clownfcr

[clownfcr]

Craig there is someone next to you

[clownfcr]

clocking in for another day at the bad bitch factory

[clownfcr]

Fifth attempt to post this 💀💀💀

[clownfcr]

Where the hell is the boss

[clownfcr]

❤️

[clownfcr]

Midnight Podcast | Brant

[clownfcr]

Dude, I got Brant today and I geniunely wasn't expecting to laugh out loud upon hearing his voice line for his troubles.

Just being a dismayed "Ain't got no money :("

like... let me take you out bbygirl....

Perchance.... if you would be willing.... would you be willing to write such a scenario for us brant enjoyers to feast upon.....?

The Reader taking Brant out on their own dime, to be exact, not picky with how you deliver! :3

Congratulations on getting brant 🤍 and you're so right we need to spoil him.

Brant x (fem) reader

Taking him out

The streets of Ragunna were alive with the gentle hum of evening life as Y/N led Brant through the cobbled pathways, her hand lightly tugging his as he trailed behind with an exaggerated sigh.

“Y/N, my dear, my dearest, my only solace in this cruel world,” Brant lamented, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. “You wound my pride by insisting on paying for me. How shall I ever recover from this devastating blow?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched in amusement. “By enjoying a good meal and not making a scene, perhaps?”

Brant gasped, appalled. “Me? Make a scene? You wound me further!”

She shook her head, pulling him through the doors of Trattoria Margherita. The warm, rich aroma of baked bread, sizzling meats, and fragrant herbs instantly wrapped around them, and Brant audibly sighed in delight. The restaurant bustled with life, patrons laughing over their meals while Margherita herself worked behind the counter, barking out orders to her staff with a commanding presence.

They were led to a cozy corner table, candlelight flickering between them. Brant leaned forward on his elbows, resting his chin on his hands, studying Y/N with that familiar mischievous glint in his pink eyes.

“So,” he mused, “you lured me here with promises of food, but tell me, my sweet, sweet Y/N—what is the real reason for this indulgence?”

She arched a brow. “Do I need a reason to treat you?”

Brant smirked. “Not at all. I simply enjoy hearing you say it.

Their conversation was briefly interrupted by the arrival of their drinks—Ragunna Espresso for Y/N and a glass of Nectarwine for Brant. He took a sip, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. “Ah, nectar of the gods. You truly know how to spoil me.”

She laughed, watching as he examined the menu with great interest.

“I think I’ll have the Steak Margherita,” he announced. “A fine choice for a fine man.”

“And I’ll have the Nuvola Pasta,” Y/N added before turning to Brant. “Do you want to share a Margherita Pizza?”

Brant gasped, reaching across the table to clutch her hands. “My love, my star, my generous patron, you truly know the way to my heart!”

The warmth of his hands against hers sent a pleasant shiver up Y/N’s spine, but she masked it with a chuckle. “Brant, it’s just a pizza.”

“Ah, but it is a symbol of your affection, and that makes it divine.”

Dinner was a blend of romantic indulgence and Brant’s usual antics. He moaned dramatically over each bite, exclaiming poetic praises about the food, much to Y/N’s amusement. The Margherita Pizza was shared in small bites between laughter, and he made a grand show of offering her the last piece, declaring it a token of his eternal gratitude.

When dessert arrived—a decadent Triple-Scoop Ice Cream—Brant held up his spoon like a duelist about to enter battle. “My dear, I propose a game. The one who steals the most bites wins.”

“You do realize I paid for this, right?” Y/N teased.

“Precisely why I must even the score,” Brant said with a wink.

The game ended in playful swats of spoons and shared laughter, until only melted remnants remained in the dish. Brant sat back with a satisfied sigh, watching Y/N with a softer expression now, the candlelight reflecting warmly in his gaze.

“You’ve done something dangerous, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice losing its teasing edge.

She tilted her head. “Oh? And what’s that?”

He reached for her hand again, his fingers tracing slow patterns against her palm. “You’ve shown me kindness I never thought I deserved.” His voice dropped to a whisper, almost reverent. “And now I fear I’ll never be able to let you go.”

Y/N felt her heart stutter, warmth blooming in her chest. The usual theatrics were gone, replaced by something sincere and achingly tender. She squeezed his hand in return, offering him a small, knowing smile. “Then don’t.”

Brant inhaled sharply before his lips curled into something softer than a smirk but more mischievous than a smile. He lifted her hand and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles.

“As you wish, Stella Mia.”

[clownfcr]

Elfenlied x Splatoon OH HELL YEAHHHH

Had to draw Acht as well

And of course the dog scene, please proceed with caution! I know this may be very triggering so only look further on your own risk ❤️

Inklings are DAMN evil

[clownfcr]

YES SIRRRR

I LOVE YPUR BRANT FICS SO MUCH

Your the only one feeding us here 😭

Please keep that up

Please

Please

Please

Can we get reader getting kidnapped because they want Brants ransome

And he saves her

Then he gets all emotional

And kisses her accidentally he gets flustered

Please

Ofc I will continue feeding you, we need more brant ♡

Brant x (fem)reader

"The Fool’s Ransom"

The air was warm, the scent of wildflowers drifting lazily through the breeze as Y/N wandered through the outskirts of Fool’s Elysium. She had always found solace in moments like this—where the world was quiet, untouched by the chaos of the Troupe’s performances, the danger of their notoriety.

Her hands grazed over delicate petals, plucking a few blossoms with care. A vibrant mix of red and gold—Brant’s colors, she realized absently, lips twitching in amusement.

She could already imagine his reaction.

"For me? Ah, darling, you shouldn’t have! Though, of course, I deserve nothing less than the most beautiful bouquet, picked by the most enchanting hands—"

Y/N snorted at the thought, shaking her head. The man was ridiculous. Endearing, but ridiculous.

A rustling noise behind her snapped her out of her thoughts.

She barely had time to react before the world shifted.

Shadows moved. Figures emerged from behind the trees, stepping into the dappled light of the forest. Five, maybe six of them—dressed in rough leathers and battered armor, the kind worn by mercenaries and bounty hunters.

Y/N’s muscles tensed. Not good.

“Well, well,” one of the men drawled, his voice laced with amusement. “Looks like we caught ourselves a little bird.”

Y/N’s fingers curled around the stems of the flowers. She forced herself to stay calm. Think. Assess. Find an opening.

“Sorry,” she said lightly, “but I don’t recall asking to be caught.”

The leader chuckled, stepping closer. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” His eyes gleamed with something sharp, something calculating. “We know who you run with, girl.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

Brant.

This wasn’t about her. It was never about her.

“You’re making a mistake,” she said carefully, shifting her weight, searching for a possible escape.

“Don’t think so,” the man replied. “See, there’s a hefty price on Brant’s head, but the bastard’s tricky. Slippery. We figure—why chase a fox when you can catch the thing he won’t leave behind?”

Y/N felt cold steel against her wrist before she could react. A pair of rough hands wrenched her arms behind her back, securing them with thick rope.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from cursing.

The leader grinned, watching her struggle. “That’s right. You’re coming with us, sweetheart. Let’s see how much the Fool is willing to pay.”

And just like that, the world blurred as they dragged her away.

The crowd roared, their cheers bouncing off the stone walls of Ragunna’s marketplace, filling the night with electricity. The Fool’s Troupe thrived on such energy, reveling in the spotlight as they danced, spun, and weaved their illusions.

Brant, of course, was at the center of it all.

With a flourish of his coat and a flick of his wrist, he sent a cascade of golden sparks into the air, a final dazzling spectacle that left the audience gasping in awe. The trick was nothing new—sleight of hand, a little bit of Tacet magic—but paired with the way he grinned, the way he owned the stage, it was enough to leave even the most skeptical onlookers enchanted.

