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fili-the-jester · 6 months

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The Pirate’s Captive

Content warnings: Kidnapping/being held against your will, thoughts of torture/death, threats of killing/death, implications of/threats of mutilation, slight swearing, distress/fear from a character

Summary: Red Son is held captive by the Pirate Princess of the West Sea.

Based in: LMK AU - Of Seafarers & Tempests AU

The sound of the waves and the various sounds of the ship were the only company he had in the small room that they had so unceremoniously thrown him in.

They had him bound to a chair, and he really hoped that the circulation in his hands and feet weren't being cut off (it probably was). That would just the thing to add to this already shitty situation.

Glancing around the rather cramped room they'd put him in, he thought he saw a rat emerge from a hole before scurrying out of sight. His face scrunched up in disgust at the sight of it.

How repulsive. Of course this place would be infested with rodents.

Though, really, the sight of a rat was the least of his worries.

There were no windows to the room, nothing to give him any natural light or any indication of whether it was day or night. The only source of light he had were the two lanterns near the doorway, which seemed to be placed in holders to keep them from moving around and breaking.

How long has it been? It had been evening when they had grabbed him, how much time could have passed?

Well, not like it matters really, knowing the time wouldn't help him get off this ship and put him back at his family's estate.

Speaking of which, they would've realized he was gone by now right?

A bitter smile crossed his face at the thought. They barely noticed him when he was there. Who's the say that they would only start to notice he was missing after a week had passed. And by then, what would have become of him?

Stories of what pirates did their prisoners ran through his head like a torrent. They had been drilled into him by Nezha since the very beginning of his training.

Something about how it was better to know what could happen to you, rather to be forced into suspense of the not knowing.

Would these barbarians make him walk the plank and become the next meal of a shark or whatever else got him first. Maybe they'd tie him to the mast of their ship and leave him there for days.

Or maybe they would torture him until they get bored with him and then mount his head on a spike. Or if they couldn't find a use for him, they'll just leave him somewhere for him to slowly die, alone and far away from his home.

Or maybe, they'll just flog him. All options seemed very likely.

Though, maybe, he hoped, he would be rescued by then. Maybe someone would have realized by now that he was missing and deduced that he had be taken.

There was a pause in his running through of all the possible ways this could go horribly wrong for him.

Nezha. He would realize he was gone after he doesn't show up to training. He would show up at his family estate to scold him before then realizing that Red Son would have come out front to greet his arrival.

Only he wouldn’t be there to greet him, because he was currently tied up on a fucking ship full of barbaric idiots who served that savage Pirate King of theirs.

Once he realizes I’m gone, he’ll probably alert my parents. Unless, they somehow realize I’m gone before him.

He let out a drawn out sigh. If anyone had heard it, they may have thought it sounded annoyed.

He turned his gaze up towards the wooden ceiling. Maybe if he counted how many lines there were on the planks and whatnot it would make him feel a little less bored.

* 25 minutes later *

The sound of footsteps on the wooden floors drew his attention away from the wall beside him. It sounded like more than one person, but it was a little hard to tell.

As the door opened, it loudly creaked in a way that made Red Son wince slightly.

A woman, in her early 20s, stepped through the door, with two taller men following close behind her. How they all managed to fit into this cramped room, he wondered.

Ah, so this is the dreaded Pirate Princess of the West Sea.

He took a moment to look at her, taking in the appearance of his captor and the very woman that most people trembled at the very mention of.

She wasn't bad to look at really, if you ignore all the signs that point to her being a ruthless pirate. Her jade green eyes were piercing, yet gentle in a way he couldn't quite describe.

Funny how he would describe to any part of a pirate princess as gentle.

Out from her black hair, two horns poked up and backwards, with the light reflecting dimly off them. She must take good care of them, due to the shiny and polished look of them.

There were also several green hair streaks visible, framing her face.

I wonder if she dyed those or if its natural.

His own hair had been completely black when he was born, only for it to gain streaks of red and orange as he grew up.

A tattoo of a dragon was visible on her right arm, running up it until it disappeared under her sleeve. A mark that showed her connection to the Dragon Clan. If it weren’t for that fact, he would’ve thought the tattoo was beautiful.

Two gold hoop earrings were visible on her right ear, standing out against the ink black of her hair, and yet there was only one on her left.

He had heard that asymmetry was a common thing amongst pirates, apparently that rang true with her.

Though, what really drew his attention were the two scabbards that hung around her waist. He had heard stories of the pirate princess's twin blades, both said to be a shimmering, elegant jade that any noble would love to display and show off to their associates.

Funny, how those were the same blades that were likely used to kill, and stab, and mutilate. How strange that something described to be beautiful was also the same instrument used to end the lives of those unfortunate enough to end up on the receiving end of the pirate's bloodlust.

