for a swim,” you said, and ignored how you could feel your nerves eating through the words. The wobble of them in your throat.

The Siren startled, as much as someone as grandly majestic as he could really do such a thing, and turned your way with a fondly exacerbated huff. He held up a hand, like he was expecting to drag you along with him into the lulling tide, and you shooed away his fingers. His brow pinched and his mouth turned down at the corners.

“For you, I mean,” you clarified. Like your blatant stepping away from the water’s edge wasn’t an obvious rejection in its own right. You turned back out towards the ocean beyond your little cove. “Your fins are doing a lot better, aren’t they? You could probably stretch them a bit, right? With how smooth the waters are today.”

He hummed, considerate, gaze skirting out to track your own. You swallowed around another ball of prickling ice in your throat and kept your grin buoyant and encouraging.

And then he turned back and offered you his hand again.

You frowned, confused. “I can’t follow you out there.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned forward to dig his talons into the damp sand.

‘I will swim with you.’

A pause, where he reached out to poke at your ankle with a pointed jab, jab, jab before finishing off with a—

‘Like always. Stupid.’

“Oh, yeah? Well, I won’t be so stupid when you ditch me halfway out and I drown in the riptide,” you harrumphed and his eyes narrowed grumpily.

He dragged his claws through the sand in short, angry jerks.

‘Won’t leave.’

“Uh-huh,” you drawled, swallowing stiffly again when that curl of awful something tightened behind your ribs. Hoping you could manage to choke it down. It sat heavy and unpleasant on the back of your tongue, like food gone off.

He underlined the ‘won’t’ with hard, pissy strokes.

“How about this,” you tried, because man oh man, you couldn’t do this. It was going to turn you into a ridiculously weepy, clingy mess if he kept talking (writing?) like this. “Prove that your fins work well enough to keep you up and alive before I risk it. And then we can go from there.”

The Siren huffed, sending the longer ends of his hair flipping out to the sides. But those gem-cut eyes of his kept flicking out to sea, and you could see the tip of his tail twitching back and forth—like he was itching to just leap forward and swim. The fins along his ears pricked up again, and then he was turning his nose up at you with some petulant comment under his breath and diving forward into the surf. He smacked his tail down with a splash!, drenching you in a mess of salt and seafoam. You spat, and hacked, and scrubbed the water from your eyes.

“Great way to prove you won’t try and drown me!” you called, hands cupped over your mouth and still spluttering around lingering saltwater. He reared up quick enough to swipe another wave your way before slipping back under, and you laughed through the spray of mist.

You settled yourself back in the sand, ankles crossed and chin pillowed in your knees, and watched the shadow of him dance just beneath the surface—starting in his familiar, looping circles before slowly venturing towards the mouth of the cove. He paced along the breakwater, pectoral fins cresting above the waves to glint bright and sleek in the light of the morning. And then he was darting forward with a great beat of his tail, spraying salt behind him as he dove towards the depths. You waited, anxious, as one moment faded to the next, and then—finally—there was a burst of frothing bubbles as he broke the surface with a great, curling leap—fins flared wide like the wings of a great bird and scales shining like jewels. It was nearly effortless, how he crested over the water. Diving back down in a mess of spitting mists with a flick of those long, trailing fins. He leapt up again, twisting in the air to crash down on his back and it almost looked like he was dancing. You could see the white flash of his grin even from all the way where you were sat. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him so happy. Truly, a sight worthy of every grand tale you’d heard of the Sirens of the Sea.

He circled the mouth of the bay at least a dozen times more—fast, and wild, and breaching the waves in a burst of seafoam like he was trying to give every pod of dolphins out there a run for their money. Gradually, he began to lose steam, and those grand leaps melted into soft curls of his tail in the tide. And honestly, this was the part where you expected him to sink beneath the surface and glide off into the sunset. You braced yourself for it—for the moment that golden head of his would vanish beneath the water and never pop back up again—but instead he bobbed closer.

The Siren rolled in with the waves, panting, and flushed, and looking like someone coming off of a marathon. The muscles all along his torso were jittery with the strain of it, and he looked positively exhausted. Ecstatic beyond compare, but exhausted. He slipped up the damp shore with wobbly arms and came to a stop at your side before very gracelessly and rudely flopping the entirety of his sopping wet bulk onto your person and squashing you into the muck.

You squawked, rightfully indignant, and he just puffed against your neck and let his tail smack harder against your flailing legs.

“You’re going to crush me!” you wailed, shoving at his shoulder.