The music reached its crescendo. The finale.

With a deep, exaggerated bow, Brant tipped his hat and let the applause wash over him.

Another successful night.

And yet—something felt wrong.

Even as he basked in the adoration, his sharp gaze swept over the crowd, searching.

And that’s when he saw him.

A man, standing near the back, half-shrouded in shadow.

He wasn’t clapping. Wasn’t smiling.

No, he was staring.

At him.

Brant had been in the game long enough to recognize that look.

A smirk that held no joy, only intent.

A predator sizing up its prey.

Brant’s usual bravado didn’t falter—he twirled his hat between his fingers, flashing the crowd one last charming wink before stepping off the stage. But inside, his mind was already racing.

He knew better than to ignore a threat.

And so, as the rest of the Troupe celebrated, Brant slipped through the back of the makeshift stage, where the night air was cool and the lanterns burned lower.

That’s when he saw it.

A single piece of parchment.

Tucked neatly into the folds of his coat.

Brant’s smirk wavered, just slightly.

He hadn’t felt anyone slip it in. Which meant whoever had done it was good.

Tina’s voice called from behind him. “Brant? What’s with that face?”

Brant ignored her for a moment, fingers tightening around the parchment. He unfolded it with a flick of his wrist, scanning the words scrawled in sharp, uneven ink.

"We have her.

Come alone.

You know why."

His heart stopped.

Her.

His grip tightened, crumpling the edges of the letter.

Tina must have seen the way his posture changed, the subtle shift from playful to deadly serious. She stepped closer, her usual smirk gone. “Brant. What is it?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His mind was already spiraling.

Y/N.

She had nothing to do with this life. She wasn’t a Fool, wasn’t wrapped up in the chaos that followed him like a shadow.

He had kept it that way on purpose.

Because she was his only place of quiet. His only bit of peace in a world of games and deception.

And now, because of him, because of the bounty on his head—

They had her.

Brant inhaled slowly, forcing a smirk back onto his face before turning toward Tina. “Well, darling, looks like I’ve got a little errand to run.”

Tina didn’t buy it for a second. “Brant. What the hell is going on?”

He twirled the parchment between his fingers before tucking it into his coat, straightening as if the weight of the message hadn’t just settled into his bones. “Nothing a bit of Fool’s charm can’t fix.”

And then, before she could stop him, before she could see the flicker of raw, unfiltered fear in his eyes—

Brant was gone.

Y/N’s wrists ached from the rough rope binding her to the wooden support beam, the coarse fibers digging into her skin with every movement. The damp, musty air of the abandoned warehouse filled her lungs, thick with the scent of rotting wood and old metal. Lanterns flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across the sneering faces of the men surrounding her.

She had been walking, minding her own business, when they struck—too many, too fast—grabbing her before she even had the chance to fight back. Now, she was here, held captive by a group of bounty hunters with the collective stench of cheap alcohol and poor decisions.

One of them, a broad-shouldered brute with greasy hair and a scar running down his cheek, leaned against a crate, flipping a dagger between his fingers. He smirked.

"Never thought the famous Brant would be stupid enough to get himself a little sweetheart," he drawled, his voice thick with amusement. "Guess the rumors were true. Fool’s got a soft spot."

Another man, lankier but with the same cruel glint in his eyes, chuckled. "Soft spot’s gonna cost him big. That bounty on his head could set us up for life."

Y/N stayed silent, glaring at them with steady defiance. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

That didn’t stop them from trying to get under her skin.

A third man, smaller but no less disgusting, crouched beside her, reaching out with dirty fingers to trace the curve of her cheek.

Y/N flinched at the unwanted touch, disgust coiling in her stomach like a snake.

“Shame, really,” he mused, tilting his head. “A pretty thing like you, wasting your time on a fool like him. What’s he got that we don’t?”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. Her first instinct was to spit in his face.

But instead, she did something worse.

She smiled.

A slow, knowing smile.

It unnerved him, just a little.

Enough that his fingers hesitated against her skin.

“Oh, you poor, stupid man,” she murmured, her voice dripping with mock pity. "You have no idea what you've done, do you?"

The man scowled. “The hell does that mean?”

Y/N only tilted her head, her expression almost amused now.

“Brant is a lot of things,” she said. “A scoundrel. A trickster. A Fool. But there’s one thing you should never forget—”

She leaned forward as much as the restraints allowed, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"A Fool always has the last laugh."

A moment of silence.

Then—CRASH.

Something shattered in the distance.

Y/N grinned.

He was here.

The bounty hunters barely had time to register the movement before a streak of violet light came swinging down from the upper beams like a phantom descending from the heavens.

Brant landed in a graceful arc of motion, boots hitting the wooden floor with a resounding thud. The dim lantern light caught the gleam of his sword as he twirled it effortlessly, the blade wreathed in flickering purple flames. His coat billowed dramatically behind him, his smirk infuriatingly confident despite the fact that he was surrounded.

“Gentlemen!” he called out, his voice carrying that same silken charisma that could charm an audience—or in this case, send shivers of fear down a man’s spine. “I do believe you have something that belongs to me.”

Y/N, still tied to the beam, rolled her eyes. “Took you long enough.”

Brant turned to her, flashing a cocky grin. “What can I say? Had to make an entrance.”

One of the bounty hunters finally snapped out of his shock. “It’s the Fool! Get him!”

Steel hissed from its sheath.

Brant moved before the first man could even blink.

With a single flick of his wrist, his sword slashed through the air, knocking the hunter’s weapon clean from his grip. The man barely had time to yelp before Brant twisted around him in a blur of motion, using his momentum to knock him out with a sharp, well-placed elbow.

The other hunters sprang into action, rushing him at once.

Brant’s grin widened. Perfect.

With a flourish of his blade, he leaped into the air, twisting above them in an almost impossible display of acrobatics. The purple flames around his rapier flared, trailing after him like a comet as he struck down three men in a series of fluid, calculated strikes.

Someone shouted, “Call for reinforcements!”

Brant clicked his tongue.

“Oh, no need for that,” he mused, suddenly vaulting upward. His boots landed lightly on one of the upper rafters, balancing as if he were performing on stage rather than engaged in battle. He tilted his head, finger tapping his chin.

“I was going to keep things simple, but since you’re all so eager…”

His hand lifted toward the ceiling.

The air rippled around him.

A deep rumble began to shake the very foundation of the warehouse.

The bounty hunters froze.

Then they saw it.

A giant, spectral anchor materialized above them, its heavy chains rattling as it hovered menacingly in midair. The sheer weight of it groaned against reality, as if waiting for its master’s command.

Brant snapped his fingers.

“Anchors away.”

The anchor plummeted.

The bounty hunters screamed.

The entire warehouse shook as the anchor slammed into the ground, sending a shockwave that knocked every single enemy off their feet. The force of the impact splintered the wooden floorboards, cracks spiderwebbing outward from where it landed.

Silence.

Then a low groan from one of the surviving men.

Brant dusted off his coat, grinning down at them. “I’d say that’s your cue to stay down.”

Y/N let out an exasperated sigh from where she was still tied. “Brant,”

Brant turned toward her, smirk still in place as he approached. “My dear, your savior arrived.”

And with a theatrical flourish, he cut her ropes.

The moment Y/N’s bindings hit the ground, she barely had time to react before Brant was pulling her close.

Not gently. Desperately.

His arms wrapped around her in a crushing embrace, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her waist as if he were afraid she’d vanish if he let go. She could feel the erratic rise and fall of his chest, the way his entire body trembled—not from exhaustion, not from battle, but from something deeper.

Something raw.

Brant, her Brant, was shaking.

Y/N barely had time to process it before she heard it.