"So this is the esteemed son of the Demon Bull Family?"

The pirate princess's voice sounded sweet enough, it even reminded him of the tones used by noble ladies who his parents often tried to set him up with. However, underneath all that superfical "sweetness," the bitter condescension of it made him bite his own tongue as to not say something snarky in response.

"Not much to look at is he." The individual with golden horns snidely remarked, smirking down at their prisoner. "I thought nobles were supposed to be, what was it, 'put together and oh so high and mighty compared to us lowly sea wolves.'"

Red Son glared at him in response. How dare he expect him to "put together" when they had thrown him around like expendable cargo. He knew that his hair was messy and that his clothing was crumpled and wrinkled (his parents would have scolded him for looking like this), but it couldn't be helped given the circumstances!

Certainly, he still looks much better than these thieving raiders who had probably never learned an single thing about etiquette or proper protocol in their entire lives.

A bunch of lowly sea wolves indeed.

"Well I don't know," The pirate princess spoke again, this time though, she reached forward and roughly grabbed his face with her left hand, "he's still plenty pretty to look at."

He hated how she said that, how she eyed him like a piece of meat that she wanted to cook up and serve to her likely equally barbaric crew, how her nails lightly dug into his face, how she smiled down at him as if saying "I've won, and now you have to deal with it."

He subtly cleared his throat and steeled himself.

"Get your filthy hands off me."

His voice came out a little dry, likely because they hadn't given him any food or water at any point that he's been here.

"Ah, so he talks." She hummed sweetly, as if satisfied by getting a response from him.

“That’s a bit of demand you’re making, considering the situation you’re in. The fact that you even had the guts to demand such a thing of the ones who have you helpless and far from any help.”

He wanted to slap that grin off her face.

He wanted to punch her for looking so smug about this whole situation.

"What? Got nothing else to say, Red Boy?"

She turned his face from side to side before letting go, and resting one of her hands on the handle of one of her swords.

"I had heard that nobles are supposed to have quite a bit of bark to them, seems that you're the expectation. How boring."

She sneered, clearly trying to coax him into saying that would give her an excuse to humiliate him. To hurt him. Well, he wasn't biting. He wasn't about to play this ridiculous game with the filthy sea rover.

He straightened out his posture, well as best he could when his hands were awkwardly tied behind him and his legs were tied to the legs of the chair.

He gave her a look that he hoped read "I'm not talking, so why don't you fuck off." He briefly looked down at her boots, which were in a rather good condition in spite of her pirating lifestyle.

Against his own better judgment, he spit right at her feet.

Apparently, she didn't take kindly to that. Should have figured as much.

In a moment's notice, one of her swords was unsheathed and the other hand roughly grabbed at the front of his coat, forcing him to be brought closer to her.

"Trying to play something are ya?" She practically hissed at him. “Think that just cause you're the son of some spoiled blue-bloods that you're above us? Well," She brought up her sword so that it pressed lightly against his throat. “Maybe I should just let you choke on that high-born blood of yours."

His eyes widened at her words, but he tried to remain steadfast in his defiance.

The sharpness of the blade nicked at the skin of his neck, forming a small cut that while not the most painful he'd ever felt, caused his heart to race and his breathing to quicken.

He didn't want to die in such an undignified way, especially not at the hands of a pirate. If only he had his guns or one of his weapons, even a small dagger would be more than enough to ease his rising panic. Anything to make him feel like he wasn't just this helpless captive forced to toyed with for the entertainment of some cruel pirate brat.

"Uh, Captain," One of the two men, the one with silver horns this time spoke up. "I thought that we were needing this one alive."

The pirate princess paused for a few moment, almost looking as if she was considering the words of her subordinate.

The small ember of hope he had that she might actually let go when he felt the blade move away from his neck. Only for it to be doused when he felt a two firm taps on his left horn.

“Alive, yes, doesn’t mean we can’t collect a trophy or two,” The smile on her face made his skin crawl. “I know that my uncle would love to have a new addition to his collection.”

The blade slide down to the base of his left horn, sending waves of panic through him at the sensation of something sharp pressing against his skin.

Was she really going to take his horns? Surely she would wait until he was dead before doing such a thing? Though then again, to her he was just a token to be used for profit or a symbol of the society that despised her and her entire family, why should she care if it hurts him or not?

Time seemed to slow to an agonizing pace, with the blade resting at the base of his horn, the cold jade of it adding to the goosebumps that were springing up all over his body.

After what felt like hours (it had only been 30 seconds), the pirate hummed and finally let him go. As soon as that sword was no longer pressed against his head, he stopped himself just short of letting out a breath of relief.

“But, we can save that fun for later.” She eyed him or more his horns as she sheathed her sword.

“We still have a few things to do where we need you alive and intact.”