He rolled his eyes and curled his fins along your hips—spreading himself out in the sands like your complaints held no merit whatsoever. You could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours, and the rabbit-fast thump-thump-thump of his heart. His skin was so warm. You could even feel the heat of it off his scales, which you hadn’t even thought was possible. Weren’t all fishy, scaly things supposed to be cold? Slimy, and gross, and like poking a wet blob of some unmentionable gunk scraped off the hull of a ship? Instead it was just… smooth. Glass-polish sleek and all warm muscle twined along your much, much smaller self.

You cleared your throat and turned to blow a frustrated raspberry against the sand.

“You do realize if you break all my bones that there isn’t going to be anyone to cook your stupid fish for you anymore.”

The Siren grumbled something against your shoulder that almost felt like the breathy puff of a laugh, and then he was collapsing all over again with a sigh that ruffled all the soft, short hairs at the nape of your neck. He scrubbed his cheek against the curve of your throat and you froze. Because it almost felt like—was he purring?

A deep, low, tremulous thing that you could feel rumbling against your skin. Like laying a hand against a mast strung too tight in a storm. Or maybe more like that one time you’d found a stray cat lounging in the sun by the docks—the sweet, old thing chirping softly beneath your palm in a lulling drone that tickled all the way up your arm.  

The Siren’s purr wasn’t quite like either of those things, but perhaps a mix of the two. Dangerous but warm, powerful but cosseted. More predator than pet, and, well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? And honestly, it was pretty nice. A language you could feel rather than hear, something just for you.

So you let yourself relax beneath the weight of his scaly bulk with a sigh that wasn’t quite as aggrieved as you would have liked, and his tail twisted another loop around your calves. His fins spread around the pair of you like a roll of fine silks, and while the texture wasn’t exactly soft, they were delicate enough not to feel suffocating or coarse either. Sleek and cool to the touch, and maybe the thickness of canvas. And there were just so many of them. Long, and trailing, and ruffled along the edges like the folds of a fine-boned fan. Your weird, purple blanket. If Riddle ever found out you’d been using a Siren as bed linens, he’d probably have an aneurism and scrub you in one of the scullery buckets for a week straight.

It was stupidly easy to fall asleep like that—wrapped up in lavender and plum, with the thrum of his heart next to yours. You napped all through the afternoon, and only woke up once the sun had set over the horizon.

You blinked awake to stars in the sky and a strange, scratchy sensation at your hip.

The Siren had apparently finished up whatever little bout of insanity that had made him think you’d be the perfect impromptu pillow. He hadn’t gone far—or even anywhere at all really—but he was propped up at the hip now instead of crushing you into the shore. His hand was resting just beneath the hem of your shirt, right over the origin of that bizarre, ticklish feeling. You blinked again to clear the salt and sleep-grit from your eyes, and realized it was his talons. Not ripping, or tearing, or rending. Just very, very carefully tracing a set of shapes into your skin. The same three symbols, over and over. Up, and down, and up, and curled.

He traced those shapes again, and again, and again. It was almost—you’d think it was letters, if not for the strange, swirling pop of them. Almost like the words he’d written in his own language all those days ago. His claw dragged along the skin there in the faintest prickle, leaving slowly growing streaks of red in their wake with each repetition. You opened your mouth, ready to ask him what exactly he was so painstakingly etching into your hip, and paused.

You’d realized over the past however many weeks you’d been marooned on this little crescent of sand and stone that maybe Sirens weren’t all you’d thought them to be. And that maybe you really didn’t know much about them at all. Something about the slow, cautious way that his claws were tracking along your skin made you think that this was another of those things that you just didn’t get. And going by how quiet he was, how stalwart and careful he was being not to let the knife-sharp curves of those talons dig too deep or do anything other than trace back and forth, and back and forth, it might be something… Something important. Or at the very least something that you had no business bothering him about.

Least of all if he’d be leaving any day now.

So you tossed your head back on a very loud, very dramatic yawn and used the ensuing stretch to gently swat his hands away.

He didn’t look put out by your ridiculous show of flopping around and scooching out of his grip, so that was good at least. You sat up and rubbed at your eyes, and he just kept staring. Kept to his place in the soft, wet sand not a foot away and eyes sharp in the lowlight of the evening.

“Well,” you chuffed on another yawn. “I’m starving. Dinner?”

The Siren rolled his eyes and dipped his chin in what could perhaps generously be classified as a nod. He reached up to flick at the mused braid in his hair with a pointed scowl—twisted and tangled from the salt of the sea and his earlier rambunctious tomfoolery. You sighed, overly put upon, and hefted your way to your feet.

“Yes, yes. And I’ll fix your stupid hair.”