A sound so small, so unlike him, that it stopped her heart.

A shaky, broken laugh.

“sweetheart,” he whispered, voice hoarse and uneven. “You—you scared me.”

Y/N blinked. Brant, scared?

She’d seen him dance on the edge of blades without flinching. Laugh in the face of danger, throw himself into reckless stunts without so much as a second thought. He was the one who always smiled, who always made it look easy.

But now, here he was, burying his face into her shoulder, gripping her like a lifeline, voice breaking on the edges of words he couldn’t say.

Her stomach twisted.

She slowly brought her arms up, pressing her hands against his back.

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “Brant, I’m okay.”

His grip only tightened.

“I thought—” He let out another weak, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

Theatrics were second nature to Brant, but this wasn’t a performance.

This wasn’t a grand declaration, or a dramatic monologue. This was real.

And it terrified him.

She felt it in the way his fingers curled into her hair, the way he clung to her as though he couldn’t bear the thought of her slipping away.

Brant, the Fool of the Troupe, the man who laughed in the face of death, had been petrified at the thought of losing her.

Y/N let out a slow breath, running a hand through his wild hair, her fingers brushing against the beads and charms tangled in the mess of blue strands.

“Brant,” she murmured, voice soft, gentle. “Look at me.”

He hesitated.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

His eyes—those brilliant, star-swept pinks—were red at the edges, shimmering with something dangerously close to tears.

Brant never cried. He’d joke, he’d tease, he’d brush off pain with a grin and a flourish, but now…

Now, he looked at her like a man who had almost lost everything.

Y/N cupped his face with both hands, brushing her thumbs along his cheekbones.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m right here.”

Brant let out another weak, breathy laugh, leaning into her touch. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his lips parting as though he wanted to say something—but then, he just sighed.

A long, shuddering sigh, like he was exhaling all the fear that had built up inside him.

And then, when he finally opened his eyes again—he smiled.

Not his usual, cocky smirk.

Not the confident grin he used to mask uncertainty.

Something real.

Something softer.

His hands slid down to her waist, fingers still trembling slightly as he pulled her against him once more, this time resting his forehead against hers.

“Guess this means I have to keep you closer now, huh?” His voice was teasing, but there was no bravado this time. No false confidence.

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh, smoothing his hair back. “That might be hard, considering you already keep me close.”

Brant chuckled, a little steadier now. “Not close enough, apparently.”

Y/N smiled, running a hand down his arm before threading her fingers through his.

Brant stared down at their joined hands, his expression softening even further.

Then, suddenly—his entire body sagged.

“Ohhhh, stars, Y/N, I think I’m gonna faint.”

Y/N barely had time to react before he dramatically collapsed against her, arms still wrapped around her but now in a ridiculous, over-the-top swoon.

Y/N groaned. “Brant.”

“My heart, my poor, delicate heart!” he wailed, burying his face into her shoulder again, except this time she could feel him grinning.

“You idiot.” She smacked his arm lightly, but she couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up.

Brant peeked up at her, eyes twinkling. “Ah! There it is. The laugh of my beloved rescuer.” He sighed dreamily, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead. “Truly, I am at your mercy, my darling.”

Y/N shook her head, exasperated. “Unbelievable.”

Brant grinned wider, then—without warning—pressed a quick, feather-light kiss to her lips.

Y/N froze.

Brant blinked, like even he hadn’t expected to do that. Then, ever so slowly, his face turned a bright, burning red.

“...Oh.”

Y/N stared at him, wide-eyed. “Did you just—”

“NOPE. DIDN’T HAPPEN.” Brant immediately turned on his heel, still holding her hand but now practically dragging her away from the scene.

Y/N let out a breathless laugh. “You are impossible.”

Brant’s ears were still red as he muttered, “And yet, you’re still here.”

Y/N squeezed his hand.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I am.”

Brant glanced at her then, and for just a second—beneath all the theatrics, all the teasing—there was something else.

Something deep.

Something real.

And then, of course—

“WELL, I SUPPOSE I SHOULD WHISK YOU OFF INTO THE SUNSET NOW.” Brant threw an arm around her shoulders, twirling them both dramatically as they headed back toward town. “THAT’S WHAT HEROES DO, RIGHT?”

Y/N laughed, leaning into his side. “Sure, Brant. Whatever you say.”

And for the first time that night, Brant let out a breath that was truly, finally, free.

[clownfcr]

IT IS SOMETHING I LOVE

Teeny

[clownfcr]

BRANT MY LOVE CHOOSE ME PICK ME LOVE ME

[clownfcr]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ you are there, when you are not

brant & gn reader ★ inspired by the "orange peel theory" ― acts of service & words of affirmation. self-doubt. comfort fluff. reassurance. pet name “little bird”

there was always something cogently warm in the way brant took care of you. he was always scrupulous in attitude despite his vivacious and teasing nature; a love language you never knew you had until you met him at the naive age of ten.

he was the fisherman's boy and always up to no good. or so... many townsfolk would spout at you. something along the lines of: "stay away from that pesky, little thing! always causing trouble. tsk tsk. you wish you had!" or "he's a bad omen, i'm telling you! i didn't get a single germinate this winter"

of course, like any other ordinary person, they would probably avoid someone like this. and you tried to for a while until he made that impossible for you. but you weren't like them, and brant was careful to remind you this every single day of your life.

you noticed you had not seen brant out in town today causing trouble. which was, quite frankly, a little odd considering he was like the rooster of the brood. so you decided to head over to his place and that was were you found him, feeling a bit under the weather.

"what did you have for breakfast?"

just like all the locutions you kept hidden underneath that timid nature of yours, brant was sharp in memorising practically everything about you. he prided himself on that by saying he was a "[name] connoisseur"; the type of childish jest you'd expect from a five year old... yet, somehow, it made you blush with newfound passion every single time he acted like that.

he was preparing a fruit bowl after asking you this, and you tell him you just had a simple bowl of chili sauce tofu with some green tea a few hours ago. he knows just how much you dislike eating fruit, but he still offered you the chance to surprise him anyway by saying yes.

"oh-- you don't have to. actually, 'm not that hungry. i'll have a snack later." you say with a nod, a small smile gracing your face as he rinses an orange underneath the kitchen's tap.

honestly, the real reason you declined his offer was because you didn't want to make him do more than he had to. he already looked a little aloof for reasons you weren't aware of. so the last thing you wanted to do was force him into doing something he didn't want to do; which was ridiculous considering he offered you first.

but he then determinedly responds with, "was that a yes? great. i'm going to make you one as well", with the dimple on the right side of his cheek curving inward.

your stomach tenses up. "ah... are you sure? you don't have to. i can do it myself." you gesture clumsily at him with your hands, but all he does is chuckle while you subconsciously make your way over to one of the bar stools underneath the kitchen island. he pulls it out for you when you sit down, and then places a kiss against the corner of your eye that has you blinking the blurriness out of it in confusion.

he tips his hat, "i insist, your needy one."

you roll your eyes at that comment, a slight snort escaping your lips as you feel your shoulders relax a little now.

"i know you can do it yourself my love, but that's not the point. just like waking up in the morning or commuting home; i know you can do that all by yourself, yet i want to do it for you. it makes me feel good." his sentence ends with a little hum as he prepares the other fruit. the ruffles at the ends of his sleeves catches against the sunlight and you feel your heart thump loudly against your ribcage.

you then brought up the fact that he didn't come to collect you the other week because he was too tired, and you didn't mind it one bit.

"i know about that, and i felt awful."

"it's okay once in a while. i can manage mys-"

"i don't care. i should bring you home no matter the circumstance. i felt terrible and i shouldn't have treated you that way."

you lay the underside of your forearms against the kitchen island, feeling the cold surface of the marble sink into your skin. you sit in silence, not sure what to say.

