#peasant: tumble

[capsaison]

Wait... you said he's your friend...

So like what do you like about him as a friend?

And if you say nothing... then uh... I'm telling Mk

AS A FRIEND, exactly, thank you.

In an effort to answer you genuinely, I won't shout.

I like his optimism. He's always smiling and even when it seems like he might die for the 400th time, he tries to look on the bright side.

He likes to laugh. I like his laugh, and his jokes. And his eyes, I like his eyes. Merciful Guanyin, he's got beautiful eyes-

NEVERMIND I'M NOT ANSWERING THIS ANYMORE!

[house-full-of-spiders]

TRICKY OR TREATY!!

Treat

[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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[rodolfoparras]

Thinking about you being the older man for once, and being out and about at some bar with some close friends when this young guy approaches you. Despite the group of big burly man staring him down, he looks confident as ever when he approaches you and asks if he can buy you a drink. You laugh in disbelief, before swiftly turning him down “I already got one here” you say and wave the glass in his face. That would be enough to send anyone away with their tail tucked between their legs. But not him, instead he shoots you a cheeky smile and says “tell me when you need a refill,” before he returns back to his table. You just snort at his words before you turn back to your friends, but no matter what you can still feel his gaze burning into the back of your neck. And when you turn around you meet his eyes, and see the cheeky smile still plastered on his face.

At some point you walk up to the bar to order another round of drinks when you feel a presence next to you. There he is again, elbow brushing up against yours and with that cheeky smile still plastered on his face “here for those refills?” This time you have to suppress the smile on your face when you tell him he can gladly order for the whole table if he wishes to do so. Instead of backing down the man happily agrees and you almost scoff when you realize you got a rich little kid tugging at your pant leg.

Nonetheless you thank him and return back to your group of friends, and once you do you can’t help but notice how the drinks just keep on coming. And just like before, every time you turn around he’s sitting there with a shit eating grin on his face, and waving his half empty glass in your direction.

At some point you just accept your fate and enjoy your free drinks noticing how reality slowly but surely keeps on blurring and its when you have to take a piss that you notice someone next to you in the stall. this time you don’t have to turn to know it’s him. “You again” you say, as you continue on with your business. “Me again” he says with a smile on his face, as if you’re not right there with your dick in your hand. “What do you want?” You ask, finishing up with what you’re doing before you go to wash your hands “i thought I made it pretty obvious,” you scoff at that as you gaze at him through the bathroom mirror “not going to happen kid” the smile dims a bit and something in you can’t help but feel a bit of satisfaction because of it “why?” You toss the paper towels into the trash before you turn to the younger man “because Im old enough to be your dad ;” you say in a matter of fact voice but the man just shrugs like he isn’t bothered at all “and?” You scoff again trying to walk through the door when the man stops you just as you grip the handle

“What do I have to do to convince you?” He says, for a second there’s none of that confident persona, just a man pleading.

“Sorry kid, just not interested,” you say before you walk out.

The night continues, you don’t feel his eyes on you anymore nor do you even see him in his old spot. Maybe he went home? Good. Kid like him had no business being here. By the time the night bleeds to an end you can barely stand on two legs and on your way out you stumble into a stranger “oops, so sorry about that,” you slur out as you gently push away from the stranger, which causes you to almost tumble over in the process. The stranger is quick to catch you though, hand steady on your waist as they pull you into their embrace.

“Woops, I apologize,.. again” the stranger just chuckles in response and you can’t help but notice how peasant it sounds, and being this close to them you can’t help but notice how good they smell.

“It’s okay, how about you sit down a bit?” You nod without a thought as you sit on the couch you’d earlier sat on.

“So you’re here alone?” You hear the pleasant voice say as they hand you a cup of water. You just shake your head as you down the content.

“Friends”

“They still around?”

You just shake your head. You’d told them they could leave even though they’d been persistent in helping you back home,

“Want me to call them?” You shake your head again.

“No,” you say and finally you take a good look at the other man. Unfortunately your vision is too blurry to see and the bar is way too dark but from the features you can make out he looks rather handsome “besides I don’t mind the company”

The handsome stranger just chuckles and you can’t help but think how even his laugh is attractive

“Would you like me to take you home?” You hear the stranger say. “I got my car parked outside and I promise you I haven’t had a drop of alcohol tonight,” scouts honor,” you snort at the words and without thinking twice you accept his offer.

You don’t remember much of the ride home. That could be because you kept dozing off. The stranger hadn’t talked much, all you could hear was the hum of the radio. He’d turned the ac on enough to make you feel you were cuddled up in a blanket or two and it was awfully pleasant to fall asleep to the lingering scent of his cologne.

It was somewhere your apartment and his car that you had invited him back in, still drunk and not thinking much about the consequences of things. And it wasn’t until the two of you had stumbled into the bed and the lights slipping through the window hit his face, that you recognized just who it was.

But by that time he’d already had your hard cock in the palm of his hand and it was awfully hard to think when he kept pressing kisses to your exposed skin.

“You planned this all along didn’t you?” You say as you watch him slink his way between your legs, looking way too eager to get his mouth on your dick.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” he says before he licks a stripe along your shaft.

“Bastard” you say through gritted teeth but your words are soon swallowed when he sinks down on your cock.

“I’m old enough to be your father you know?” You say with a fistful of his hair as you show him closer to your crotch.

The man takes a while to respond but when he comes up for air there’s still that shit eating grin on his face, cheeks smeared with pre and sounding out of breath “good”

[missswritesalot]

can i request another robb stark x reader? Something where theyre in an arranged marriage but reader has a bit of an attitude towards him at first? maybe a bit of smut if its ok?

A/N: Requests open! sorry! No smut in this but I swear I have a spicy part two in the works. Reblog/Comment for more!

Robb hesitated before he knocked on the door to Y/N’s chamber. The Stark direwolf handles confirmed that the doors lead to the chambers of the Lady of Winterfell.

“I’ve no desire to dine in your presence,” he heard her say even before he raised his hand to knock. The door opened shortly afterwards. He had to peer down to meet her dark eyes. His beautiful wife. Beautiful, but cruel wife.

“Always on the hour, husband.” She said, words dripping with sweet venom. “It’s unfortunate but understandable that I wish to dine in my chambers.”

“Y/N, I need you there. We have important guests this eventide and I must appear strong with my lady by my side.”

“I must apologize, my Lord, I have a headache. I hope you find your meal most satisfactory.” She said, her curtesy was the most performative thing. Bile rose the back of Robb’s throat. He was still looking into her glossy eyes when she shut the doors on him.

It had all been his fault, really. He’d wanted to continue the tradition set by his late Lord father, that a peasant man may dine at the high table every evening.

He did not anticipate, but he should have, that one day a northman might offend his Dornish wife. And when she turned to Robb for justice, he turned her away. He scarcely saw the hurt in her eyes before she picked up her skirts and deserted the hall.

The meal today was as drab as every other without her. Her prolonged absence did not go unnoticed and Robb’s mother offered to pay her a visit, to check on her health. He refused her kindly, but his concern was evident to all those there.

That night, Robb broke protocol and went into her chambers after the castle had gone to sleep. The candles in her room were still burning, and the fireplace overpowered the room with heat.

Robb felt a twinge of affection in his heart for his Dornish wife, maybe her coldness was borne from how cold she must feel in the North.

“A lot of my- our, subjects, remarked on your poor health these days. Perhaps you will quell their fears tomorrow evening?” Robb said to her. She was reading and half lying down under heavy furs, he could only see the top of her dressing gown.

“I can no longer pretend to enjoy your gatherings. Perhaps you will find someone more suited to these demands,” she said cooly, closing her dusty book and placing it on the bed beside her.

Robb was weary, in his cups, and crushed by her words. Yet she was the most gorgeous woman he had laid eyes on. Her hair, long and dark as the night, hung loose and tumbled over her shoulders onto the sheets. He had never seen it unstyled, not even their wedding night.

Robb walked over to her and stroked the side of her head gingerly.

“Whatever I have done to offend you, wife, it was not my intention. The serf has been punished, and my subjects know to hold their tongue.” Robb said. He didn’t expect her to snap back from his touch, but the movement crushed his heart.

“It must be comforting to never face a different perspective.” She spat out.

“That is not true,” he said.

“I wish to return to Dorne. My father is dead, and he sent me here to this marriage. My eldest brother has written to me assuring me I would be received as per my station.” She said haughtily.

“That is not possible.” Robb said darkly. “Not without a war, dearest. You became my wife the moment you wore my cloak.”

“Hardly. You find me so vile you slept on the ground the night of our wedding.” She said, her anger made her forget her courtesy.

Robb hesitated. She had entirely the wrong idea.

Her disdain of him was obvious from the moment they met. She thought of him as a barbarous northman and herself a lamb to the slaughter. He could not imagine she could ever come to love him, if he had agreed to a bedding ceremony nor bedded her by force. There were some fractures that never healed.

He would have to correct her silly notions. But the fire in her eyes told him it would be a long time before she could accept that she wanted him.

“You will dine with me, I will hear no protest. If it is my men that bother you, then we will eat breakfast and dinner together, alone in the corridor between our chambers.” He said.

She opened her mouth, words threatening to spill out. He placed a finger to hush her. Blood rushed out of Robb’s head when he felt her warm and soft lips against his skin.

“Un huh,” Robb said, shaking his head. “No more, wife.” He leaned down and kissed her, not shyly but not too rough. Her soft gasp made him harden in his breeches.

Robb tore himself away from her and made a hasty exit to his chambers, congratulating himself on not turning around to catch one final glimpse.

[just-some-user-hunny]

me just imagining Bastard! reader finally being happy with her real brothers find her and work at the castle.

Like their at a hunting party, and Reader is just in her open tent and with her brothers laughing and smiling for the first time since shes been kidnaped.

reader eats and plays with her brothers for the majority of the hunting party and she had their tents nearby.

Also, reader's youngest brother is just glued to her side and she just holds his hand everywhere they go.

Just the family's reaction to the reader eating a good amount of food with her brothers would be happy but luke and jace are jealous they could never make her laugh like that.

I adore this scenario 😭💕

Luke and Jace would be hit the hardest I think with this. Daemon is content that they are no longer constantly weeping and scowling at him, Rhaenyra is happy that you're finally eating and smiling, and although the action of having not only a bastard in court- but her own peasant half-brothers brought in as well to work in the castle would definitely be some juicy gossip for the nobles to enjoy bickering and snorting at, the targs do not particularly care.

In this scenario, Bastard! princess has it pretty well for herself. Although there is a class division between her and her brother's, their ranks are unequal- but at least they'll be together. They'd soak up most of her attention, especially away from the two princes.