Another nod, this one far more pleased, and the Siren settled himself neatly back into the low roll of the waves to watch you work.

.

.

The next morning when you clawed your way back into consciousness, the Siren was already awake and staring off into the distance.

The fins along his head were pricked in that same, focused way from before that made you think of a hound dog catching a scent. There was a strange sort of energy about him—not quite nervous, but certainly not anything comfortably at ease either. Unsettled. Jittery. The end of his tail flicked against the sand, and the fins along his spine curled and arched to an unsung tempo.

You followed the path of his leer and didn’t see much of anything yourself. Just an endless stretch of blue in all directions with the occasional white crack of a wave breaking along its surface.

His tail smacked at the muck again and you felt something tight and stupidly, stupidly selfish curl in your stomach.

You swallowed it down, just like you’d said you would. Because you’d meant it when you’d told him he deserved his happy ending, and you weren’t going to let the rotten, nervous thing growing in your guts stop him from having that. Not that you could even if you wanted to, but it was the principle.

“…are you going to swim again today?” you asked, and one of those fins swiveled in your direction. You came to stand at his side and curled your toes in the sand to keep yourself steady. “You should, you know. To make sure everything is really all fixed.”

The Siren tore his gaze away from the sea to cant his head at you with a sharp, suspicious narrowing of his eyes.

You held your hands up in defense. “I’m just saying. You want to be able to go home, don’t you? Back to your pod?”

He frowned, tight, but his glare flickered back out to the mouth of the bay like he couldn’t help himself.

After a long, long moment, he reached out and dug his claws into the sand.

‘Not safe yet.’

You arched a brow. “Oh, come on. I’m sure it’s fine. If anyone could make it back, it’d be you.”

He turned back your way and arched a brow, looking entirely unconvinced.

You huffed and crossed your arms. “Don’t get all modest now. You’re the most obnoxiously proud person I’ve ever met—fish or otherwise. I’m sure you can do anything you set your mind to.”

His brow pinched again, and there was something almost like worry sparking in those amethyst eyes of his.

“Look—” you said, reaching out to plant a palm against his shoulder. “If it doesn’t work out, you can always just come right back here, okay? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

You weren’t going to think about how nice that sounded, and how absolutely, bitterly selfish it was to hope that he’d turn right back around and head back. You weren’t.

The Siren’s brow pinched and he turned back to the open water, fins rippling against his sides and mouth twisted down at the corners.

You tugged at the braid in his hair.

“Don’t make me tie you back up again just so I can drag you out.”

He scoffed and spat something at you that looked like it was properly bitchy, and it had your lips quirking on a smirk. But prissiness or no, he’d started to let himself slip down against the surf, to lull deeper into the shallows and flare his fins at his sides for balance rather than a show of irritation.

You swallowed the last, lingering bite of dread at the back of your throat and offered him a winning smile.

The Siren huffed, and right before he sunk all the way into the water, he set his talons by your feet and scribbled—

‘Do not do anything stupid.’

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved off. “Sure.”

He underlined the ‘do not’ with a harsh sneer that could have made paint curl and the fiercest of generals quake in their boots, and you burst into peals of too-fond laughter.

“Okay, okay. I promise. Swear.”

He nodded, firm, and finally—finally—sunk beneath the surface with a grand, sweeping beat of his tail.

He circled the whole of the bay once, twice, thrice, and then set out past the breakwater with another of those bounding leaps that looked like something straight out of a painting.

You sat and watched the rolling waves until the sun was high in the sky, and then long after it had begun its creeping descent. Fat and sluggish over the horizon, dripping gold along the water like the strokes of a paintbrush. Until there were no shadows in the tide, no purple fins popping up from beneath the surface to smack at your ankles. There hadn’t been for hours now. The glint of his tail had slowly grown further and further away, and you’d been staring out at nothing for longer than not.

You stood with a sigh, legs wobbly and prickling with static as you stretched out of your scrunched up crouch.

You moved towards your little shanty hut and carefully readjusted the conch at its helm so that it sat just so. You stepped back with a soft nod and began your familiar trek towards the other side of the island, dutifully ignoring the stutter in your steps and that tight, miserable something twisting in your guts that you refused to name.

It was fine. He’d be home soon, surely. With his pod—his family. Which was what you’d wanted. And now… well, you had to go catch some dinner for you and your octopus. And there was no use waiting around.

.

.

You fucking sucked at fishing.