"i love all the things you do for me bu-"

he cuts you off once again, shaking his head with a chuckle as he juices the fruits with his hands, twisting and turning, sleeves rolled up to his elbows now. he then looks over at you, his smile reaching his eyes, "i know i don't have to, but i want to. it makes me happy to do these things for you. you make me want to do all these things. i love you."

even from a distance, you didn't know hearing those words would be so relieving. it's not like anything prompted your anxiety either; that's just how you were with him- well... more like with anything and everything in general. to own the title of "worry wort" was an understatement, but brant made it seem like such a small obstacle set out in front of you. it was like he was always watching you from a distance, even when he wasn't around.

but it didn't feel like you were being watched in a bad way, that he would simply correct your behaviour because of etiquette. it was more like... out of care and love.

feeling like not being enough for someone as compassionate as him always lingered on your mind whenever he did the bare minimum though. he'd reassure you by saying you already gave him more than anyone else had ever in his life, and that he is extremely grateful for you. he puts you on such a high pedestal every single time he whispers sweet words like "thank you for being mine", and always leaving his mark against your temple.

this was why he always knew how to bring you back up to the surface time and time again. and you loved him so much that it made you cry.

your eyebrows crease a little, unable to hold eye contact with him as you turn away. your leg bounces under the island. his eyebrows raise slightly as he witnesses your cute and blushing form but decides not to comment on it.

"how are you feeling, by the way?" you perk up, watching the leaves sway outside the window against the gentle breeze of autumn.

"i was feeling blue?" he jests lively as he shakes water off his hands in the sink.

"i-- well, i mean... i didn't assume or any-"

"it's because my little bird is here, keeping me company."

you tilt your head at that, slow on getting the innuendo. brant then feels adorable rage seep over him, compelling him to wipe his hands on a dish cloth and walk over to you.

"i feel better because i get to spend time with my favourite person in the whole entire world."

LOVEAXIOM 2025 ★ this work belongs to me

[clownfcr]

thoughts on brant trailer??:3

lemons — brant

summary. what kind of sailor gets seasick? fortunately for you, captian brant has all the homemade remedies available.

note. nvuy back for 1 day and then will go on another indefinite hiatus. i got brant. if you can’t tell. i also liked the trailer.

warnings. gets a bit steamy at the end, ur both a bit tipsy, brant has a massive fucking crush on you, he calls you beautiful, mentions of vomit & nausea.

“You’re a riot, y’know?”

You glance up weakly from the edge of the ship with blurred vision. The wind kisses the salt staining your cheeks, and it almost burns your flesh. You make a lousy attempt at scrubbing your eyes, but that only makes them sting even more.

Captain Brant sways unsteadily before he kneels beside you. He’s holding a lemon in one hand, and a towel in the other. It’s soaked with cold water, and he presses it against one of your cheeks to wipe away the filth before you take it gingerly and bury your nose into the cold.

There’s the shifting of feet from somewhere behind. There’s a few of the Troupe singing and laughing, and they dance around a small fire crafted in the centre. They had to watch it carefully less Lario grew frightened, but it seemed the Echo was content for the moment.

There’s brandy and other liquor littering the floor, and the spillages will be a pain to scrub off the decking tomorrow. The Troupe seem to be getting along just fine. Typically, they’re all fighting and arguing, but you suppose they’ve decided to play nice for once.

It also helps that everyone is completely smashed.

You haven’t gotten to that point considering it was making you feel sick, but you most definitely were not thinking straight.

It is Tina’s birthday tonight, after all, and the crew threw together a small surprise party. She’d been upset initially having to be stuck out at sea for her special day, but the crew had made sure to accomodate. Leo and Mosi seem to be arguing over egg and milk pricing.

You know that because you can’t ignore how loud they’re talking.

He whistles along to tune playing in the background while he brandishes a small knife and slowly cuts at the skin of the fruit. He seems distant for a moment, his eyes transfixed on the waves for far to long before he realises his blade is cutting too close to pressing into his palm.

He pulls away from his thoughts with a snicker. “I mean… what kind of sailor gets seasick?”

You pull the towel away from your face and try your best to ignore the churning in your stomach. You hold your breath, though it only provides temporary relief before you instinctively lean over towards the railing again. You breathe through your teeth, sucking in sharp passes of air as you try to steady the pain.

The captain hums worriedly. “It’s not even rocky tonight.” He reaches forward to rest the back of his palm against your forehead. “I’ve told Lario to slow down… We can bank tomorrow morning so you can get some fresh air on solid ground, if you’d like?”

Guilt stirs in your stomachs.

You shake your head. “I can…” You attempt to move away from the railing, and Brant’s hands slide beneath your arms to steady you. “I can do it.”

As soon as you attempt to move, your fingers tense around the bars and you feel saliva filling your mouth. You drop the towel and he catches it before it flies off into the sea. There’s a strike of fear that zips up your spine, and Brant’s hands fly to pull your hair away from your face. He makes sure to brush aside strands that stick to your skin with the cold sweat clinging harshly beneath your clothes.

Lario—poor thing—makes an agitated nose from just ahead. You really don’t want to traumatise the poor creature anymore than you already had. For that, your heart heaves with worry and your eyes fill with tears again.

After a moment of panicked breathing, your stomach settles. Brant presses the cold towel on the nape of your neck. It’s soothing enough for your dizziness, but it does little to quell the nausea in your stomach.

“Uh, no.” He presents you with a thin lemon slice in his palm. “Suck on it.”

You blink at the fruit. Your teeth grit after a moment. The thought of trying to eat anything made you dizzy.

“It’ll help your stomach,” he explains. He then cuts another slice. “Here, I’ll do it, too.” He pops the entire thing, skin and all, into his mouth.

He chews it for a moment and nods. His lips pull to the left as if he’s considering the flavour. “Not bad, actually.”

“Yeah?” you ask weakly.

“Y–” His face scrunches up. He reels back and fans at his lips as if it will solve the problem before he covers his mouth with the back of his palm. His eyes squeeze shut as he struggles for a moment before he draws his hand away and blinks. His mouth opens and he sucks his lips through his teeth.

You sit back away from the railing. “Nice?”

Brant muffles a hiccup and points to the slice he handed to you. “You should try.”

Your stomach turns as you stare down at it. Your bottom lip trembles before you suck in a sharp breath and pop the entire slice into your mouth. You don’t move your tongue for a moment, letting it sit there as it creeps quickly over the tastebuds, and your mouth instantly twists at the sourness that floods your mouth.

Brant laughs when you finally recover and muster the strength to lie back on the deck. Your hands move to clasp over your stomach. He sidles up next to you on his side with his cheek resting on his knuckles.

You’re used to the stars by now. You’ve been out at sea for so long the days blur together in some long winded tale you’ll tell the children when you’re old and senile—if you even make it to that stage.

Captain Brant, however, has consistently kept you awake some nights by knocking at your door incessantly until you begrudgingly join him on the crow’s nest. He’s made it his mission to try and teach you the constellations that recur in a loop, and so far, no luck. You’ve been too tired to bother remembering what he says.

Still, he hasn’t stopped trying.

You’re not sure why.

Nonetheless, if some Tacet Discord doesn't kill you in the next ten years, your lack of sleep will certainly catch up to you.

“So…”

You glance to the side.

“If you’re feeling up to it anytime soon…” he starts smoothly, and his other arm crawls forward to mimic two legs strutting on the wooden flooring. “Would you… want to dance? Maybe?”

“Oh.” There a twinge of a bitter scent on the wind, and your nose twitches. You swallow as best you can. “I don’t, uh…” You glance back up at the night sky. “I don’t dance.”