Rhaenyra would often have to soothe the jealous remarks and tears from her little sons, and encourage them to get along the best they can :/ because look, she is happy. They are making her smile, isn't that better than her tears? However, she could cry herself a little at Luke's little soft remark of 'i want to make her smile too'.

Bastard!reader tumbling around in the grass with her brother's, her pretty dressed getting soiled with grass and mud, whilst the princes look on with jealously.

[jesuisgourde]

A list of all the books mentioned in Peter Doherty's journals (and in some interviews/lyrics, too)

Because I just made this list in answer to someone's question on a facebook group, I thought I may as well post it here.

-The Picture of Dorian Gray/The Ballad Of Reading Gaol/Salome/The Happy Prince/The Duchess of Padua, all by Oscar Wilde -The Thief's Journal/Our Lady Of The Flowers/Miracle Of The Rose, all by Jean Genet -A Diamond Guitar by Truman Capote -Mixed Essays by Matthew Arnold -Venus In Furs by Leopold Sacher-Masoch -The Ministry Of Fear by Graham Greene -Brighton Rock by Graham Green -A Season in Hell by Arthur Rimbaud -The Street Of Crocodiles (aka Cinnamon Shops) by Bruno Schulz -Opium: The Diary Of His Cure by Jean Cocteau -The Lost Weekend by Charles Jackson -Howl by Allen Ginsberg -Women In Love by DH Lawrence -The Tempest by William Shakespeare -Trilby by George du Maurier -The Vision Of Jean Genet by Richard Coe -"Literature And The Crisis" by Isaiah Berlin -Le Cid by Pierre Corneille -The Paris Peasant by Louis Aragon -Junky by William S Burroughs -Absolute Beginners by Colin MacInnes -Futz by Rochelle Owens -They Shoot Horses Don't They? by Horace McCoy -"An Inquiry On Love" by La revolution surrealiste magazine -Idea by Michael Drayton -"The Nymph's Reply to The Shepherd" by Sir Walter Raleigh -Hamlet by William Shakespeare -The Silver Shilling/The Old Church Bell/The Snail And The Rose Tree all by Hans Christian Andersen -120 Days Of Sodom by Marquis de Sade -Letters To A Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke -Poetics Of Space by Gaston Bachelard -In Favor Of The Sensitive Man and Other Essays by Anais Nin -La Batarde by Violette LeDuc -Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov -Intimate Journals by Charles Baudelaire -Juno And The Paycock by Sean O'Casey -England Is Mine by Michael Bracewell -"The Prelude" by William Wordsworth -Noise: The Political Economy of Music by Jacques Atalli -"Elm" by Sylvia Plath -"I am pleased with my sight..." by Rumi -She Stoops To Conquer by Oliver Goldsmith -Amphitryon by John Dryden -Oscar Wilde by Richard Ellman -The Song Of The South by James Rennell Rodd -In Her Praise by Robert Graves -"For That He Looked Not Upon Her" by George Gascoigne -"Order And Disorder" by Lucy Hutchinson -Man Crazy by Joyce Carol Oates -A Pictorial History Of Sex In The Movies by Jeremy Pascall and Clyde Jeavons -Anarchy State & Utopia by Robert Nozick -"Limbo" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge -Men In Love: Masculinity and Sexuality in the Eighteenth Century by George Haggerty

[arbitrary line break because tumble hates lists apparently]

-Crime And Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky -Innocent When You Dream: the Tom Waits Reader -"Identity Card" by Mahmoud Darwish -Ulysses by James Joyce -The Four Quartets poems by TS Eliot -Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare -A'Rebours/Against The Grain by Joris-Karl Huysmans -Prisoner Of Love by Jean Genet -Down And Out In Paris And London by George Orwell -The Man With The Golden Arm by Nelson Algren -Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates -"Epitaph To A Dog" by Lord Byron -Cocaine Nights by JG Ballard -"Not By Bread Alone" by James Terry White -Anecdotes Of The Late Samuel Johnson by Hester Thrale -"The Owl And The Pussycat" by Edward Lear -"Chevaux de bois" by Paul Verlaine -A Strong Song Tows Us: The Life of Basil Bunting by Richard Burton -Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes -The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri -The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling -The Man Who Would Be King by Rudyard Kipling -Ask The Dust by John Frante -On The Trans-Siberian Railways by Blaise Cendrars -The 39 Steps by John Buchan -The Overcoat by Nikolai Gogol -The Government Inspector by Nikolai Gogol -The Iliad by Homer -Heart Of Darkness by Joseph Conrad -The Volunteer by Shane O'Doherty -Twenty Love Poems and A Song Of Despair by Pablo Neruda -"May Banners" by Arthur Rimbaud -Literary Outlaw: The life and times of William S Burroughs by Ted Morgan -The Penguin Dorothy Parker -Smoke by William Faulkner -Hero And Leander by Christopher Marlowe -My Lady Nicotine by JM Barrie -All I Ever Wrote by Ronnie Barker -The Libertine by Stephen Jeffreys -On Murder Considered As One Of The Fine Arts by Thomas de Quincey -The Void Ratio by Shane Levene and Karolina Urbaniak -The Remains Of The Day by Kazuo Ishiguro -Dead Fingers Talk by William S Burroughs -The England's Dreaming Tapes by Jon Savage -London Underworld by Henry Mayhew

[amphitriteswife]

🎡🎟️Snv/ ror character going to a state fair 🎡🎟️

Tag list: @mizz-sea-nymph @tinyy-tea-cup @brokensenseofhumor @monstertreden @nicasdreamer @bumblebees-knees-threes @itz-hel @gabelesimp @swallowtail-lotus @praisethesuuun @meliii-mp3 @imperfectbloodmoon @rukia-writes @snowmantita @salmonpoki @sigyn-foxyposts @miserable-homo-momo @rorlokiswifey

Poseidon:

🔱 hates it. Too loud. Too many people. Too many peasants, too crowded. No fishes and no sea.

🔱 now, as much as he hates it, he does enjoy certain rides. Like the dodgems. Although he sometimes is way too rough.

🔱 you’ll probably spot him on the bench judging ppl. He’s the type that holds your bag and valuable stuff when you go into any of the rides

🔱 he plays claw machine games or them throwing games w the cans. He actually always wins a price too.

🔱 is scared of heights. He won’t tell you that either. You’ll be sitting in a ride and when you turn to your side you’ll just see him wide eyes n all. When his ass got out of the ride he tumbled down and tongued the floor.

🔱 But, he doesn’t get sick, mostly because he doesn’t eat anything before he goes into a ride. (Give him sum food pls he’ll tumble down again)

🔱 Hades convinced him to go into the booster. Yall lucky he still alive. Man was almost bricked up cause of the adrenaline. You could basically hear him scream while Hades laughed at him. What a wholesome sibling moment

🔱 He was terrified after that and just camped in the bathroom stall but found them disgusting so eventually came out.

🔱 He won a shark plushie that he carried around and refused to let anyone hold. He later gave it to his S/O as a present.

🔱 he might go into those ‘romantic’ rides. Like the swan stuff, cause he gets to see pretty decorated water.

🔱 lowkey liked the Farris wheel?? 🤨 despite him not liking heights he did like the view of the Farris wheel. Mostly at night cause then you can see all the bright lights n all (so real Poseidon)

🔱 He had a contest with Loki about who could win the most prices, mostly plushies cause the other prizes suck, and they would give it to their S/O.

🔱 you might spot him with some type of headband. Mostly to keep his hair out of the way and the other because his S/O might like seeing him with it

🔱 his S/O also won a plushie for him and he was lowkey so happy about it fr

🔱 Skips the line. Not sure if it’s every where but you can buy vip and skip the line if you pay more in amusement parks, yeah if the fair has em he buys em. Offers more money to skip the line. Blud is not patient❌‼️

🔱 he ate some food there (called it peasant food) he surprisingly dislikes churros but loves fries (what a picky eater) he bought it like 3 times while he kept an eye on the bags.

🔱 bought over priced slushies in all flavors. His favorite was blueberry and orange btw

🔱 Moaned when he ate mozzarella sticks and corn dogs.

Hades

💀 thinks state fairs could be a fun date.

💀 he probably went into everything. Might even have went in some multiple times.

💀 his favorites are the Reactor and Breakdance. As well as Chaos. Only it depends on the Chaos cause some are very short, he likes the high ones a lot. And ofcourse the booster because why not.

💀 he’s the type to casually say ‘let’s try that one!’ And it looks like the death itself. Ironic. But he aint scared off em, brodie can sit there with a straight face.

💀He also likes those parkour stuff. Like a haunted houses, the ones where the whole ground shakes and you have obstacles where you need to get trough.

💀 dw guys he’s hades. Aka god of riches for he has enough money to go into all of the rides, multiple times. He’s probably there for like a week cause he on vacation or holidays.

💀 Also won a lot of plushies but that’s cause of his skill. He probably competed with Poseidon to see who can win the most. He gifted him the sea plushies and kept hello kitty for himself

💀 He actually doesn’t eat. Mainly cause he had like a routine for when he eats or he probably already ate. He’ll only eat gum.

💀 He’s the type that tried to dress ‘casual’ but you could still know he’s rich and probably could buy your whole family.

💀 He likes romantic rides too. So like the swan ride although he likes to annoy Poseidon with it. Like he’ll stand in the exist and be like ‘is that the only ride you’ll go in?’

💀 He’s either in all the rides or just sitting there and paying attention to like the bags n shi. He probably thinking about his work or something like that.

💀 one of the few who went in everything and didn’t get sick or dizzy cause of it

Loki

🎭 he’s probably going to annoy those who are scared of the rides and rub in their faces that he can handle them by buying all the pictures during the ride.

🎭 actually only goes if the rest is going, mainly to bother people. If not many are going you wont catch him alone there, he the type to laugh if you’re scared if the rides

🎭 his favorite are the tilt-a-whirl type. Mainly because you’re trapped in it and you get spun around, and each time it goes faster. So he likes it cause it’s chaotic and fun.

🎭 because of the fact he floats a lot, he’s not afraid of heights and the fastness of the rides, concluding he’ll ride the booster or the ones that shoot you very much up in the air.

🎭 he actually enjoys theme parks better than fairs mainly just cause it had themes💀

🎭 When he’s in the state fair he has a one thing he always buys as tradition: a candied apple, that���s cause he really likes the sweet crunchy candy and the juicy inside of the apple. He often goes for green apples because it then had a sweet and sour taste he likes

🎭 hell spent his money on fortune tellers. Not because he cares or is curious about his future, he just thinks it’s funny that mortals try to make him believe they have some type of power. He finds it funny and amusing

🎭 he also likes the mysterious air in the fortune tellers’ tent, it reminds him of witchcraft. The some, the lil lighting, the glass ball, the mysterious person with a cloak. He thinks it’s funny and cool

🎭 he likes parkour rides. Not for the parkour itself but because he’ll hide and jumpscare others. It may or may not end very well depending on the person he’s scaring.