Which was a lesson learned with miserable, sopping wet consequences. You sat in front of your stupid fire, ringing out your stupid, soaked shirt, and sneezing in the chill of the night air. You’d never been responsible for hauling in food on The Rose Queen, and the Siren had basically been feeding your stranded ass from day one (whether intentional or otherwise). And so now here you were. Fishless, friendless, and freezing.

You sighed, miserable, and carefully made your way back to the familiar, little tidepool in the crags. You knelt down by the teeny pool of water there and the octopus inside was immediately scurrying for cover. When no tasty treats rained down overhead like the gift of some benevolent god, it slowly creeped its way out from beneath the stones with a trudging sort of paddling you wanted to call pouty.

“Sorry, little guy,” you huffed. “I don’t have anything for you today.”

You reached forward and the octopus panicked—trying to flee so fast that the poor thing wound up twisting itself in knots. Its stubby tentacles curled and flailed uselessly in its puddle, and you tutted in sympathy. You scooped the blob into your palms and immediately four sets of tentacles were curling around your fingers like a lifeline. Its little suckers pulled at your skin with sticky smacks as it tried to burrow away into your skin. And Sevens—OW! What the Hell!

“Chill, chill!” you squawked, trying to wrangle the thing more securely into your hands and stop it from pinching the flesh clear off your bones. “I’m just—would you—look, I don’t want to drop you, okay? So would you just—"

The octopus screamed, and you didn’t even think that was possible. You could feel the sharp, yowling vibrations of it all along your fingers and a few of the gulls nesting along the rocks took off into the air with a harried flurry of feathers and scrabbling claws. Their wings thwacked the back of your head and you swatted them away with a shrill scream of your own. Why did everything on this stupid island have to be a no good, dramatic, serenading, piece of shi—

“Fine!” you shrieked, feeling your molars ache with it. “Begone!”

And hurled the thing as far as you could over the edge of the rocky shore. It landed in the water with a lackluster plop of fat bubbles and immediately darted away like a prisoner fleeing captivity. And not, you know, the benevolent hand of the very lovely pirate who had been feeding and caring for it all these weeks.

You kicked angrily at a mess of pebbles, and then swore loud and furious when all it did was scuff up your toes and prick bruises into your heels.

You trudged back to your stupid, little hovel and collapsed miserably into the sand.

Here you were, trying to be noble, and kind, and give all of these ridiculous sea creatures the second chance at life that you would never have. And what did you get for it? An empty stomach, an aching heart, and gravel in your fucking feet—

“Well,” you chattered to yourself. Pleasantly poisonous and tendons jumping in your jaw, “I suppose at least it can’t get much worse.”

Which should have been the universe’s signal to do something truly petty. The skies opening overhead in a torrential downpour. Your little, stick home collapsing under the sheer weight of your patheticness. A crab scuttling up from the depths just to pinch your toes. Something like that.   

Instead, there was a gentle breeze that tickled your cheeks and coaxed you into looking out over the horizon.

There was something there—something in the distance that you couldn’t quite make out from where you were curled up suffering in the sand. You sniffled past angry tears and scrubbed the back of your hand over your nose, and then let that touch of wind guide you forward on wobbly legs.  You had to climb all the way up the salt-slick rocks to get a good look at it. But there it was. Not too far at all actually.

A ship.

Large, and wooden, and cresting through the low rolling waves with all the ease of the monstrous vessel it looked to be. There was a silver insignia emblazoned on its side, but it was still too far away to make out the particulars. But you didn’t care, because it was a ship. An actual, factual ship.

You waved your hands high over your head and shouted at the top of your lungs.

And holy shit, holy shit—maybe the universe didn’t actually hate your poor guts. Maybe there’d be a happy ending to this whole thing after all.

You watched in the distance as an anchor dropped, and you had to stop yourself from tumbling off your rocky perch in your excitement. One of the small dinghies was lowered into the water and a gaggle of crew climbed down to man it. Slowly but surely, that little boat grew closer, and you sprinted down to the shoreline to meet it.

A man with short, dark hair climbed over the side and met you halfway. His eyes were soft, and brown, and kind, and he offered you a warm smile when you nearly tumbled straight into him in your haste—catching a hand around your arms and helping keep you upright.

He said something polite that you assumed was the usual sort of greeting and intrigue into how exactly you’d managed to find yourself in this state of affairs, and you hastily made to explain your situation as you always did.

‘Thank you—I can’t hear, but I can write and read—And I—’

Your train of thought cut off sharply, and your rambling explanations with it. The brunette was already nodding your way in sympathy and rattling off instructions to his crew. They were all decked out in slightly differing variations of the same, white and navy uniform. With golden buttons and sashes glinting in the low light and silver pendants pinned to their breast pockets. Your doe-eyed savior turned back your way and offered you his arm with another of those sap sweet smiles that lit his cheeks in a merry, rosy pink.