He sits up. “What?!” The scent is stronger now that he leans over you. He’s practically bouncing up and down with excitement. “Everyone dances!”

“Well, not me,” you try awkwardly.

“Yes, you!”

Oh.

He’s drunk. Bad.

He sways on his feet and giggles as he stares back at the crowd. He pulls himself up onto his knees before his hands clasp yours gently.

And then, he all but tugs you onto your feet. It’s a whip of wind and a curl of your stomach that has you stumbling face first into him. Your nose squashes against his neck and you heave.

Your feet stumble over each other before stamping on his own in an attempt to steady yourself. You make some sort of noise of protest, but it’s quickly covered by your lips snapping shut. Your stomach twists as you straighten up.

“See?”

Your arms grasp shakily at his sleeves and your legs tremble. “I think I’m going to–”

“It’s easy!”

And then he tosses you.

He quite literally twirls you around before launching you towards the circle in the middle. You trample and almost knock the wind out of Rossini who topples over. He giggles stupidly before you’re whisked away quickly by the birthday girl herself.

You let out some embarrassing bleat as she drags your feet.

She’s still beautiful despite the sun being hard on her skin, and the permanent lines around her lips crease as she grins at you. “Havin’ fun?”

“I–” You’re certain your skin must be green. There's a hot flush banking up your neck.

She notices.

“Oh, darling, you don’t look too hot.”

You pull away from her only seconds later. In her drunken stupor, she immediately forgets about you as Leo spins her into the ring with bare feet.

You beeline to the hull where it’s quieter and you can vomit over the edge in peace.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

You are then grabbed by the collar and dragged back. This time, you almost do hurl onto the floor, but you manage to hold back.

It’s Captain Brant. Again.

You are trembling by this point with your fists clutched at your stomach to try and soothe the pain. There are tears prickling your eyelids as you try to fight from his hold.

You skid and trip around his feet for a moment before his grip loosens enough for you to pull away. You frantically shake your head when he tries to pull you back by your shirt.

It’s as if his brain shifts back to normal in that split second, for he lets out a frantic, “oh!” before he escorts you towards the edge of the ship.

“Fuck you,” you slur, leaning over the rail.

Brant doesn’t seem to hear you. His hand pets your hair while the other keeps a firm grip on your shirt less the ship jumps and you flip overboard.

“Sorry, beautiful.”

“Eat shit,” you spit back.

You do forgive him, though.

Your stomach settles after a while. Maybe it's because of the lemon slice.

You think he’s aware of this, because he squishes his cheek next to yours. “How about we take you to bed?”

“But it's Tina’s birthday,” you try.

“I think she’ll understand if you’re not feeling well,” he tells you softly. “C’mon. I’ll carry you.”

“No, thank you.”

Brant has already peeled you away from the edge of the ship and peers left and right to find where the birthday girl is. He ushers you gingerly towards one of the doors leading beneath the hull to the sleeping quarters.

He seems to spot her at some point, for he waves dramatically to catch her attention.

She waves back after spotting him.

He cups his mouth with his hand so she can hear him over the music before he practically yells above the crew.

“I’m taking off!” He holds you tight with one hand to keep you standing while he points at your head. “Gotta get this one to bed.”

She turns with a swish of her skirt and a hand on her hip. Somebody else who picks up on the conversation whistles. “Don’t have too much fun.”

You weakly limp towards the door and do your best to open it. Brant comes from behind to pull it the rest of the way. You mumble your gratitude before slinking through. The hall is tiny; definitely not wide enough for two people to descend the steps together, so Brant keeps a steady hand on your back as you slowly make your way down.

You hold the handrail tight and try to steady your breathing. You stop a few times, both of which you try not to keel over, and Brant keeps a steady hold on your shirt. His other hand moves to your shoulder and instinctively, your fingers search for his.

“Hey, I appreciate it, beautiful,” he whispers close. “But hold onto the rail. I’m still drunk.” You smell the liquor waft behind your ear.

Eventually, you make it down. You make an effort to steer left towards your room, but Brant pulls you right, further away.

You assume he’s taking you to the medical wing to lay down there as it’s typically cooler and has supplies, but you’re guided past the room and towards the Captain’s Quarters.

You make a noise of confusion, as he reaches behind you and opens the door before ushering you inside and shutting it behind him gently.

His quarters are better than the rooms the rest of the crew is provided with, but that’s to be expected. It’s not much bigger in terms of space, but the bed is double the size of yours, and he has a small private bathroom tucked away in the corner.

“I figured it would be easier for you if you had a more accessible toilet,” he murmurs. He’s already leaning over the bed and shucking off his boots. He kicks them into a corner before he sits on the bed and covers his eyes and groans.

You hobble over and sit next to him.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

He hums an acknowledgement before wiping at his face and patting his lap. You offer him a puzzled look before he sighs and sweeps under your ankle and pulls your leg up to rest on his thighs.

Then, sluggishly, he unlaces your boots. You mutter some sort of protest, but it’s garbled and weak. He waves you off before repeating the shaky and slow gesture on your other shoe. You’re too embarrassed to let him slip them off your feet, so you do that yourself. You set them down neatly close to his which are jumbled and upside down.

“I don’t have any clothes that’ll fit you. What a shame! But you’re welcome to sleep naked,” he slurs. There’s a cheeky smile playing at his lips as he stands from the bed. He teeters for a moment as the ship rocks, and your stomach churns.

You lay back on the covers in an attempt to steel your nausea.

Brant drunkenly crawls on top of you and you sigh.

“That wasn’t an invitation,” you tell him while scrubbing at your burning eyes. When he doesn’t answer, you clear your throat. “You… okay?”

“Mhm,” he grins. He’s too busy ogling to elaborate, and his pupils dilate. His head tilts as he teases, “just admiring.”

You blink sluggishly and his grin softens. “You’re drunk.”

“Just a little.”

He leans down and presses his lips to the side of your nose and he lingers there for a moment. Maybe too long, as he feels your face heating up against his, but he’s too wasted to register it. Instead, his mouth drags to your cheekbone, and his top lip brushes against the bottom lid of your eye.

Dizziness surges as he decides sinking his teeth into the side of your neck is the best thing to do. He’s quick to move his head and latch onto your skin with his canines, and you bark out a yelp of his name.

Your neck burns as the blood rushes to your face, and you try your damndest to push him off. His teeth sink, and his lips kiss anywhere they can touch. One, two, three times, four— and it is so quick you are sure if you were standing up you would’ve fallen over on buckled knees.

Do you get it yet?

“Captain,” you warn as he gently unlaces the front of your shirt and inches the cotton down over your left shoulder. You’re not sure if it’s nausea or anxiety that flits in your stomach. Your heart kicks hard against your chest, and he can very well feel it pulsing with his hand beneath your throat.

He hums curiously.

He’s left another mark before his lips wander upwards towards your throat and his tongue presses into your pulse.

Brant leaves a final lingering kiss to your other cheek, and it takes him a long while to finally crawl off you.

There’s a frown on his face despite how pink his skin has tinged. He hunches over for a moment.

You sit up, flustered. Your breathing remains laboured.

“I need to puke,” he buzzes quietly.

“Oh…” Right. You do your best to steady your heart.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked if you need it,” he utters as he stumbles towards the small room. “If you need it…” He lets out a strangled guffaw as he pulls off his top. “We can have a romantic mutual puking session.”

You glance to the left as he bumps into the doorframe. “Gross.”

“You love me,” he reminds before he blows you a kiss and closes the door behind him.

To his credit, you did not hear it lock.

To his credit as well, you also consider taking off your top. He’s already done half of the work for you, anyway.