🎭 he also plays lots of games. He’s the type to go there when a kid is doing it so that he can beat them and take the price they wanted just to see them cry💀

🎭 he’ll probably act insane for the funzies. He’ll stare at random ppl or growl at them. Or he’ll start screaming and ppl think he’s crazy. Loki is a social experiment.

🎭 He screams in roller coasters. Not because its scary but because its the only moment he can scream without ppl giving him weird looks or being labeled as insane. He’ll be at the very front in the roller coaster tho.

🎭 he brings his own candy, usually sour and sweet. So candy ropes, gummies and hard candy. But the hard candy may melt depending on the temptation. He may or may not have use for it.

Thats it i ran out of ideas so yeah :P i might make a part 2 or nah. Sorry if i made spelling mistakes

[capsaison]

✨️Art✨️

Art, indeed. Thank you.

[house-full-of-spiders]

chomp

Why da heck is everyone biting me

[achaoticeternal]

nothing between us

aemond targaryen x reader part two - can’t you see...? ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ word count: 3.6k summary: under the influence of his mother, Aemond has followed the Faith of the Seven closely. The second son of the King is proud to meet a young noble Lady who shares the Faith as closely as he does.  a/n: there will be a part two :)  warnings: AFAB reader, theme of obsession, religious themes and guilt

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“And may the Mother and Father watch over us as we walk in light…” The prayer rolled off your tongue with a finish. With a nod of your head, you finally rose from your spot at the altar.

The High Septon bid a dismissal as the halls of the sept began to clear. Your mother linked arms with you, serving as your guide through the crowd. She kept a warm smile on her face, nodding to both nobles and peasants alike. Though your father was just behind you, not showing the same warmth to the general public as your mother. 

You continued to follow out the doors, the sun shining brilliantly upon the capital. The light bounced off the blue waters, reflecting beautifully onto the shore. It had been either overcast or raining for the past week or so. But a day of sun was something you would truly thank the Mother for later. 

As you continued to be tugged along down the steps of the sept, your arms slipped out of your mother's, instead lifting up your skirt to be more diligent with your steps. In the courtyard below, merchants and spinsters began to announce their wears, bidding anyone who dared to take a look. Usually, they would be selling more exotic things than they would on any other day. 

With a giggle, your steps picked up as you tapped your mother on the shoulder, “We must stop by one of the book stands! I’ve read practically everything I can access in the prince’s and king’s library. A book from afar would be a welcome distraction!”

“You and your books…” Your father chuckled behind you, patting your back, “You’ll have to choose quickly, the Hand is summoning the Small Council to convene once that bell strikes two.”

With a nod, you picked up your steps, hoping to get to the book stand sooner. However, you were stuck behind a group of stragglers who cared to chat far more than they cared to walk. A sigh passed your lips as you continued trying to move around the group and reach your destination soon. You were able to press yourself against the wall in order to squeeze through the small gaps the group of elders made. When bumping past them, you whisper small apologies and pardons.

It isn’t until you are fully around the group of elders offering you small smiles that you are able to take large strides. You take the steps two at a time, hoping to beat the rush of the audience fleeing from the sept this morning. A smile spans across your face as you eye the end of the stairs, close enough that you feel the sparks of gratification stir inside. Accounting for the commoners surrounding you, your steps continue light and quick against the cobblestone. 

Yet what you did not account for was a mother and her two small children toddling next to her. The little girl drops her wood carving of a bear which tumbles down the stairs. As the toddler leans down to grab her belonging, you take a swift sidestep to avoid falling upon her or her mother. And just as quickly as relief passes through you, your foot dips into a small hole in the ground, causing your balance to unfavorably sway. Your hands can cling to nothing to keep you up and so you feel yourself free fall into the courtyard.

You brace yourself for an impact that never comes. Instead, two firm arms have caught you, saving you from any injury of landing so roughly.

“May the Seven bless you! Thank you,” The words spill from your lips as you regain your footing, standing to meet whoever has come to your aid. The breath exits your body as you meet, the violet eye of one Prince Aemond Targaryen. A dark cloak hangs over his shoulders, the hood pulled up most likely to hide his silver blond hair from straying eyes. If not for your somewhat familiarness with the royal family, you might have dismissed him as another stroller in the courtyard. Except you do recall seeing him and the Queen Mother, Alicent Hightower, observing the service in the sept just mere moments ago. The only other indicator to confirm that it is the Prince is the two King’s Guard that has joined his side, their shoulders relaxing when they recognize your noble appearance. 

“My-”

“My lady,” Aemond is quick to cut you off, clearly wishing not to be recognized, “May I ask where you were rushing off so quickly? It seems patience might not be among your virtues.”

Before you can properly answer him, you feel a hand on your shoulder -- your father who bows his head slightly in observance to the prince, “I apologize for my daughter’s clumsiness, ser.”

Aemond’s face remains stoic as he addresses your father, “All is well, my Lord. Perhaps we might thank the Seven that your daughter fell into my arms, rather than injuring herself or others on the abrasive ground.” 

A pause lingers for a moment as your father tries to find his next words. Should he thank the prince? Correct his daughter before the royal before him? Instead, you reply to the prince’s original question.

“There is a book stall that is only in the market once a moon with books from across the sea. I’ve almost read everything in the royal libraries, so I hoped to find a new text to read,” Your tone was polite, and kind when addressing the prince. You almost swore to the Mother that the corners of Aemond’s lips twitched into a smile before his disposition settled once more.

“Enjoy your noon then, I hear the Hand has summoned the small council and tends to busy them later” the Prince spoke with a nod, “my Lord, my Lady.” 

And just like that, the Prince and his guards have almost dissipated among the crowd. They are undoubtedly returning to the Red Keep, yet you wonder why the Prince did not join his mother in the royal carriage. But the thought leaves your mind just as quickly as your parents escort you to the book stand, not wishing for you to cause another scene.

--

The sun has fallen past midday and your father has long left you and your mother to attend the meeting in the Hand’s tower. While your Lord Father attended to work and the realm, you entertained your mother in one of the social dens of the Keep. Your mother was currently perched on a chair by the window, completing some needlework. In the chair opposite to her, there you sat with the religious text of the Faith in your lap. 

This was Sunday tradition, and even if your father could not be in attendance, you would not deny your obligation to thank the Seven for all they do for you, your family, and the realm. Though you knew nearly every passage by heart, your mother insisted you read so as not to be distracted from the outside temptations of the world.

But the book only kept your attention to a certain extent. Your mother was too enamored by her craft to notice when your eyes strayed from the pages and to the people that passed through the Keep. It was mainly guards going about their duties, and servants tending to wherever they must, but even Prince Aemond and Prince Aegon made a pass through. 

Both the Targaryen princes were walking in the direction of the Hand’s Tower. Most likely to participate in the Small Council meeting as a part of their royal duties. After living almost two moons in the castle, you noticed that the elder brother, Aegon, did not share the same satisfaction in performing his tasks as Aemond did. Once you swore that you watched Aemond nearly drag his brother to one of the council meetings, but you would never vocalize such. 

Here they were, the Targaryen princes, strolling through the corridor. Aegon was currently speaking but was too distant to make out what he quite said. You only assumed it to be a joke as he laughed while Aemond seemed less than entertained. But with a slight turn of his head, the younger prince caught sight of you, continuing your readings to your mother. He noted the book in your lap, familiar with it himself due to his time with his own mother, and offered you a nod. 

A moment later, the princes were gone. It was as if you had only imagined it, in fact, you could have convinced yourself the slight interaction had never happened. Except your mother spoke up when she noticed you had fallen silent, “Continue reading, dear.”

-- 

Days passed and with it, routine settled into place. Consistently socializing with the other nobles taking residence within the Keep, attending septa lessons, and continuing your residency in the library. However, a new commonality slithers into your routine. At least once a day, your path would cross with Prince Aemond, just briefly, but always the same gesture. Just a nod. 

You had anticipated today to be no different, spotting the prince earlier in the day. He had been sitting in the gardens with his beloved sister, Princess Helaena, as she cared for her collection of insects. Others would gossip of the princess’s peculiar curiosity, but you thought it endearing, almost divine, in how she cared for even the smallest of the Seven’s creatures. While you took station across the garden, Aemond gently passed back to his sister an arachnid one of the maesters had brought back from the citadel as a token to the princess. Once the creature was safely in Helaena’s palm, Aemond almost instantaneously caught your gaze. 

The impromptu action caused your breath to hitch in your throat. As always, you offered the Prince a nod of your head and a smile as a sign of respect. And as always, Aemond returned the nod. But then the corners of his mouth twitched upward as well, eyes locked on yours. It was the first time you had seen Aemond truly smile. 

Now that smile haunted your memory whilst sitting and attempting to read one of the new books your father recently purchased for you. It was some Braavosi epic that reached astounding popularity, yet now hardly held your attention. The poems bored you more than the Concise History of the Construction of Lemonwood. Taking the pendant of the Maiden between your fingers, you silently prayed to the Gods to rid these thoughts of the prince from your mind. Even as innocent as they were… you did not want temptation to come knocking at your door.

But the Gods speak in rhythm, or at least enjoy seeing mortals grovel, you thought as none other than Prince Aemond entered the library. He wore his usual dark tunic and trousers with a matching waistcoat and belt to cinch it all together. Even outside his training garbs, he reminded you firmly of the Warrior. 

Prince Aemond offered you a curt nod upon his entrance to the library before making his way over to a previously organized stack of books. Most of them were about the histories of Old Valyria with the occasional book on law and reform. It seemed Aemond was consistently studying as if that were his duty to the realm. Though you acknowledged that it was part of what was expected of him. 

Your focus finally returned back to your own novel when the Prince decided to claim your attention once more, “I have not seen that book in this library before.”

“Pardon me, my Prince?” You looked to him curiously, surprised at his observant eye.

“That book,” He gestured to your hand, “The binding is not only fresh but there is not a book in this library with a green cover and red stitching. That red stitching is not of Westeros either.”

You blinked a few times, absorbing this information, “You would be correct, my prince.”

“Then how did you come across such a book, my lady?” 

Swallowing your nerves, you continued the light conversation with the Prince, “My Lord Father bought it for me from a Braavosi merchant.”

“Mmm… if I recall, it was the same day you took that tumble,” He raised his brow.

“Yes, my Prince.” The day I tumbled into your arms.

“And, if my memory serves correctly, you made a sentiment on how you’ve already read through the titles in this library.”

“Yes, my prince.” You agreed once more, “All titles that I was permitted to read.”