You hesitated, throat bobbing around something tight and cold that curdled along the back of your tongue.

Twining songbirds, wings frozen in flight as they soared up towards an endless sky.

The intricate, little emblem stared back at you proudly from its place on his chest, and you couldn’t help but think of the Siren who’d only just left your cove a few hours before.

‘Not safe,’ he’d demanded, dragging you away from the wreck so frantically you’d nearly drowned from it. ‘Not safe.’

The brunette’s smile wavered at your hesitance, and he wrapped his hand around yours to tug you into the boat.

You climbed in on wobbly legs, because—what else were you supposed to do? Stay stranded on this little patch of sand and stone until you starved to death or went mad from loneliness? Run? From sailors with swords on their belts as long as your arm? To hide on an island that you could traverse in its entirety in a half hour or less? You were always one to happily snatch up the weird and wonderful opportunities life could present to you and run them into the ground, but now… What else was there?

You were settled against one of the small, wooden benches and the brunette shucked off his jacket to drape over your shoulders and the silver songbirds glinted in the low light. He offered you another of those warm, warm smiles before turning to call an order to his crew.

You sighed, miserable, and slouched against the siding—fingers dangling down to brush along the surface of the water.

‘Do not do anything stupid,’ your Siren had said.

And you’d really been hoping to last more than twenty-four-freaking-hours before inevitably breaking that promise, but it seemed the universe really was out to get you after all.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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[duckdodger]

tut on how 2 draw the mm boys heads & eyes in the tottmnt style pls??

IM SORRY IM STRUGGGLINNG AND I LOVE UR ART SM!!! LIKE POP OFF ITS TASTY ASF?! Anyways dont feel like you need to answer this, i just wanted to know since you’re like one of the best tmnt artists i follow!!

AAAGHSHS THANK YOU SO MUCH 🥺!!! At first it was difficult for me as well to get the hang of the tottmnt style but now it’s pretty fun <3 !!

Im like rlly bad at art advice lolol but did my best !! I hope it helps !! Have an epic day anon :3c

[the-iceni-bitch]

𝕭𝖊𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖞 𝖂𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝕽𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖗𝖊

𝙾𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷 - 𝙳𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝙰𝚛𝚒 𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚗

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊.

𝙰𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 ~ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊, 𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑

𝙶𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚑𝚢 ~ 𝙰 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚗-𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚟𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚜

𝚂𝚝𝚢𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊 ~ 𝙰𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

Word Count: ~3.5k

Relationship: demon!Ari Levinson x virgin witch fem!reader

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (size kink, unprotected p in v, breeding kink), violence, witchcraft, self cannibalism? SMUT!!! 18+ ONLY!!!

I am no longer doing taglists so if you want to stay up to date on all my latest fics, follow my sideblog @the-iceni-library and turn on notifications!

You breathed deeply as you checked your sigil and ensured the circle of salt was complete, placing crystals and candles around yourself before sitting back on your heels and closing your eyes. The backs of your hands rested on your knees when you began to chant in a low voice, swaying when you felt the power starting to flow through your veins as your voice grew stronger.

“Fortitudinis filia sum et rapui omni hora a iuventute mea. Caeli me alloquuntur! Concupiunt et cupiunt me furioso appetitu! adumbrata calenti saxea, et purpureo nubilo tectus sum. Ego autem defloratus sum, et adhuc virgo! ecce! Educam tibi natos, o vir Arximoro!!”

The sigil started glowing a deep red and you opened your eyes, your breath catching when smoke that smelled of sulfur began to fill the room. When you heard a distant roar you steeled yourself, keeping a dispassionate look on your face when the furious noises grew closer. Horns appeared in the center of your circle and you fought every instinct that told you to prostrate yourself and beg forgiveness. You were the strongest witch of your age, there was none alive who could hold a candle to you. You would not cower and beg like a simpering girl, no matter that you were making a show of supplication.

As soon as he broke through the haze Ari growled, shaking his head and thrashing his tail while he took in his surroundings. When he realized he was bound he snarled, testing your circle and groaning at the strength of it and gnashing his teeth as he threw himself against the ring of salt. He hated the plane you had called him to, the stench of humanity and the cool air was like a curse. Then he spotted you kneeling at the edge of the circle and bared his teeth, crouching like some massive predator about to pounce as his silver eyes raked over your naked body.