[clownfcr]

AMAZING

His siren

Brant x f!siren!reader (spicy but not full nsfw) Wuwa

Evening! This was the top voted prompt from the poll sorry it took so long I had many tests to take and study for 🫠

I’m so ready to pull for him omgggg

Preview: he continued, “I must believe it to be true, as I can’t stop thinking about whether you feel soft to hold, to kiss…”

Scales shimmered in the moonlight, jingling on a rope from the rhythm of waves that jostled the ship. “Siren” scales, so the old man that sold them claimed to the curious sailor. They were so enchanting where they hung in the corner of a large bay window in Brant’s quarters. The light reflected off them, casting the scale’s color along the walls and other items that captured his interest. A myth, he told himself, but ended up paying for the trinket anyway. Sometimes he could swear a certain jostle would cause the scales to create a melody as they touched. The sounds would return in his dreams, so much so that the urge to search for this “myth” became too much. It wouldn’t hurt to look, as the sea often hid many secrets. Glancing again at the scales, drink in hand, he thought of an idea. If he wanted to find something in the sea, he’d have to offer something in return.

You cursed as you stared at your reflection from atop the rock. The waves weren’t the best source of a mirror, but you could still tell where the healing wound was on your beautiful but not so flawless anymore tail. You were missing more than seven scales. Seven! They took ages to grow back, and they were missing all in one spot from a fisherman’s spear throw that happened to strike true. The embarrassment you felt was huge, although there were no other sirens around to make fun of you for it. The worst part was that you couldn’t find your missing scales. You liked to keep them, make jewelry from your own beauty by putting it in your hair, on your ears, or to your breast coverings, but after scraping the sea floor and coming up empty handed, you gave up on looking.

It frustrated you. Clearly you underestimated the old man’s sight as you swam closer than usual under a boat. You guess he had seen your shadow and immediately thrown his weapon. It hurt of course, and you panicked, swimming quickly downward and out of sight, bleeding from your tail as seven precious scales floated up to the surface.

Sighing, you turned away from the water, resting your head on your palm. The air was nice, something you couldn’t feel under water. The small retractable gills under your jaw helped filter oxygen through water, but having another set of lungs allowed you to breathe air like a human above the sea. Often you’d think about the human’s and their activities on the ocean. Pirates were the most interesting to you. You’d heard that in the distant past, pirates used to hunt for your kind, keeping them as treasures among their hoards of wealth. Crazy as it might have sounded, you were curious about their treasures. Pirates seemed to have the same taste in all things that glittered under the sun as you did. Would it be so bad to be a pirate’s beloved treasure that they tended to be so possessive over?

In exploring the shipwrecks that had sunken to the depths, you always found the captain, clad in gold and shimmering gems that were still in those skeletal hands. They all seemed to love their treasure, dying covered in it with their ship. A fascinating attachment to their material things you thought. Some even had gems embedded in their teeth, many of those teeth hanging around your neck as decor now.

Your fingers ran over the sensitive barred flesh where your scales were missing, annoyed at the absence of the hard sheen that coated the entirety of your tail. The beautiful fins attached to your back and tail end flopped on the rock, much like an annoyed cat thumped its own tail on the ground to let it be known they were frustrated.

What could you do to lift your spirits? Spirits?…drinks…Sometimes when rummaging through sunken pirate treasure, you’d find closely sealed bottles that hadn’t broken under the pressure of the water, containing some dark colored liquid that made you feel hot and funny. You really liked those when you drank them on your rock, and since they were pretty hard to find, you usually kept them for rare occasions. This seemed like a very important occasion you reasoned with yourself, and quickly retreated back into the depths to gather a bottle to bring back up.

After several minutes of turning your fingers red trying to get the damn cork off, the bottle popped, little drops of the liquid flying out. The tang of it hit your tongue nicely, and soon the bottle was almost gone. You kind of forgot about your scale dilemma, singing to yourself your favorite songs that the sea had taught you.

In the middle of your one siren performance, you heard a familiar chime. It was too distant to come from your own scale made trinkets, but you knew the sound well. They were yours. Shaking your head from the heat of the drink, you set down the now empty bottle haphazardly. You were going to get those scales back. The sound of your body crashing into the water was muffled by the waves bashing up on cliffs and rocks, your water dynamic form cruising through the deep. You could hear the sounds underwater, the uncanny magic of your own scales calling out to you. There, they were hanging from a string above a ship. Swimming closer to the surface, you noticed other shimmering items beside your scales, glittering like the gold and jewels found on pirate captain remains. Your eyes gleamed with want, so quickly you dive deep before dashing upward with your tail, preparing to make the leap above.

Brant wasn’t planning on making contact with a siren, even seeing the shadow of one drawn by the sound of what was hopefully its scales would be enough to satiate his curiosity. The last thing he wanted to do was take a mythical creature captive for his own gain. Holding out the scales on a string, he let the wind do its work, moving the shards against each other to create the sound that haunted his dreams. The myths seemed to lead him to believe that siren’s were quite possessive over their things, often vain with carefully put together visages to attract sailors. Brant didn’t know if it was true, all he knew was that the song enchanted him, though no voice came from the scales.

Looking down in the waters, he saw it, a human-fish like shadow that moved fluidly. It disappeared just as quickly, retreating to the depths. A smile spread on his face, and his hand almost went to drop the scales, returning them to their owner, but before his fingers could fully loosen, a giant splash of water came from below. The sound prompted him to look quickly, quickly enough to see you, a beautiful real creature coming up to him, eyes locked with the string that had the same colors as your tail. Your momentum sent you tumbling into his, your giant tail over his legs with you on top of his chest.

The human’s chest had a very strange mark along it, and touching it let your fingers feel a bit of a hum, like the sensation of a current. The skin was soft and warm, but what attracted you most were the sparkling trinkets adorning him. There were shining circles that punctured his ears, and a big square like piece on his waist. Your hands went to fiddle with it, to which the man made an embarrassed yelp, trying to slide away. The weight of you on top held him down, your tail a bigger weight due to your years in the sea. Before you messed with it more, you heard a slight clink on the deck right beside his shoulders. Quickly your hand shot out to grab the string of scales, your scales.

“Beautiful siren, do you speak?” The human man below you voiced, a wide incredulous smile gracing his handsome features, like this encounter was the most magical thing that ever happened to him. Holding your scales close, you eyed him up and down narrowly. This man was not the one that attacked you, so how did he have them? In the end, you thought, it didn’t matter as long as you got them back. Your movements caused the many decor pieces on you to jingle, catching light on your already graceful form. His eyes sparkled, widening when you respond,

“I am familiar with many human languages.” You brought your hands up, adjusting your wet hair now that you were above water. When he looked as if to carry a conversation, you turned sharply, hearing whispers. The pirate under you was cautious, telling the crewman and others who were attracted to the strange sight to back up as you sat there unhappy at the people interrupting your time with your handsome new fascination. A short girl with pink and violet hair shooed the crowd away with the help of a box, knowing a creature like you probably didn’t want that kind of distraction when you were focused on the thing, or man, of your interest. Mythical creatures deserved respect. The annoyance faded quickly, as your attention returned to the man you had below you. Leaning down, your chests touched as your hand fidgeted with one of his earrings. “Do you have many of these shining things? I want to see them.”

“Yes, our fool’s troupe has many wonders! I…never expected they would grace the sight of a mythical siren. Captain Brant at your service miss…” He paused, allowing you to tell your name. you told him, the origin sounding foreign to the rinascitan man. The captain seemed theatrical, a fiery personality that you hoped kept some shiny treasures. Your hand left his earring to reach for his hat, holding it up and inspecting it. You didn’t know what it was, but copied how he wore it. Brant laughed lightly in disbelief at your curious behavior, but you were getting a little impatient. You wanted to see the hoards of pirate treasure that must have been stowed away somewhere.