“Permitted,” The word lingered on his tongue as if it were a curse, “I see.”

Silence fell over the library. You assumed it to be the end of your conversation with the prince. Minutes passed and you returned to your pages, mulling over the same lines for what felt like eons. That was until the prince called your attention once more.

“Who gives you permission as to what books you read?” There was something in his tone that you couldn’t quite place, but it stirred something within you.

“That would be my Lord Father,” You answered softly, “my prince.”

Then footsteps thudded across the floor. Aemond moved swiftly from his desk to stand before you instead. From your seat, you gazed up at the tall lean prince. In your current position, he towered over you and a warm hue of orange outlined his head from behind - as if he was carved from the perfected chisel and marble in the hand of the Seven. With ease, he took the epic from your hand and replaced it with a slightly heavier book. 

“At this time every day, I expect you to meet me in the library and read this to me,” Aemond instructed you.

Looking down, you took note of the title: Encounters of the Maiden and the Warrior.

“As you wish, my prince,” You nodded your head, “But I must ask my Lord Father for-”

“I am your prince,” Aemond interrupted, “Are direct orders from your prince not enough for you to do as you are told?”

You did not respond. Words were lost on you, and how could you correct him? He was right, in a sense… wasn’t he?

“Then the matter is settled,” He tilted his head, “Besides, your family mulls over religious texts quite often. This is simply a text to expand such education.”

Without another rise from yourself, you opened the book and began to read it to him. Aemond settled himself in a chair opposite of your own, fingers lightly tapping against the wood of the armrest. His expression gave away little of what he was thinking, so you simply continued.

The activity continued till the end of the moon. At first, you anticipated the meetings would only last till you finished reading the book aloud to him. But it shocked you one day when Aemond would instruct you to skip a few pages or even entire chapters. When you questioned him about this, he simply dismissed them as unnecessary to your divine education. He did not allow you to press the matter further. 

--

One evening, you joined your mother in your parents’ apartments after a visit to the Sept with your mother. Together, you had participated in your weekly prayers to the Mother and Maiden, lighting a candle for each. When you both returned, you recounted the trip to your father who had been too tied to his duties to participate. 

Dinner plans had been arranged for the families of Small Council members to have a private feast with the royal family. Typically, your family would pray in the godswood of the Keep before attending any supper, but tonight your parents thought it best to make an exception. 

Your mother had just finished pinning your hair when a knock fell upon the chamber door. Looking at your father, he answered the guest’s knock. 

There stood Prince Aemond, and his loyal King’s Guard, Ser Criston Cole. It was rare for a royal to come calling at a door. Quickly, you all rose to your feet, paying respects to the prince before you. While your father and mother offered him a nod, you honored the prince with a curtsy. 

“My Prince, why might we have the pleasure of your presence?” your Lord Father asked.

Aemond’s eye drifted over your form. He drank in the sight of you, prepared even if simply for a dinner with the King. His eye then adjusted back to looking your father in the eye.

“I have come to call upon the young Lady,” He stated simply, “I’d like to pray with her in the godswood before supper, under supervision, of course.” The prince gestured to Ser Cole who remained still. 

Warmth filled your cheeks and chest at the thought of being alone with the prince. It wasn’t your first time, of course, but each private moment with him brought over a wave of new emotions. 

Taking a moment to think, your father then nodded his head in agreement, “You have my permission.”

--

Ser Criston was notably trailing quite a few steps behind the prince and you as if he did not want to infringe upon the interaction. A part of your mind wondered if it was by order or out of the guard’s own consideration.

Aemond had led you from your parents’ apartments to just outside the garden wall. Your arm was carefully linked in his own, shoulders brushing against the other with each step. While you walked, you recounted your visit to the sept to the prince. He had not inquired, but you disdained any silence between you both and he did at least act amused. Amused as the prince would allow himself to be, at least. 

“And who gifted you your pendant of the Maiden?” The prince asked.

“My grandmother, before she passed,” you explained to him, “It was hers. A gift from my grandfather upon their betrothal.”

“I see,” He nodded, falling quiet once more. 

Before another word could be uttered, you arrived at the courtyard where the small godswood lay snug. Though you appreciated having a place to properly pray to the Seven nearby, your mind always trailed back to the godswood of your own ancestral home. It was considerably larger than this, or any of the Southern kingdoms. You never commented on the size though, not wanting to offend those who tended to it or sought comfort here. 

As Aemond led you forward, Ser Criston remained in the archway at attention. His eyes focused on the halls, surveying for harm as expected of him. 

Just as you approached the heart tree, Aemond stopped his moments, keeping you tucked into his side. Your eyes turned to his face, scanning his demeanor for a clue of what was in his mind.

Suddenly, he spoke once more, “My mother often comments on the fact that there is not a proper weirwood tree in the Red Keep’s godswood.”

After a pause, you offered him a response, “I believe I understand her sentiment.”

The prince turned toward you with a raised brow, dropping your arm in exchange for taking your hands in his own, “And what is that sentiment, my lady?’

Your eyes flicker over his face, the faintest hint of a smirk playing upon his lips. Tearing your gaze away from his face, you refocused down… down at his large hands which grasped your own. His cool, calloused hands nearly engulfed your own. Such thoughts sent a chill down your spine. The warm feeling returned, but you pushed away your acknowledgment of it. 

Taking a deep breath, you looked to where a weirwood tree might take occupancy in this godswood, “I do not wish to speak in ill opinion of the crown, my prince.”

“I want to hear your thoughts,” His hands squeezed your own, albeit gently, “Speak them.”

With a sigh, you continued as instructed, “Very few Targaryens, much less Targaryen Kings have truly devoted themselves to the Seven. The show of faith is merely a guise to appease the High Septon and common folk. As I’m sure you are well aware, it was always said that Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. Being compared to Gods does not ignite one to take up faith in what one might perceive themself as an equal to. So King’s Landing and many southern kingdoms are sullied with sin.”

Silence hung in the air, but the prince did not weaken his grip upon you. Worry sank in your stomach, wondering if you had spoken too freely for the prince’s liking. His common smirk played at his lips once more, “An observant lady… a very smart girl.”

The small praise made your heart drum against your chest, You could sweat to the Gods that he could feel it in your pulse too as he ducked his head closer to your own.

“My smart girl has been paying attention to our lessons,” His breath was warm against your face. His eye flickered from your own to the pendant resting atop your chest, “Good…”

Slowly, Aemond released one of your hands and raised his own up toward your face. His fingers took hold of the pendant, thumb grazing over the engraving. Then, he brought the pendant closer to his face, the tension of the chain against your neck, causing you to lean closer to him. His eye now held your gaze in a moment of surprising intimacy. Aemond raised the pendant to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to it, eye never once leaving your own. 

When he released it, the pendant fell back upon your chest. You released the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. 

“Now that I’ve given you my blessing,” Aemond’s voice was warm, but still caused your skin to prickle, “Get on your knees and pray…”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

[cosmicobubisi]

Cosmic's Malleyuu Whump vs Flufftober: Day 26

breakfast table / "I can't find it."

Continued from day 24.

Mornings had never been particularly kind to Grim, at least as far back as he could remember He'd found a routine he liked, though, with his precious henchman, and so often he was reluctant to break it even if it meant finding an adventure in some exciting part of the world.

As he lay blearily on top of Diasomnia's long dining hall table, he tried to remember why it was he had agreed to do this, and put the fate of the most important meal of the day in the hands of a group of technologically inept fae.

Yuu was looking down at their phone, screen illuminating their very sleepy face. Thy were wrapped up in their sleep shawl, disheveled after the long sleepover last night.

Grim was, in his infinite generosity, trying to help Yuu out with their little crush.

It was so obvious, almost eye-rollingly so, Grim was going to report back to the rest of their friend group on the progress made in the Tsunotaro-Yuu relationship.

So often was it thankless work, too. Yuu rarely fully appreciated all of the work he did to get them into these scenarios with Tsunotaro, but he did it anyway, because they deserved it regardless.

There was a sudden loud noise heard from the kitchen. Grim's ears flattened to his head, more out of bewilderment over what in cooking could cause that noise over any concern for the chefs, and Yuu looked up from their phone.

"Curses," Grim could hear Sebek yell through the walls. "I am unable to find the food processor. Has anyone seen it?"

"Everything alright in there?" said Yuu. They pushed back on their chair and got up. "I can-"

Tsunotaro suddenly appeared, messy in a way Grim rarely saw him. His hair was sticking up in odd places, and the frilly apron he wore that was obviously too short for him was covered in splotches and dust.

"Thank you very much for your offer," he said, the words tumbling out of him so quick;y that Grim barely understood him, "but there shall be no need for your help, as we have it perfectly under control."

With that, Tsunotaro vanished again, and Yuu was staring off into the distance.

They blinked, and then sat down, slowly settling into their tired, bored slouch.

Yuu yawned into their hand, and they scrunched their nose trying to stretch out their sore, tired muscles, and Grim decided to do the same.

As he did, quivering with the force of the stretch, Yuu gave him a pat on the head and a stroke across his back. Grim smiled and purred into the touch, encouraging Yuu to go back for more.

They did just that, and Grim purred happily as Yuu kept petting him until something clanged down next to him/

Grim jumped, stumbling back a bit not in surprise but in an attempt to get out of the way of the mouthwatering plates of food, stacked high with a variety of delicious-smelling food.

Tsunotaro and his attendants, Lilia, Silver and Sebek, had suddenly appeared as well, and Silver and Sebek were setting down the plates at all of the chairs, including Grim and Yuu's, and he couldn't help but feel newly hungry at the amazing sight.

It even smelled good, fried and breakfast-y, and Grim approached ot take a bite.

It was only once he was a hair away from sinking his teeth into a delicious sausage that he thought to look up. where Yuu had a sausage speared onto their fork and was holding it up to their face.

The Diasomnia members began to sit down, but Tsunotaro seemed as tense as ever as his quaking voice came out of his body.

"That is blood sausage," said Tsunotaro nervously, stiff and uncomfortable as realization spread across Yuu's face. "This is a traditional peasant breakfast, but I've eaten variations of this for most of my life."

It was possibly because Grim already knew, but his crush was so obvious, it was almost hard to watch. At least he could provide.

He took a bite out of the fried egg, testing it for Yuu so they could feel confident it wasn't poisoned, and felt surprised when he immediately wen back for more, eating readily and happily.

Yuu seemed empowered by Grim's testing, or perhaps it was solely his bravery, and took a bite out of the bacon before nodding.

The Diasomnia crew looked so visibly relieved, Grim had hardly noticed the effect it was having on him, having made the air tense and uncomfortable.