“You stupid little witch…” Ari licked one of his massive fangs and sneered when you just stared back at him, his claws digging into the wood floor as he thought about dragging them across your tempting flesh. “Unbind me now and I promise to leave your body as lovely and unbroken as it currently is.”

“If I am stupid then remove yourself from my restraints.” You winced and cursed yourself under your breath, hating that you had already lost control of your mouth. “Um..I am sorry, my lord.” Even though you had him bound and you needed to remain strong you would still show him the respect he was due as a Lord of Hell, since you didn’t want to end up filleted when you eventually had to release him. “But I fear they are a necessity as I make my plea.”

“Foolish girl.” He tossed his head and let out a rumble from deep in his chest when you dipped your fingers in fragrant oils and began to draw runes on your breasts and stomach, surprised at the sudden feeling of desire he felt stirring in his core. “Make your plea and make it quick, I have more important matters to deal with than some needy little witch. What do you want?”

“There are a great many things I want, my lord.” You could feel the way the intent of his gaze started to shift and it made your breath grow shallow, your eyes sliding up his body until they met his and you let out a small gasp at their intensity. “But what I need is a child. And a worthy mate to sire the child.”

“And you wish for me to sire your spawn? How flattering.” Ari let out a harsh laugh and rose to his full height, rolling his shoulders as he gazed down at you from his eight feet and ran his forked tongue over his bottom lip. “Tell me why you require the seed of a Lord of Hell, woman.”

“I will show you, my lord.” You mentally checked your bindings as you rose to your feet, biting your lip and bowing your head as you turned so he could see the brands that had been seared along your spine. “A warlock bought and bound me, using my power as his own and binding me to his will. I cannot break free without the seed of one of the most powerful of all demons.”

Ari snarled when he saw the marks on your back, his tail lashing back and forth while rage started to creep through his veins. He could look at you with as much disdain as he wanted, he was a Lord of Hell and you were mortal. The stink of humanity tainted you, in spite of the fact you were a witch of incredible power. But even if you were below the hierarchy of Hell, you were still a servant of the Dark Lord. The fact that some worm of a mortal with no power of his own had made such a vile claim on you, a handmaiden of Lucifer, was an offense of the highest order. You were being wasted on some mortal’s whims instead of serving your eternal master as you should.

“Tell me where he is, little witch.” Ari started to push at his bindings again, his voice low and feral as he thought about ripping into the man who had dared to defile one of the unholy servants of Satan. “I would see this mortal punished for his crimes.”

“He is asleep. I brewed a draught that will keep him unconscious and unaware of my activities for the next hour.” You knelt at the edge of the circle again, fighting against every independent bone in your body and bowing your head respectfully as you continued to address him. “Even in death he has arranged for my bond to pass to another warlock just as vile as he. I can only be freed by demonic seed and the spawn of an unholy Lord. This is my plea to you, my lord, to bear your child and be your humble servant in exchange for being released from this bond that was placed without my consent.”

He almost purred as he watched you lay at his feet, his claws scraping against the wood when he flexed his toes as he considered what you were asking of him. You were as comely a witch as he had ever seen, and he wasn’t one to deny himself the pleasure of a mortal lover, much less one that was only half mortal, such as yourself. And the smell of power that came from you was intoxicating. A child borne from a union between the two of you would be a creature of incredible strength. He couldn’t deny that the thought of propagating his line with a witch as lovely and impressive as you aroused him, heat flushing his body as he stepped as close as he could while the circle was still complete.

“I will do this for you, little one.” Ari breathed deeply when he saw you relax, leaning down and pressing his thick fingers to the floor at the edge of the circle. “But know that I expect something in return:”

“I will give you whatever you desire, my lord.” You began the process of releasing him from your circle, extinguishing the candles with a flick of your wrist and pricking your fingers so you could adjust your sigils as needed. “I will bind myself to you my lord. I will be your humble servant. If you wish to take the child once it is born I will let you. All I wish is to be free of this man and his cruel desires.”

When you freed him from the circle he stretched his entire body, his massive wings unfurling and his tail lashing back and forth before he stepped closer to you. His eyes bored into yours, and he found himself licking his lips at the intensity of the hunger in your gaze. You gasped softly when he wrapped his tail around you like a lover would their arms, your breathing growing heavier as he pulled you off your feet so he could drag his nose over the curve of your neck. Ari breathed in your scent deeply and growled at the sweetness, lifting you even higher so he could rub his face against your breasts. He laid you on the floor and licked his fangs while he stretched his body over yours, his massive frame caging you in while his tail snaked around your soft body and he started to brush his nose down your stomach.