As Brant sat up carefully, you threw your arms over him, causing him to steady you both a little awkwardly, one of his hands supporting your side. His warmth was very attractive to you, a contrast to the waters that were often very cold where there wasn’t much sun. “Do siren’s drink?” The captain sounded surprised, the smell of alcohol defined now that you were so close. You couldn’t tell what he meant, too focused on the strange anatomy of the man below you, and how his warm hand felt on your hip.

The gills on your neck had retracted into your skin to suit your lungs breathing in oxygen outside of water. Brant’s clothes were soaked, sticking to him from where you landed on him, which was almost his whole body. Accounting for tail length, you would have beaten his height by many inches if you laid side by side to compare. Brant took a breath before speaking to let you know he was going to lift you up. “Alright, let’s get you up then.”

Brant adjusted his hand on your waist, the other hand coming under your tail to position you more in his lap. With your arms around him as added support, he lifted you up before using his long legs to get a stance on the deck. Your shimmering tail hang low with the lustrous fins almost touching the wood deck, but the pirate captain made it seem like no big deal. His expression was curious, the texture of your tail certainly something new to him. The hat on your head was still secure as he walked down stairs in the giant ship, briefly pausing to put his back to the doors to his quarters.

The smell of the sea was still present even in the room. Jeweled trinkets hung from different places, and different vases had gold almost woven into the ceramic. There were chests, open and full of necklaces and fabrics. Closest to you, was a little moving creature. It looked like the other ceramic things, but it was filled with water, and gave a little bark like an animal when you were carried in.

“I figured you can’t be out of water too long, so I had one of my crewmates bring a tubpup down full of seawater. You don’t mind if I set you in it do you?”

You nodded, still taking in the different aspects of the room, eyes landing on the bed like structure covered in intricately designed pillows and metalwork of the frame. You also noticed several bottles laying around, asking, “are those bottles that have the dark liquid? They make you feel warm.” Brant glanced at them as he lowered you into the water, hands slipping away from you.

“So you do drink wine! Where would you get things like that in the sea?”

“Many sunken ships have tightly sealed chests which have ‘wine, and they are quite good, although the pressure makes most of them break, making them a rare find.” Watching closely, your eyes followed Brant’s movements to grab two glass cups and the bottle of what you now knew as wine. He brought them over, setting them down before pulling a chest full of gems over. Your finger went in quickly, pulling out a handful of sparkly things. A jeweled necklace with rubies like his eyes, earrings that were wire wrapped around polished peridot gems, and a silver cup with embedded citrine gemstones.

Coins fell from your handfull into the tub, metal reflecting off your scales while Brant poured the dark wine into the two glasses. The shimmer caught Brant’s eyes, and he moved closer to look. Your tail hung out of the tub a bit, too long for the whole tub to fit, but it wasn’t uncomfortable for you. His eyes sparkled with curiosity about your scales, the glistening seeming to entrance him the same way when he had your string of scales. Handing you a glass full of your favorite drink, he took a sip of his own and rested his arm on the top of the tub, simply looking at your tail and uniquely strung together jewelry. The seven missing scales were tied to a string you wore, probably to be taken off later for some other purpose.

His hat was still on your head, so he figured you quite liked it. Your cup was empty before he could fully take you in, and you handed it to him for him to fill it again, your lower fins moving contently under the water in the tub. After handing you a second glass, the captain asked softly, “would it be intruding to ask your permission to touch your tail?”

Lifting much of your tail out of the water, you let the larger fins and scaled parts land practically in his hands, making him have to move his glass away so as to not drop it from the sudden weight. The iridescence was fascinating, and the rays from outside cast an ethereal glow on your already luminous form. His calloused hands ran over your scales gently, fingers tracing the pattern they made to protect the flesh beneath. Tilting the glass all the way up, you downed your second large glass, small murmurs coming from your throat.

“Captain Brant, do you sing well?” You sighed out, fins flexing and moving in his grasp. Gently putting your tail back in the tub, he drank the rest of his own share, fingers wiping a stray drop from his lip to answer, “I have my fair share of practice in it. Being on the sea would be a little dull without a song wouldn’t it? I enjoyed the song your scales sang to me particularly before I returned them if I could be so honest.”

“Mm yes, what folk songs do you know that pirates sing? I have never heard any before.” You watched him down a third glass before standing, bowing and turning his back to you. Suddenly he broke out into character, recounting a story he had heard, which then turned into a folk tale you began to quickly like. His theatrical voice and playful tone had you smiling and raising another glass to his wild whimsy. The wine had made you both tipsy, you giving a little hiccup as you started singing the chorus with him after hearing him sing it before.

The behavior was wild and full of merry joy, Brant decorating you with more jewels like a character he described in another story. The festive bonding between the siren and pirate captain lasted for an hour or two more, until you both sang yourselves to near sundown. Being the treasure of a pirate was the best, you thought as you nearly fell out of the tub, your head swimming from the wine. Brant was on the floor beside it laying over soft fabrics, clothes still damp. Adjusting the hat on your head, you climbed over, falling onto him with the rest of your tail landing with a thump on the floor. Your head sought to bury itself into his neck as your hands searched for warmth from his body.

Brant grunted, cheeks flushed from wine and the proximity you shared. His words slurred as he spoke, “beautiful siren, is it true you can enchant sailors to fall in love at first sight?”

Pulling back to peer down at him, you noticed with the boldness the wine gave you how kissable a pirate looked. His lips were wet, and his mouth slightly parted, chest rising heavily as he looked up at your form. “I…” he continued, “I must believe it to be true, as I can’t stop thinking about whether you feel soft to hold, to kiss…”

His eyes were sparkling, holding adventure and a desire for things unknown to him, like the woman above him. Sitting forward from his flat down position with you on him, he tilted his face up, his hands coming where you guided them, up the small of your back and below your shoulder blades. With slow, teasing motions, you peeled the billowy shirt and jacket down, revealing glistening skin where the water hadn’t dried from your encounter.

“I have no such magic, captain…” you whispered back in a subtle tone, encouraging him to keep going. Your hands lightly ran over the black mark over his chest, feeling the hum it made as well as the fast beating heart underneath. He sighed, pleased at how your hand danced on his skin, coming up to tilt his jaw. His eyes open briefly to catch you smiling, before pulling you closer, closing the distance between you. Those lips were indeed soft, warm as every part of him was.

Pushing him back down, you used the movement to open his mouth, allowing your kiss to turn heated. The tang of wine hit you as your tongues met, Brant giving a small whimper like grunt beneath you. His hat had fallen off the the side, forgotten in your desire for more of him. It felt strange, to want something other than shiny things and trinkets. A siren and a pirate intertwined on the floor. His hand was feather light along your curves, gentle and careful in his caresses, dipping down to your side to feel the scales again.

“Brant…” you whispered against his lips, words slurred by the burning heat of the wine in your bodies. His eyes glimmered when his name fell from your mouth, fingers twitching at the syllables. His breath was hot, lips pressing into your neck, jingling the jewels and strings of gold and silver. Time passed slow, and you were sure you’d come to find other treasures he was hiding besides gems and pearls, helping him sing in other ways. Being with a pirate didn’t sound too bad.

[clownfcr]

Finally some good fucking food

i was the one who requested hurt/comfort Brant fic. THANK YOU FOR GRANTING MY REQUEST&FEEDING MY DELULU(≧ᗜ≦) (sorry for bad english huhu T^T)

And I'm here for requesting again! Wdyt abt Brant take care over his spouse who's got very very very drunk, but his spouse who's usually calm&quiet now becomes all flirty and touchy here&there (giving him ton of kisses on his face)? And Brant's response? He's become a COMPLETELY BLUSHING MESS! Head empty bcs how clingy and affectionate she became!