Grim saw Yuu shyly mix their red beans and sausage, to their own delight, and Yuu looked so satisfied Grim decided he had to do the same.

He found it equally delightful, and began trying many combinations of flavors with the various fried egg, sausage, bacon, red beans, and tomato sections of his food.

Tsunotaro, Grim noticed, was also eating, though in a vastly different way.

It seemed Tsunotaro could not have cared more about the food on his plate, despite the apparent hard work to make it. No, his attention was trained carefully on Yuu, gauging their reaction to his food with a level of attention Grim found unnerving.

But at least he was looking at Yuu, and so Yuu would be pleased, and that's what really mattered, in the end.

"Are y' enjoying your meal, Yuu?" asked Grim, chewing on a bit of egg.

Yuu nodded enthusiastically, as their mouth was full of food, and from the corner of his eye, Grim could see the sun rise on Tsunotaro's face.

"I am glad," mumbled Tsunotaro, ducking his head to look at the food on his plate.

Grim could have worn he'd seen Tsunotaro blush, but that didn't seem obvious with his darkened skin color.

Tch. Stupid teenagers, as usual. Grim was happy to stick it out here with the kid that didn't wanna leave them alone.

[gortash-did-nothing-wrong]

Enver Gortash Musings 9

Warnings: discussions of pregnancy, childbirth, widespread illness, orphans, and tiefling racism. And Enver is once again keeping secrets.

After you have your first child, internally you decide to take a break from trying for children for a few years. You want to make sure your daughter is doted on properly. You keep a scrap book of all her milestones, even glueing scraps of her outfits she outgrows into the pages. Enver and you pour over the scrapbook one night as your now year old daughter sleeps in her crib.

"She was so small." Enver says, running a finger over one of her socks from her first month of life. "I almost forgot how small babies are."

You hummed, turning the page to see the very first bit of her horn that had broken off. She had taken a tumble while learning to walk, knocking her horn on a table and cracking it. "I felt like a horrible mother that day. After she finally stopped crying, and took her afternoon nap, I cried so hard."

Enver looks at you, surprised. "You did? I don't remember that..."

"oh I didn't let you see." You said, chuckling. "You were really busy that week. There was some medical issue in the lower city? During the winter months, yes I remember now. That big orphanage got hit hard with it."

"Cholera." Enver said, his voice suddenly not so carefree. "The sewer system was damaged, and contaminated the drinking water. It was so cold in the sewers that repairs were slow to make any progress."

"Right." You said, "You were working really hard, so I didn't want to bother you. It was silly of me. Children get hurt sometimes, after all. I can't save her from every bruise."

Enver raised an eyebrow. "You... You were doing charity work, weren't you? I remember asking you to assist on that."

"I was helping bring fresh water from the upper city wells to the lower city." I said. "I just strapped Ember to my front and drove a supply wagon down. It was the least I could do. Ilmater's temple was doing the real work. All this children looked horrible... So pale and skinny."

Enver's eyes had a spark of recognition. "Right, the reporters tried to say in the paper that your hair had been a mess and had hay in it."

You laughed, "Well sometimes that happens when you work with horses. Wait... Enver the papers didn't say anything about my hair?"

He smirked, "Of course not. You think I'd let them critique my wife's appearance while she's saving the lives of orphans?"

You scoffed, "I didn't save anyone's life. I drove the horse wagon down the street to deliver water. A stable boy could have done it."

"True. But a stable boy couldn't have encouraged all the noble women to help gather water from the wells, fill barrels with the water, and coordinate it all to go to the same place."

"they didn't fill the barrels." I said dryly. "They told their servants to do it."

Enver is quiet for a moment, his eyes watching you as you turned a few pages of the scrap book. "Darling. Did you do the manual labor?"

"Along with several dozen servants, yes." I said, looking up at him, curiously. "What did you think I did? Sat on the wagon waiting for it to be done?"

Enver sighed, shaking his head but with no malice. His eyes were smiling, a chuckle rumble from his chest. "You're quite odd for a noblewoman."

"The perks of having a dirty peasant mother." I said, grinning. "Or at least a merchant mother."

Enver chuckled, "How is your family doing anyway?"

"Mother is fine, she's angry the squirrels keep eating her bell peppers, but she doesn't want to hurt them so she's trying to bury mothballs to make them not want to come around the plants." You said. "My brothers and sisters are all doing well, ah, that reminds me, Lauren is of marrying age, and she's having some trouble finding a match... You wouldn't happen to know of any eligible bachelors?"

Enver chuckled, "I know a few. Have her come to dinner this week, I'll get a feel for her and see if I know any gentlemen who would fit her."

You leaned over, kissing his cheek. "Thank you, my love."

He stared into your eyes after you pulled back, searching your soul for a moment. "Have the nursemaid watch Ember tonight."

You shut the scrap book. "Oh?"

"I want you." He said firmly. "And I want another child."

It was your turn to hesitate. "Ember is only one..."

"And if I get you pregnant tonight, she'll be a year and nine months by the time the other baby comes." Enver said smoothly, his hand coming to rest on your cheek. "Something else is troubling you. Tell me what."

There was never much compromise with Enver. "... Ember is a tiefling."

"Yes." Enver said. "You and your family have always been quite progressive with tiefling issues. What's the problem?"

"I still don't know how she came out as a tiefling. Neither of our families have any history of Tieflings." You explain. "And... And I worry that if our next child is a human... That they'll be treated differently from Ember. And then that will hurt Ember..."

Enver looked at you solemnly as you trailed off. Like always, your thoughts were on others. It was something he begrudgingly enjoyed about you. There was a naivety to your generosity, a naivety that due to his station and money he could ensure you kept. He viewed it like having a rare bird as a pet, one with an expensive diet and high vet bills. A status symbol, in a way. But that feeling had shifted just slightly after Ember had come along. And now it felt far more like owning a luxury house. With warm and inviting decor, gates and walls to keep out unpleasantness. A sense of security and comfort whenever he was around you. Especially when he would sneakily watch you mothering Ember. Just yesterday he had watched you braid her a flower crown in the garden, and once you placed it on her head he let himself daydream about the real crown he would put on Ember's head one day when she was ready.

"I am going to tell you something." He said seriously. You looked up at him, tense. "I will not tell you how I know. Do not ask."

You nodded.

"All of our children will be tieflings." He said firmly. "There is nothing I can do to change that."

You stare at him, not being able to make any sense of how he would know. Your mouth opened and closed several times, so many questions pressing against your tongue. How did he know? Why was it so? Who had done this? Was it the fault of your blood or his?

You could never read him much, but something in his eyes made you certain that regardless of all your other questions, the cause was his side of the family tree.

After what felt like forever, you managed to say, "Alright."

Enver leaned a little closer down, his mouth close enough that you could just lean up a little and kiss him. "You'll still carry my children? Or will I have to content myself with Ember as my one and only?"

You swallowed. "I... I want more children. This is just a lot to take in. The rumors were so awful the first time-"

Enver sighed, his brow frowning. "I thought I made sure none of those reached your ears."

You smiled sadly. "My mother informed me of them. Don't be cross. She was trying to protect me."

"That is my job now." Enver said firmly. "I should have a conversation with her."

"Enver." You say warningly.

He patted your cheek. "Just to make sure she's on the same page, my darling wife."

You leaned up, kissing his lips softly, a small spark of passion behind it. You pulled away, smiling up at him. "Let me tell the nursemaid she's on duty for tonight... Why don't you get a bath ready?"

Enver grabbed his cane, getting to his feet with a groan. "Off to twist the taps I go."

[dailyadventureprompts]

any ideas for a druid villain who isn't a pro-environmentalism "extremist" who opposes the #just'n'kind authorities and such? i'd like to do one but honestly most suggestions are just to make a fantasy anti-civ unabomber and idk im not too crazy about the concept

Villain: The Eelmonger

While the scholars debate whether it is nature, society, or fate that makes a person cruel, remember my student that none of these things are kind or fair to most whom they govern. -From the diaries of Tarraji, country tutor

Hooks:

Every year a great festival is held across the kingdom to honour the queen's birthday, a tradition started by the previous rulers to celebrate the long-sought birth of their first heir, but maintained by the current sovereign as a means of sharing a little of her prosperity with her subjects, the crown footing most of the bill for the event. This year, just as people (and the party) are crowding into the rivermarket to enjoy the festivities, a horde of grotesque aquatic monsters surge from the water to rampage through the town.

Two days later when the last of the beasts is either slain or driven off, word arrives that similar attacks have occurred all up and down the central waterway, paralyzing the realm's economy and making travel tremendously dangerous. The party could go hunting the worst of the rivermonsters, or they could sign up to protect a daredevil merchant's cargo and make a small fortune crisis trading.

Along with all this chaos an old threat reemerges, pirates with a long hatred of the realm trawling for plunder in the wake of the rampage. Apparently exempt from the wrath of the seabeasts that still lurk in the rivers and canals, they fly a new flag bearing images of sharp-toothed eels, and sing songs in praise of an unseen master.

Dressed like a peasant and exalted by outlaws, the enigmatic figure known only as the Eelmonger has emerged seemingly from nowhere to overthrow the realm and topple the queen from her throne. Who is she? Why her unprecedented attack? How is she able to turn the great predators of the deep into warbeasts bent to her aims? Among all the uncertainly all that can be known is that she has seemingly declared war against the realm, and will not stop till the queen and any who support her have been reduced to meals for the ocean's scavengers.

Background: Sha's parents thought it was very lucky for their daughter to be born under the same stars as the crown princess, as in the old traditions of the kingdom such "celestial siblings" were thought to share their fortunes, and as poor fisherfolk eking out a meagre living from the sea that fortune was dearly needed. As Sha Grew however it became apparent that the stars played a cruel game of favourites, and whatever luck the oneday queen was given was taken in equal portion from Sha's own: The day the princess was thrown from her horse and rose mirraculously unharmed was the day Sha tumbled over the side of her family's boat in a calm sea and somehow broke three bones, the announcement of the king's recovery from the brittle sickness reaching Sha's village the same day they put her long-ailing father in the ground.

These transgressions were manifold, too obvious and cruel to be mere happenstance, and over the years and the grand festival-birthdays Sha's resentment at her distant royal sister and the injustice of fate filed her sharp and cold as a gutting knife. Things paradoxically got a little better during the pirate wars, when those foreign fleets took the town she lived in as their fortress, burning and pillaging many other settlements along the coast and great river. Sha, now a woman grown, felt her fortunes had reversed, as the pirates were all to happy to pay for her catch with handfulls of stolen coin, and her expertise with local cuisine saw her elevated to the position of landbound galleycook, feeding whole crews of cutthroats in between their inland raids.