“Mmm, I love the smell of a virgin cunt.” Ari purred when he nuzzled at the plump folds of your mound, hooking your knees over his horns and spreading your thighs wide so he could press his face against your dewy flesh. “So sweet and unspoiled.”

“That is lovely but I require your seed… oh!” You whimpered when his forked tongue slithered through your pussy lips, your back arching and your eyes fluttering closed when the cleft in the thick muscle toyed with your clit. “Fuck.”

Ari just growled while he tasted you, savoring the sweet flavor of your virginity and watching your body writhe for him. The pleasure of soiling a virgin was unlike anything else in any of the spiritual planes, and the fact that you were offering yourself to him so willingly, even if you were a little bit sassy about it, just made everything better. He purred against your flesh before slipping his tongue inside you, his lips spreading in a grin when you cried out and kicked your little feet at the new sensation. Your body and mind were already surrendering to him, he could feel it, he could practically taste it as his tongue pushed deeper inside your wet warmth.

You could feel your core growing tighter while your body rolled against his face, your breath leaving you in small whimpers and gasps as pleasure raged through your veins. When you felt his thick tongue undulating inside you your vision went white, your toes curling and the taste of your own blood filling your mouth while you bit your lip in bliss. Your breath was heavy in your chest as you came back down, your body limp as your new demon lover rose to his knees and drew you into his lap with one massive hand.

“I had to warm you up, little witch.” Ari purred and dragged his nose along your sweat dampened temple, huffing out a laugh when you could only mumble nonsense in response as his free hand moved to line his gargantuan cock up with your creamy pussy. “Don’t want to actually break you while I’m breaking you in. Not if I plan on keeping you around.”

The way he lazily leaned back against the wall as he manhandled you should have been annoying, but the arch of his brow and arrogant smirk of his full lips only served to make your cunt drip even more. He kept licking your juices off his lips while he watched you struggle to regain some semblance of control over your mind and body, but then his thick tip slid through your pussy lips to catch at your entrance and all you could do was moan.

Ecstasy. That was the only word for the sensations that overwhelmed your body when he pushed inside you. A violent scream of pleasure escaped from you once you were completely full of him, your cunt spasming wildly around his cock. There was pain, but there was also bliss. He was bigger than anything you could even imagine, and the barbs that surrounded his shaft made you stretch even more as you arched your back and whined. Your thighs started trembling as he guided you down on his length, his free hand cupping your jaw almost tenderly when you felt your virginity tear and let out a pathetic mewl.

“Shhhh, it’s alright little one.” Ari grinned wickedly when you choked out a thin whine as he rolled his hips under yours, his hand on your waist gently keeping you upright even while his eyes glittered mischievously. “Just let every thought drain out of that pretty little head except for how good it feels. That’s it.”

Your eyes rolled back in your head when your hips finally met his, your muscles quivering with the effort of stretching to accommodate him. It should have been impossible for his cock to fit inside you completely, but it was, making you feel every one of the fleshy barbs along his shaft that would swell and throb in his release before he started to slide you up and down his length with no effort. Ari growled pleasantly when he watched your nectar and blood drip down his cock as he pulled you up so just his tip was nestled inside you, then snorted out a laugh when you yelped as he dropped you back down again. One of his thumbs started tracing the curve of your breast idly, making him grunt when your pussy clenched around him before beginning to snake his tail around your legs and between your thighs.

“What a sweet, soft little witch you’ve turned out to be. You enjoy this, don’t you?” Ari chuckled when you just nodded at him, swatting your ass with his tail and making you yelp again as he slithered the tip between your cheeks. “You will find that I enjoy when my lovers tell me how much they enjoy what I do to them with words, little one, especially when it’s their first time. Is it as wonderful as you thought it would be?”

“It’s… ohhhh, fucking Lucifer.” You dropped your head back and keened when his tail dragged through your slick before pushing inside your ass, your hands clutching at the thick fingers that held you as you felt new warmth spreading through you. “It’s… it’s incredible… so full… my lord.”

“Mmhm, and you look lovely all stretched open like this.” When you scowled a bit at that Ari laughed, sitting up so he could breathe in your scent while he nuzzled at the top of your head. “Don’t scowl little one, it’s unbecoming. And I feel as though you should call me something new now that we’re mated. Obviously not my name, I am still a lord of hell and you’re just a little witch. But why don’t you try calling me your beloved?”

“Not little.” Your pout disappeared with a gasp when he flicked your nipple with the sharp edge of his claw, not enough to make you bleed, but enough to warn you to behave as he cocked his head at you. “I’m sorry, my… my beloved.”