But if you have another scenario let's go with yours! I just wanna see him nervous with red face honestly (sorry /j). That's all! Thank you again pookie! May your Brant&his weapon come early♡!

TOMORROW, OUR BOY WILL FINALLY HAVE HIS BANNER

I wish you and all Brant wanters, Aventurines luck. All brant wanters will be brant havers 😌🤍

_____

Drunk on Love

The fires in Fool’s Elysium burned bright, casting flickering gold across the cavern walls as the Troupe of Fools celebrated another successful performance. The air was thick with laughter, the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine swirling between the revelers, and Brant was, as usual, at the center of it all.

“And then, as the guards closed in, I told them, ‘Ah, but gentlemen, surely you wouldn’t lay hands on a humble man of the arts!’” Brant spun dramatically, arms flaring out. “And just as they hesitated—boom! Gone in a puff of smoke!”

The crowd around him erupted in laughter and cheers, toasting his theatrics. Brant grinned, preening under the attention—until something, or rather someone, latched onto him from behind.

Warm arms wrapped around his waist, a face pressed into his back, and a voice—soft but undeniably intoxicated—murmured, “Brant.”

He barely had time to react before Y/N, usually so calm and composed, turned him around and clung to him.

Brant blinked. “Oh.”

Y/N was flushed, her expression dreamily affectionate, her grip firm as she buried her face against his chest.

“…Oh,” Brant repeated, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

He tilted her chin up, gazing down at her with playful curiosity. “Darling, you look like you’ve had quite the generous helping of wine. Enjoying yourself, are we?”

She pouted. “Mmhmm. But you—” She poked his chest. “You talk too much.”

Brant gasped theatrically. “Me? Talk too much? Impossible.”

Y/N squinted at him like she was trying to solve a great mystery, then sighed dramatically. “You’re so pretty,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Not fair.”

Brant chuckled. “I can’t say I disagree—”

Before he could finish, she cupped his face and kissed his cheek.

Brant’s brain stuttered.

The surrounding Fools whistled and hooted, but Brant barely heard them. He was too busy trying to process the fact that Y/N—reserved, steady, unshakable Y/N—was pressing soft, lingering kisses along his jaw, moving dangerously close to his mouth.

He stiffened, heat rushing to his face. “Y-Y/N—”

Another kiss, this time right at the corner of his lips.

Brant squeaked.

His usual charm crumbled. He, Brant—smooth talker, silver-tongued rogue, shameless flirt—was suddenly incapable of forming a coherent sentence.

“Alright, alright, I think someone needs a little fresh air,” he managed, voice pitched slightly higher than usual.

Without waiting for her response, he swept her into his arms, ignoring the smug looks and snickers from the others as he carried her toward his quarters.

Y/N only hummed contentedly, resting her head against his shoulder. “You smell nice.”

Brant stumbled.

The journey through the winding tunnels of Fool’s Elysium had never felt so long. By the time he reached his private space—an alcove filled with scattered notes, fabrics, and an absurd number of pillows—his heart was pounding.

He set her down gently, exhaling. “Alright, darling, let’s get you settled—”

But Y/N didn’t let go.

Instead, she tugged him down with surprising strength, pulling him onto the cushions beside her.

Brant let out a very ungraceful sound as he landed, his back hitting the soft bedding, and before he could react, Y/N straddled his lap.

Brant stopped breathing.

She leaned in, her fingers tracing his collarbone before sliding lower, over the fabric of his shirt. “You’re so handsome,” she murmured.

Brant’s brain was gone. Utterly, completely gone.

“Y-Y/N—darling, you—you’re very drunk right now,” he stammered. “I think you should rest—”

She ignored him, her fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. His breath hitched as she pushed the fabric aside, exposing the faint, intricate glow of his Tacet mark against his skin.

Y/N’s eyes widened in wonder. Gently, reverently, she traced the mark with her fingertips.

Brant whimpered.

No one ever touched his Tacet mark. It was sacred, sensitive, and yet here she was, mapping every line and swirl with delicate fingers. His entire body tensed, his skin burning under her touch.

“Y/N,” he choked out. “If you—keep doing that—I might actually die.”

She giggled. Giggled.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” she mused.

Brant let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “Oh, you are never going to let me live this down, are you?”

She beamed at him, and gods, she was beautiful.

Then she kissed his forehead.

His breath caught.

Then his nose.

His heartbeat thundered.

Then both his cheeks, her lips soft and warm, her hands cradling his face like he was something precious.

Brant shattered.

“Alright, that’s enough, you dangerous woman,” he rasped, his voice uneven. With a dramatic flourish (that was only slightly desperate), he flipped them over, pinning her beneath him.

Y/N gasped, blinking up at him with wide, hazy eyes. “Brant?”

He smirked, though his face was still bright red. “My turn.”

He leaned down—slowly, deliberately—and pressed a single, lingering kiss to her forehead.

Her breath hitched.

Then, with exaggerated care, he kissed her nose.

Her fingers curled into his shirt.

Then, finally, finally, he brushed his lips against her cheek, just barely, before pulling back with a triumphant grin.

“How’s that for theatrics, darling?” he teased.

Y/N’s face was scarlet.

Brant chuckled, pleased with himself—until she pulled him down again, burying her face against his chest with a sleepy sigh.

“Warm…” she mumbled. “Stay.”

Brant softened.

He sighed dramatically but wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin atop her head. “You are going to be the death of me,” he murmured, but there was no heat behind the words.

Y/N hummed in contentment. Within moments, her breathing slowed, her body relaxed against his, and she drifted into sleep.

Brant lay there for a long time, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

“…I am so in love with you,” he muttered to himself, utterly doomed.

And for once, the ever-charming Brant had no idea what to do about it.

Brant had been in many thrilling, perilous situations in his life—performing daring acts on stage, conning pompous nobles, escaping armed guards, even staring down the Dragon of Dirge. But nothing, nothing, had ever left him as utterly helpless as this.

Y/N was clinging to him in her sleep.

Not just loosely holding onto him—oh no—she had wrapped herself around him, arms tucked beneath his coat, face pressed against his chest, and legs tangled with his own. She was warm, impossibly warm, her breath tickling his skin as she sighed contentedly in her slumber.

Brant was losing his mind.

His face was burning, his heart hammering against his ribs like a drumbeat in a grand performance. He had tried—tried—to gently pry her off when he had first realized the situation, but the second he moved, she had whined softly and only held on tighter.

He was doomed.

With an exaggerated sigh, he flopped back onto the cot, staring at the ceiling of his little cavern home. "This is my life now," he murmured to himself, though the complaint held no real weight.

He glanced down at her, a fond smile tugging at his lips despite his still-racing heart. Her expression was so peaceful, so utterly at ease. It made something deep in his chest ache.

Carefully—so carefully—he let his hand move, brushing along her back in slow, comforting strokes. She sighed again, nuzzling closer. Brant bit his lip, trying to suppress the giddy, ridiculous smile threatening to spread across his face.

"Oh, you’re dangerous," he whispered, shaking his head in amused defeat. "Too dangerous."

But as much as he should be trying to escape, he… didn’t want to.

For all his theatrics, for all his flair and bravado, Brant was a man who had gone years without a true place to belong. He had always been the fool, the outcast, the man who danced on the fringes of society. Yet here she was, clinging to him like he was something precious, like he was safe.

He swallowed hard, his fingers absentmindedly tracing small circles against her back.

Maybe, just this once, he’d allow himself to believe it.

With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax.

If this was the price of taking care of her, of having her trust him enough to cling to him even in sleep…

Then he would gladly let himself be tangled in her warmth for as long as she would have him.

[clownfcr]

Brant

[clownfcr]

It would be so hilarious if you request something from me