It was not to last however, after a few brutal years on the defensive, the princess and her allies rallied and launched an offensive that shattered the invader's fleet and ousted them from the lands they'd set to conquer, culminating in a battle that saw Sha's town (and the life she'd built there) burnt to the ground. It was in the midst of that fighting, trapped beneath burning rubble that Sha saw her celestial sister for the first time, glorious and beautiful and totally ignorant of her existence, scaling the ruins of Sha's happiness on her way to future glory. Sha was pinned there for days, forgotten among the rest of the corpses; it wasn't until a great storm broke and washed the wreckage of the battle out into the sea that she was freed, her druidic powers awakening as she drowned and calling out to those creatures of the brine to aid her. Whatever warpath and hope she had for making a good life in spite of her sister she left below the surface, because as soon as she made landfall she started plotting her path back to the queen.

Goals & Schemes:

Ruination: As strong as her monsters are individually or as a horde, The eelmonger knows her beasts can't challenge the might or logistics of an entire kingdom. However, Sha grew up on the kingdom's waterways and knows that just like small tributaries fed the great trade river, the lives of farmers and merchants feed into the strength of the crown. If she has any hope of evening the playing field Sha must break the system that feeds the realm's warchest even if it means breaking the realm itself in the process. Monstrous chaos and resurgent pirates are just the first step: Targeting the merchants will cause supply shortages and beggar the realm, after that she'll move on to sowing famine in the farmlands. When there isn't enough to go round people will break down into factions, causing the army the well trained army the queen has inhereted to crumble before it ever reaches the field.

Fixing the broken scales: Simply killing the queen won't be enough. Sha reasoned out long ago that if she ever did direct harm to celestial sister whatever fate bullshit that connects them would likely redirect the outcome onto her somehow and that just wouldn't do. Instead she has to settle for making the soverign suffer by proxy, all the while searching for some means of attacking the connection itself. Those pirates directly privy to her plan are out hunting for priests and fortunetellers during their raids, anyone they could kidnap and bring back to the eelmonger to help correct this balance.

Saint of the Brine: Though she has no love for gods, Sha's vengeful ascent is watched over by a coldhearted deity of the fathomless seas, who has umbrage with this particular kingdom ever since the queen's ancestors laid claim to its bays and coastlines by slaying a titanic beast she favoured. The eelmonger is her unwitting instrument of wrath, and whether the gods involvement began during Sha's almost drowning or all the way back were praying for a safe birth is impossible to say. Though the eelmonger has unseen aid throughout her campaign against the crown, if the party is able to make their enemy aware that some god may be the source of her misfortune they may be able to divert Sha's wrath from the queen and the realm's inhabitants.

Art

[lamemaster]

Yours Truly, Passenger Princess

Pairing: Caranthir x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: On a normal day Caranthir did not care of snobbish, bratty human princesses. He on most days, did not care much for the second born. Some wonder caring had done in the past.

AN: I really love it when one day you're doing your homework and this just randomly floods your mind. Gosh I loved writing this. Peace✌️(Also the annon that sent me so many Curse of Bloodline requests...I gotchu)

"Ew, I'm not stepping on dirt," the princess declared, her voice dripping with disdain.

Caranthir felt a vein throbbing in his temple. Hours they had been waiting, his normally swift strides reduced to a slow, frustrated escort for this… this… human embodiment of a gilded cage.

"It's land," Caranthir gritted out, staring at the princess who remained stubbornly ensconced in her palanquin. "Do you need clouds to step on?"

The princess tilted her head, her perfectly coiffed hair glinting in the sunlight. "Cloud?" she echoed, a look of genuine surprise crossing her features. "Can you do that? I've never stepped on a cloud before. The closest I've come to is, the fur rug that looks like a well...rug." She finished with a self-satisfied pout, seemingly oblivious to the growing tension.

On a normal day Caranthir did not care of snobbish, bratty human princesses. He on most days, did not care much for the second born. Some wonder caring had done in the past.

Most humans were either too strung up about their ideals or busy bending backwards to be a part of his people. And the later were worse.

But your brand of human was rare. Utterly depraved, exponentially ignorant, blind to misery you caused. You sat in your palanquin, fiddling with your bejeweled rings, while the peasants beneath you wilted under the unrelenting sun.

And today, you were Caranthir's problem. One assigned by Maedhros.

You were supposed to be the lucky charm that secured an alliance with your warlord father, who, conveniently, refused to sign anything until his precious daughter graced the council with her presence.

You hummed a nonsensical tune, completely oblivious to the growing tension. Caranthir glanced towards the servants struggling with the palanquin. A bead of sweat trickled down the forehead of one, and he let out a barely audible cough.

Caranthir, at his wit's end, resorted to the last thing on his mind. He ushered Melena, the gentlest mare in all of Arda, closer to your palanquin. Her soft brown eyes seemed to plead with him for this not to be a terrible idea.

"Ride with me," he offered, extending his hand towards you. Melena, ever drawn to shiny objects, leaned in further, her nose twitching at the glint of your bejeweled rings. Caranthir mentally apologized to the mare, knowing this wouldn't be a peaceful journey.

"Absolutely not!" you declared, your voice leaving no room for argument. "A lady does not ride horses. My father forbids it!" You glanced towards Melena with wide eyes, your hand hovering cautiously near the magnificent creature's mane. "Does it… bite?"

The question tumbled out of your mouth with such innocent curiosity that Caranthir couldn't help but chuckle, albeit a humorless one. You, of course, misinterpreted the sound, snapping your hand back as if burned. This only served to further pique Melena's interest. She nudged your hand playfully with her soft muzzle, the glint of your rings mesmerizing her.

Caranthir sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was going to be a longer day than he anticipated.

"Alright, princess," he said, his voice strained. "How about we try something else? Perhaps…" He cast a desperate glance at Melena, then back at you. An idea, slightly less ridiculous than the last, began to form in his mind.

The palanquin swayed alarmingly as Caranthir lunged for you, arms outstretched. A breathless yelp escaped your lips before you were engulfed in a whirlwind of silks and jewels. Caranthir found himself face-to-face with a mountain of fabric, the delicate scents of your perfumes assaulting his senses.

"Ah – eep!" you sputtered, your voice muffled by a particularly feathery cushion that was conveniently his chest. Realization dawned on your face, and horror began to morph your features. Caranthir watched with a hint of amusement as your initial indignation gave way to sheer panic. He couldn't help but feel a sliver of satisfaction.

"Not clouds, but I hope this will do, princess?" Caranthir asked before you could launch into a tirade. He was already striding towards the council room, his steps purposeful. Behind them, your servants stood frozen, aghast at their princess being carried off like a prize-winning pumpkin.

A stunned silence followed him, broken only by the rustle of fabric against fabric. Caranthir, for all his outward stoicism, couldn't help but imagine the amused stares of the approaching elves. Carrying a human princess in his arms felt about as graceful as an elephant attempting ballet.

But then, a small sound reached his ears. A hesitant cough, then a whisper so soft he almost missed it. "I guess this will do."

"What did you say, princess?" Caranthir asked, a hint of amusement lingering in his voice. He loosened his grip slightly, the weight of you shifting ever so slightly in his arms.

Your hand, surprisingly strong, reached out and clutched at the loose fabric of his robe. "Thanks," you mumbled, the defiance finally melting away from your voice. Perhaps the thought of a bumpy landing was more motivation than gratitude.

Up close, Caranthir could see the details he'd missed before. The way your eyelashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks, unfairly long as some might say. The scent of your perfume, a strange mix of floral and something faintly spicy, filled his senses. He felt a shiver run down his spine, a sensation entirely unrelated to the cool air.

Suddenly, the walk became filled with a different kind of tension. The merry jingle of your earrings seemed to echo in the otherwise silent path.

Then, a surprise. Your hand reached up, a single strand of his long, braid captured between your fingers. He stopped short, surprised by the sudden touch.

"I like your hair," you declared, tilting your head to examine the braid you held captive. "An elven trait or some crazy good shampoo?" You compared a lock of your own hair to his, pouting slightly at the difference in texture.

Caranthir felt a warmth creep up his neck, entirely separate from the exertion of carrying you. He cleared his throat, surprised by his sudden fluster. "Elven trait, princess," he managed, his voice a touch deeper than usual. "Though good shampoo wouldn't hurt."

A smile bloomed on your face, brighter than any jewel you adorned. "Maybe we can make a trade then," you bargained, a playful glint in your eyes. Now that was something Caranthir understood. A trade.

He couldn't help but chuckle, a low rumble in his chest. Negotiation was second nature to him, and the prospect of bargaining with a human princess who valued hair care products over gold or land was an unexpected amusement.

"A trade, you say?" he raised an eyebrow, a hint of challenge in his voice. "And what treasures do you possess that could possibly be worth the secrets of elven hair care?"

You tilted your head, considering. "Peacock feather fans for a lifetime of lustrous locks?" you offered, your voice laced with mock seriousness. "Perhaps pearly earrings that shimmer like moonlight?"

Caranthir fought back another smile. "Those trinkets are no match for the secrets you seek, princess." He countered, enjoying the banter.

"Then surprise me, elf-lord," you declared, feigning offense. "Show me what wonders your elven shampoos hold that are worth more than all the jewels in my father's vault!"

The council room doors loomed ahead, and Caranthir knew they couldn't postpone the real negotiations any longer. However, a mischievous glint entered his eyes. Perhaps, just perhaps, this alliance wouldn't be so dreadful after all. In fact, it might even provide some… entertainment.

[13as07]

I Hate You #2

(Kakuzu Smut)

[Artwork is not mine! Credit to Noro King]

Requested by: My Attachment to the First Part

Word Count: 4,722 (sorry it's so long)

Warnings and/or Pre-Notes:

Name Calling: Harlot, Crybaby, Scum, Peasant, Bitch

Abuse Including: Emotional Manipulation, Coercion, Verbal, Possessiveness

Human Skinning and Torture

Begging for One's Life

Oral (more or less; Female Receiving)

Size Kink

Cock Warming

Noncon/Rape

Slapping/Choking

Degrading/Misogyny

Biting/Scratching/Hickeys

Blood Play

Creampie

———————————————————————

     The eerie lamplight of the hotel room slithers through the cracked closet door, quickly replaced by hands shooting forward, yanking my headphones off, and grabbing at me. My mouth snaps open, ready to yell for Kakuzu but I'm cut off. "Don't you dare, Harlot," he hisses at me, dragging me out of the closet before I'm lifted, and settled in his arms.

     I screw my eyes shut as soon as I'm taken out of the sanctuary of the closet, my head buried into his neck for extra protection, and my hands balling up the material of his shirt. "Zu, please. I don't want to."