“That’s a good little witch.” Ari’s tail slithered deeper inside your ass at the same time he drove up into you and he purred at the noise you made, starting to move his hips regularly rather than just pump you up and down like an inanimate doll. “Why don’t you come for me, little one? Think of your new life that waits for you in the depths of hell as my mate and come for your beloved”

He ground against your clit and you could barely rasp out a ‘yes beloved’ before you were crying out in euphoria, your body arching and your cunt fluttering as everything in the world turned to bright white light. Every muscle in your body trembled and clenched while he held you upright, and it was impossible to catch your breath as you sobbed and gasped. When your mouth was still open you felt his forked tongue slide inside, your gaze finding his as you opened wider for him while his grip on your waist tightened and his movements became more determined. Ari groaned with pleasure when you swallowed his tongue, his claws scraping against your flesh at the feeling of your ultimate surrender.

You could hear him in your mind, telling you how beautiful you were, how well you were taking him and that this was what you were made for. He promised to give you as many sons and daughters as you desired, all the power you could ever dream of if you would serve and pleasure him however he wished. It was intoxicating, being full of him in every possible way. You could swear you were already feeling the warmth and static of the new power he promised you flowing through your veins and prickling your skin as you lost yourself in his touch and the depths of his silver eyes.

Ari kept his lips molded to yours when you came again with a muffled cry, cradling your body almost gently even as his hips thrust against yours faster and wilder. His tail fucked your ass while his tongue fucked your throat, your tight pussy squeezing the life out of his cock when he started to swell as you fluttered and stretched around him. He could see the plea in your eyes as you whimpered and moaned, remembering just how addictive the emotional energy of a mortal lover could be when they were overcome with pleasure. With a growl and a deep roll of his massive body he let himself go, the barbs of his cock engorging and locking him deep inside as he pumped his thick, hot seed into your fertile womb.

As soon as you felt the first gush of his cum inside you, the bonds forced on you by your mortal master disappeared, your power raging unfettered through your veins for the first time in years and making tears well in your eyes even as you grinned against Ari’s mouth. Ari felt the change and his eyes widened, the strength of your power making him appreciate you even more as he thought of the might you would pass on to your children. He let his tongue slither out of your mouth even as he kept your other two holes filled, licking his fangs as he gazed at you curiously, bending one massive leg so you could rest against his thigh.

“A strong little witch.” Ari reached out to drag his thumb over the bulge in your lower stomach where his cock was resting against your womb, smirking when he saw his cum leaking out of you and staining your thighs. “You may even survive the birth, sweet one.”

You were about to answer him when the door to your private cell was flung open, your warlock master looking even more furious when he saw you resting in the arms of your new demon lover. When you didn’t immediately cower he snarled, his fists clenching as he gathered his weak and meager magic to try to bind you again.

“You stupid little bitch!”

Whatever he had been about to say next was cut off when you raised your hand and gave an indolent flick of your wrist, smiling to yourself when he was instantly flung against the wall and pinned there, gagged with air so his mouth was forced wide open. Ari laughed at your display of power, pulling you closer and kissing the top of your head before pulling out of you so he could stand. Your former master had the good sense to flinch when the enormous demon came to stand in front of him, his eyes flitting towards you and widening with fear when Ari leaned forward to smell him.

“Weak and insignificant, I wonder how you ever managed to snare my little witch.” Ari snorted and rolled his eyes when the man pissed himself, reaching out a hand towards you and looking down to smile at you when you came to stand by his side. “I would normally punish you myself for making a slave of one of the Dark Lord’s handmaidens, but I should like to see what my sweet little one thinks you deserve. She is the mother of my child, after all. Make it quick or bring him with us, small one, I will be bringing you to your new home.”

You beamed up at him adoringly before turning to sneer at your former master, biting your lip as you ignored his muffled sobs and thought about what exactly you wanted to do to him. By the time Ari had opened a portal to the realm of Hell you had performed a quick incantation, gripping one of your lover’s hands with both of yours as he led you into the shimmering heat, your mortal captor swallowing the first of his fingers and whining as he followed the two of you before the portal winked shut and you left the mortal world behind.

[mayhemspreadingguy]

How did this happen? @cuubism came up with the incredibly enticing idea to put Dream in the black leather pants. Then @magnusbae dutifully passed this brainrot into my brain. Brainstorming this was so so wild :D.

tiredly stretching in the classroom...

also, after I finished this drawing the pose reminded me of that one Flashdance scene (the chair dance with... the water 😳)

how is he able to squat like that in the skintight thick-leather pants? how did he even put those on in the first place? - and no zippers??

who knows, who knows xD