     He ignores me, tightening his hold as he forces us into motion. The coppery scent always wrapped around Kakuzu is wrapped around the whole room for once, making my stomach churn even before I'm carried into the bathroom. "Kakuzu, please - "

     "Get up," he orders, cutting my pleas off. I hate this, I hate when he acts like this, I hate seeing the things he does to people, and I hate that he claims to do those things for me.

     The familiar sound of metal chains clinking against themselves and the tile floor rings throughout the room, pushing the nauseousness I'm feeling up my throat faster than I think I can hold it down. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, just stop. Please?" A dried-out and broken voice croaks, the chains moving again and almost covering the words.

     "Kakuzu - "

     Just like before, I'm cut off, but this time it's by movements. My body is shifted, one of the arms that usually brings me comfort - but is now reminding me who Kakuzu is - settles under my legs, keeping me propped in a seated position with my back against his chest. His other arm wraps around me, his fingertips digging into my cheeks, and forcing my head to stay in place. "Open your eyes, Harlot. Open your eyes and see how much I hate you."

     I try shaking my head, my focus on trying to keep my breathing even in hopes it'll help me not throw up. "Zu, please?" I plead again, wrapping my hands around his wrist, trying to tug his hold off my face.

     "After everything I've done for you? After all the effort I put in? For you. For your honor. You won't even look at the work I've done? Are you ungrateful for the life I have given you? Are you ungrateful for the life that I saved?"

     "No, I'm not ungrateful," I whisper, my cheeks warming up from the tears starting to trail down them.

     Kakuzu's head dips, the material of his mask rubbing against the side of my head. "All I am asking of you is to open your eyes. Do you think you can do that for me, Crybaby?" He asks, his thumb sliding over my cheek, his gentle touch wiping away my salty tears.

     "I can't," I sob, my nails digging into his wrist, threatening to mess up the forced tattoo weaved into his skin.

     "Yes, you can. Open your eyes. See how much I hate you, see what I've done for you, see what happens when someone crosses you." I take a deep, jagged breath, slowly opening my eyes, causing fresh tears to fall easily. "That wasn't worth the bitching and crying now was it?" He grumbles, switching his arms around, and making me tumble against him a bit.

     Kakuzu wasn't lying when he said he was going to skin his partner alive. His partner is kneeling on the ground, everywhere I look his exposed muscles are on display with what I'm sure are buckets of blood seeping from the skinning and various lacerations, decorating the bathroom floor with thick inky redness. The man barely looks alive as he wheezes for air, his body trembling from fear and probable shock. He stares up at us with tearful eyes, both his soon-coming death and pain swimming in them.

     The sight makes me dry heave, the hand on my face jumping up to hold my hair as I sulk over, aiming to get sick on the floor instead of Zu's shoes if anything does come up. "You're annoying like this. It's nothing but a bit of blood and flesh," he grumbles, dropping his hold on my hair before his hand wraps around my eyes, tipping my head back so it's resting on his shoulder. "Deep breaths before you get sick and ruin my clothes."

     I take quick, shallow breaths, fighting between listening to him and trying to make my heart pump with the fear it's no longer there. It takes a couple of moments and a hell of a lot more tears, but I do manage to calm myself down enough that it no longer feels like my lungs are going to bust.

     "Such a Crybaby," Zu grumbles, releasing my eyes so his hand can rub my chest, gently trying to help the hiccups I gained during my meltdown go away. "I swear you're always bitching about one thing or another," he adds, moving me so I'm sitting upright again.

"Come here waste of man." Slowly, the mauled ball of flesh and blood crawls forward, more blood and pain-filled tears spilling from him as he moves. He stops an inch or two away from my slippers, his restraints not letting him get any closer. "Show us how sorry you are."

"My greatest apologies, Lady Kakuzu," the man hurries out, his body falling to the ground in as close to a bow as he can get. "I'm sorry for trashing your name and your honor. I am so sorry."

"I don't believe you are," Zu husks out, making my stomach hurt again. He gets too much of a kick out of these situations. He drags them on for a lot longer than I wish he would too.

"I am! I am sorry. Please. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have forgotten my place. I'll remember it from now on. Kakuzu, please," the man cries, shooting painful chills throughout my body.

"Kakuzu - "

"Silence," he mutters, set on not letting me get a word in. "Where's your placement, scum?"

"Under Lady Kakuzu's feet. Even below that. Please. I'm the scum at the bottom of her shoes. I'm even worse than that. Please, just let me go."

"Kakuzu?" I try again, this time getting his hand wrapped around my mouth.

"Do you truly think that?" Zu asks the man, his sight pointed and cold as he glares down at his newest victim.

"Yes!" The man yelps, tugging on his unforgiving chains. "Of course I do. I do! Please let me go Kakuzu. I'm sorry for insulting your lady. I am!"

He chuckles, a faint imprint of a smile under his mask. "Go on then. Kiss her shoes, lick the scum off of them like the peasant you are." The man hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering between Zu and my slippers. "Straighten your leg. He can't obey orders if he's unable to reach your shoes," Kakuzu whispers, nuzzling the side of my head, his glare locked on his victim, daring him to act up.

I do as I'm told, straightening one of my legs out. Again, the man hesitates for a moment before pressing his lips against the sole of the slipper, his eyes locked on Zu the whole time. When approval isn't given, the man desperately starts stamping kisses up and down the bottom of my shoe, each one paired with an eye flicker toward the assassin. When that doesn't work either, the man locks eyes with Kakuzu again, his tongue sliding out to lap up the dirt and any other mess my slippers have picked up from the hotel carpet.

I tilt my head, looking at the man holding me, waiting for this to end just as much as the man at my feet. "Now the other," Zu finally mutters, starting to press masked kisses up my neck. I let my leg fall, lifting the other one before the man repeats his actions. Kakuzu hums in approval, his nose nuzzling my jawline this time as he watches. "What a pathetic way to live your last few moments," he grumbles, shifting my position in his arms again, holding me closer to his chest as he turns to walk away.

The man freaks out as I'm carried out of the bathroom, pleas, threats, and insults all thrown at Kakuzu. Again, like before, I'm settled into the closet, Zu resting me in the makeshift nest of blankets and pillows I've made. His eyes are swimming with a mix of arousal, madness, and anger as he stares at me, the melted gemstone color colder than usual when he looks at me.

Also again, his hand shoots forward, clinging to my cheeks. "You are mine, you understand that?"

"Yes, Zu."

"Say it right," he mutters, his freehand jumping to his face to pull his mask down.

"Yes, Kakuzu, I understand that I'm yours," I whisper, tilting my head in his hold, my eyes stuck on the warn-out carpet that makes up the hotel floor.

"I hate you," he whispers back, tilting my head back straight before leaning forward. Zu's lips lay against mine, his fingers tightening against my skin as he kisses me. "I hate you," he repeats, lips brushing mine as he speaks, courtesy of the lack of distance.

"I hate you too," I echo, looking into his eyes again. Some - but not all - of the crazy is gone from them, as is his anger. The pool of arousal mixed in hasn't been tamed though. If anything, it seemed to have grown. "Kakuzu?"

"Hush. I have more work to do, Harlot. Go back to your music and try to get some sleep," he orders, brushing kisses along my jawline. Despite everything tonight, the familiar feeling of his stitches rubbing against my skin still brings me comfort. Once he's satisfied, Zu slowly places my headphones back on me, taking the time to fix the strands of hair that got caught in the mix.

One more kiss is pressed to my lips before his mask is pulled back on and the closet doors are snapped closed. I flop into the pile of bedding, screwing my eyes shut and letting the music mix with my thoughts. I don't think I'll be getting much sleep tonight.

————————————

     Pressure is added to my side, breaking the soft trickle of exhaustion and sadness I've been clinging to all night. Soon, the pressure tightens, fingers digging into my ribs to get a better hold on me. "Kakuzu!" I scream, shooting up from my laid position.

"Hush, you annoying little bitch," Zu grumbles, his hand falling to my ankle, his fingers wrapping around it before tugging me out of the closet. "You're still crying?" He groans, his eyes scanning over my face now that I'm in the light of the dim lamp. "You are unattractive when you cry. Stop crying before you make me go soft."

"What?" I ask, not making sense of Kakuzu's short lecture.

I'm ignored, grumbles I can't make out slipping from him as he bends down. I'm lifted again tonight, this time long enough for Zu to carry me across the room before dropping me on the bed. "You should be of use," he grumbles, snatching my ankle again so he can position me on my back, laid flat so he can climb on top of me.

     "Zu," I murmur, not liking where this is heading.

     "Always such a Crybaby," he groans, crawling onto the bed, his hands already working at tugging my clothing off. "I'm going to sleep in you. You're too much of a Crybaby to do anything until the morning," he mutters, his words coming out as a statement but meant as a question.

     His eyes scan over my nude body, his hand gripping my thigh, and his thumb sliding back and forth over my leg, softly teasing me as he impatiently waits for me to respond. "Just... just sleeping... in me," I mutter, enjoying his soft touches but also hating that I'm enjoying them. Why does he have to know me so well? Why does he always get so needy after a kill?

     That's a good enough answer for Kakuzu, his clothes peeled off of him just as quickly as he tugged mine off. "You liked it, didn't you?" He mutters, his arms wrapping under my knees, shifting down so they hook over his shoulders.

     "I liked what?" I whisper, my pussy already tingling from the hot breath coating it as he lowers his head down.

     "You liked what I did for you today," Kakuzu answers, his tongue sliding over the inside of my thigh, making my cunt tremble even more.

     "No, I didn't," I deny, toying with his hair as I try to even out my breathing. It's not fair how quickly Zu can get me worked up. "You... you are a terrible man. You do - did - terrible things today."

     "Do you think that?" He asks, eyes skating up to look at me. Kakuzu's eyes are shiny with sexual tension and entertainment blending with their chilled green color. "Your soaked little pussy doesn't seem to think so," he adds, shifting his head over. His tongue slides out, running over my pussy lips before he nibbles on them.

     "You... you're playing with me. Of... of course my body is going... going to react," I push out, my ankles crossing behind his neck and my thighs sliding against his cheeks. I try tugging him down, quickly changing my mind, and pushing him away from me again.

     Kakuzu chuckles, flatly and slowly running his tongue through my pussy before pulling away, my legs tumbling back to the bed because of his movements. "So quick to call me a bad man and then so quick to get soaked and squirmy for me. But," he starts, flipping us so we're on our sides, one of my legs buried under his body weight, and the other one held open by Zu. "I don't have the time tonight to stop the resentment you'll feel after I rape you so that'll have to wait until the morning."

     My stomach drops with the statement; half from fear and half from excitement. Zu and I rarely have sex, partly because it messes with my head but mostly because he doesn't have the patience to calm me down afterward. "Yes, sir," I murmur, burring my head in his chest as my hand wanders his back, finding comfort in tracing the masks sewn into his back.

     "I hate you," he grumbles, using his hold on my leg to tug me closer, the tip of his dick quickly bullying its way into me.

     "Kakuzu," I whimper, my body already sparking in fearful anticipation. "You're going to hurt me." Zu is a big man, in all areas of the word. It even hurts taking him when I'm wet and stretched, which means it's going to tear me apart taking him like this.

     "I know," he whispers into my hair, his head nuzzling mine upward. Once my face is lifted enough, Kakuzu smashes his lips against mine and slams his dick into me, his mouth catching the scream of pain that rips from my throat. "Stop crying," he grumbles, his nose rubbing the painful tears spilling down my face into my skin. "How can you be so pretty when you scream but so ugly when you cry?"

     "It hurts," I whine, ripples of pain sizzling from my pussy as my nails dig into the stitches holding his masks in place. "I can't."

     "You can and you will. Shut up and go to sleep," he orders, pushing my head back into his chest before he rests his chin on it. "After I rape you tomorrow, and once my work is done, we'll go shopping." The words are meant as a comfort, kind of, but they're not. If Kakuzu is willing to spend money on me, he's going to fuck me up badly in the morning.

     I soak in the night's events, the torture and death he caused, in the events promised tomorrow, in the fear and arousal caused by it, the hatred I feel from being arousal, all of it. My nails dig in deep enough to break his skin, and I'm crying enough to soak both of us in my tears. Despite my meltdown, Kakuzu stays put and quiet, his dick stretching me out and pulsing as his chin rubs back and forth on my head, offering a small comfort in all the pain he's caused me today.

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     Prickles of pain growing on my cheek rip me from my sleep, and my eyes snap open as my body attempts to shoot up. Kakuzu is laid on top of me, the hand used to smack me awake slithering down to grip my throat. The other one is buried between us, rubbing rough circles against my clit. "Zu?" I croak out, trying to squirm out from under him as my eyes blink away the remaining sleep in them.

"I hate you. I fucking hate you. Disgusting Harlot," he breaths against my neck, his teeth sinking into my throat and inch above the fingers squeezing my windpipe.

"Hey, wait a second," I wheeze, my fingertips wiggling their way between his palm and my throat, failing to loosen his grip. "Let me wake up a bit."

Kakuzu doesn't bother relaxing his jaw as he lifts his head, my skin giving in and ripping between his teeth. "If I did what you asked, I wouldn't be raping you, would I?" He husks in my ear, his fingers tightening, cutting off the little bit of air he was allowing. "I was trying to be nice, I was going to rape you while you slept, but your desperate little cunt wouldn't loosen enough to let me pull out without waking you."

It's a lie, I know it's a lie. He gets off on me being conscious, of me knowing and seeing what he's doing, of the fear that coats me when he acts like this. But still, the thought of being unaware of any of it is nice, even if it was fictionally taken from me.

Kakuzu loosens his grip on my throat, letting me coat my lungs in oxygen again. "Don't cry," he grumbles, pulling his touch away from my clit, his hand sliding up to rub his fingers through my hair. "Do you hear me? Don't you dare cry."

"If you weren't so harsh I wouldn't cry," I bite back, my defense melting the second his midnight moss-colored eyes meet mine. "I mean... um... yes sir."

He lets out an airy laugh, a smirk sliding onto his face as he glares at me. "I hate how easy you bend for me. You've gotten so complaint. It ruins the fun. If you weren't so complaint I wouldn't have to hurt you as much. How about we make a deal, my little Harlot."

"Okay," I whisper, not liking where this is going. Kakuzu is not a fair man and neither are his deals.

"For once I won't hold down your wrists. Do anything your pretty mind wishes. I won't hold it against you," he whispers down, his head dipping to brush kisses against my lips between his words. "Besides, the more you fight, the more excited I get. Maybe your raping will end early today." Fat chance but it's worth the effort, I guess.

"Okay," I repeat, letting my hands fall away from his, my fingers jumping out to cup his face. Maybe if I take him up on the deal, he'll be too shocked to keep going. I doubt it... still worth it. I let my fingertips slide over Kakuzu's cheeks, caressing him like I usually do. Once his eyes fall closed I shift my touches, digging my nails into his skin and tearing at it.

"Fucking bitch," he yelps, eyes snapping open, the green color of them dancing against the red of his blood so beautifully. Is this why he likes ripping me to shreds? "I didn't think you'd do it, you fucking," he cuts himself off by burying his head into my neck, his hips ripping himself out of me before slamming back in.

I yelp from the sudden friction, more prepared than yesterday but still not ready to take him. Zu's teeth dig into my throat again, as do his fingers, limiting my breathing again. "Ka... kaku... zu?" I spill out, my hands attempting to scratch at his face again, the suddenness of his actions catching me off guard. He said he wouldn't retaliate, he said anything I do wouldn't be held against me, this isn't fair. Why give me a chance to fight back if you're going to take it from me?

He chuckles, his teeth quickly forcing my throat to give way as he litters my neck in ripped skin and bleeding bite marks. "Come on, I know women are dumb but you're not that dumb. Did you think I wouldn't react to you fighting back?"

I can feel the tears prickle in my eyes. His teeth hurt, his thrusts hurt, my muscles hurt from trying to shove him off, his fingers promising to leave bruises on my throat hurt, and he's mean. Why does Kakuzu have to be so mean? He said I could fight back without being punished.

My nails continue to scratch at his face, occasionally catching on his stitches. The more he chuckles, the harder it is not to cry. "Get off of me, Zu," I sob, my nails saying screw it to his, shifting down to tear at his shoulders. If I snap the threads laces through his arms, maybe I'll be able to wiggle out from under him. "You said I could fight back," I wheeze, his hand tightening the longer I fight against him.

"Yes, I did. I didn't say I'd let you win though," he chuckles, loosening his grip long enough for me to suck in a breath before it's back to suffocating me. "Harlot, when are you going to learn you don't deserve rights? Women like you are only worth as much as your pussies are. Lucky for you, your pretty little cunt gets off on being violated and reminded of your use. It makes you worth something."

He babbles his degrading against my throat, his tongue sliding out to slither over the markings he's left, licking up my spilled blood as his mouth focuses on sucking bruises over the teeth imprints. The hand not wrapped around my windpipe shoots down, scooping at my juices as if to prove Kakuzu's rant. I hate his insults, I hate that they're right, and I hate that I've started to cry so soon. It's going to piss him off even more.

Slowly, he lifts himself, adding enough pressure that his movements are a threat to snap the bones of my neck. "I told you not to cry," he grumbles, wiping the fingers coated in my mess across my face, blood from his scratch marks dripping down to mix with the juices coating my cheeks. "At least you look pretty dotted with my blood, huh?"

"Please?" I spill out, my head light enough that I can't keep scratching at his stitches, my escape plan left forgotten. "Please stop," I wheeze, attempting to tug his fingers off again, trying to get just the smallest break to breathe.

"You're fine, stop crying," he orders, fingers loosening so I can huff a few breaths of air. "What do you want me to stop?" Zu asks, starting another one of his sick games.

"Stop..."

"Stop what?" He repeats, leaning down, eyes locked on mine and his nose brushing against mine. The more blood droplets that spill onto my skin, the more he squeezes, the faster his thrusts get, and the more I ache. It hurts having a man as thick as Kakuzu fucking himself into me, it hurts having so much of his weight pressed against my hips, my throat. "What do you want me to stop doing? Say it."

"Stop raping me," I whisper, my sight blurry now. Whether it's because of the lack of air or my fears, I'm not sure.

"Say it louder. I know you can say it louder," he demands, his voice angry and shaky with his end approaching. The bad side of us having sex once or twice a month is that Kakuzu is ruthless during it, the good side is he doesn't last long, especially when he spends the night buried in me.

"Stop raping me," I repeat, my voice louder and cracking as I speak.

"Again," he hisses, his hand once again threatening to make me pass out from lack of oxygen.

"Please. Kakuzu, please. Stop raping me. I'll do anything, Zu. Stop, stop, stop. I don't want to be raped. Please?" My voice is raspy from my screams, and my sight is speckled with black dots. It might have been a dumb move, one that'll thrust me into unconsciousness, but it was worth it.

     "Shut up," Zu grumbles, his hand finally releasing my throat just to grip my face, nails digging into my cheeks and squeezing to keep me quiet. His dick is shoved into me again, uncomfortably stretching me out, his hips against mine, making them ache even more from the forced wide spreading of them. "You are repulsive when you cry. Why did you cry? It's ugly," Kakuzu lectures, his sperm quickly spilling into me, the warmth of it adding just a bit of relief to the constant pain in my body.

     I stay quiet, soaking in the slow agony of being crushed under his weight, in the warmth of his seemingly never-ending finishing, in the sound of his pants and his hearts pounding.

     Finally, he slowly lifts off of me, the warmth of his cum spilling out and coating my legs as his dick inches out from his movements too. "Why did you cry?" He repeats, kneeling between my legs, his eyes scrolling over my bruised and labored body. "I told you not to."

     "I'm sorry," I whisper, the situation in front of me fucking with my head even more. Kakuzu violated me and I'm apologizing for crying. Kakuzu is the one sulking when I'm aching more than him, though, I did manage to get in quite a few scratch marks this time.

     Again, he moves slowly, leaving me alone in the bed and exposed to the chill of the room. Despite moving away, his eyes still slide over me in circles. "I hate you," he whispers, silence falling over us again, the only noise being his jaw rotating and flapping with unheard words. Flapping with invisible apologies and thank yous.

     Kakuzu will never admit but he doesn't like raping me, he doesn't like that this is the only way he can get off. It's not my fault our sex life lives in one or two days a month; it's his. If he wasn't so rough I'd be fine having sex more often, but he can't stop, and we both know it. Not that we haven't tried.

     "Get out of bed. I have things to do and I can't start them until you've been disinfected and bathed." I sit up, pain shooting everywhere it can reach as I move. "I will be back. Put on some clothes while I'm away."

     "I thought I was bathing? Where are we going?" I ask, carefully placing myself on my feet, and leaning against the bed for extra support.

     "You are. I am going to inform Sasori that you will be using his tub, and then we shall come back here so I can bathe as well."

     Oh...

     My eyes trail after Zu, watching him pull some clothes on before heading toward the door. "Kakuzu?"

     "Harlot?" He sighs, stopping with his hand on the door.

     I race forward, ignoring the pain threatening to snap my bones or make my muscles give out. I crash into him, wrapping my arms around his sides and burying my head between his shoulder blades. "I hate you, Kakuzu," I whisper against his skin, painful tears once again escaping my eyes because of my dumb decisions.

     "I hate you too."

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