And with that, she turned to leave. The two men followed closely behind, shutting the door and locking it once more.

He waited until he heard their footsteps fade away before letting out a breath that he didn't realize he had been holding.

He slumped forward, intaking quick breaths as the panic about what could have happened lingered.

Deep breaths. In and out. In and out. Calm down.

He repeated those words like a mantra, until his breathing evened out and the tightness in his chest slowly went away.

Once he was calm enough, one thought was at the forefront of his mind.

I have to get off this ship.

#fili writes #my writing #lego monkie kid #lmk #lego monkie kid au #lmk au #lmk of seafarers and tempests au #of seafarers and tempests au #lmk ficlet #fic writing #please read the content warnings

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hitlikehammers · 1 month

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PART ONE: Fail-Pirate!Eddie/Castaway!Steve (Pirate AU)

🌊Under the Water (Our Hearts Will Dream Again)🌊

Chapter One: Man Overboard

You’ve gotta understand: the truth about Eddie?

He’s shit as a pirate. Like: an absolute disgrace. Of all the bad names associated with the trade, if trade is what it can be called?

He might just give it the worst.

So, y’know. That’s nice.

Like, he knows his knots, he is excellent with his hands thank you kindly, and he ties those motherfuckers like a pro, too! So what if he just sometimes confuses his hitch for his stopper, they’re both knots, they both do the job of knotting.

(Mostly. They only lost a boat the one time.)

(As in lost-lost, not the ones that were retrieved in time but landed Eddie on scut anyway.)

Which doesn’t touch on his absolutely abysmal record at the looting end of things. He doesn’t mind taking from the well-off, but he does mind adding it to the ship’s take every time they make land; he maybe lies about how bad he is at the stealing, the all-important plundering of the job, because he ends up finding the people outside the center of town at every port, the ones who line the edges and he drops what he takes with the ones who need it there, where they can’t escape on the water, can’t live in motion on the whims of the waves and find their needs in the flux of a life unanchored.

So he’s not the worst thief, for the right victim. But his spoils never make it back to the ship so: it probably makes him pretty shit at the job to hand, in the end, either way. Add a mark to the tally.

And then, gods: don’t get him started on the taking of…other things. Who aren’t things, they’re fucking people and they deserve respect not…what the other people sailing under his colors seem to believe them useful for instead.

Eddie’s been sick over the edge of the stern, hidden by shadow even if it’s unnecessary because fuck, the rest of the crew is full-occupied with their plundering, and that’s the reason he spews over in the sea, the waves always feeling a little extra angry for his pollution of their waters and that’s fitting. It’s fitting that he’s defiling something sacred with the weakness of his stomach—but not his soul, not his morals or his sense of humanity, fuck’s sake, so: at least there’s that.

He guesses.

Admittedly, though: Eddie doesn’t care so much that he’s a shitty fucking pirate. It’s not piracy that led him here, that charted this course for his life.

It’s the Ocean.

Which, sure, that may strike either cliche or obvious, too soft and poetic or else just downright pointless to underscore because he made a conscious choice to live at Sea, especially given the laundry list of reasons he’s absolutely abysmal at the life-on-the-water thing. But it is the truth. The best and biggest truth he’s ever known, rooted deep enough to fuel his steps and guide his path to here, right here, being exceptionally bad at luring fucking fish in a tiny little dinghy that the crew who hates him decided was perfectly fitting for the anticipated catch and okay, fine, if you were going to base expectations off of prior performance then maybe, and also, also maybe being here, ending up precisely right here—laughingstock of his profession, maligned by his crew, foisted upon barely-a-boat to catch barely-a-fish because y’know what, he’d have become a goddamn fisherman in the fucking first place if he was any good at that—but maybe right here, like this would look like failure to anyone else, to everyoneelse but, y’see—

Eddie Munson was a boy, once.

And he remembers, crystal clear, from the touch of his mother’s hand on his shoulder to the smooth slide of the menacing-but-magical looking shell, with its pointy end for tiny hands to grasp and hold to, and it’s big spiky cone of a head to hold to his own, up against his ear as his mother guided his elbow up and whispered just listen, you’ll hear the ocean tell you its secrets—and he loved the ocean, loved the feeling of the soft foam of the tide on the hidden sands far from the harbor, loved the little creatures that scuttled in and out of the water when the waves crept up, loved the hint of a big fin, maybe real or maybe just imagined something that big, that dangerous, that beautiful breaching the horizon: Eddie wanted to know all the ocean’s secrets.

And when he’d held the shell of his ear, he’d heard them: whispered close and roared fierce alike and he’d felt weightless, giddy; just just floating.

Magic, like the shell in his hands.

And it didn’t matter when his father found him years later, stumbling drunk from the tavern where he spent money they couldn’t afford, finding Eddie with the conch pressed tight to his ear, almost too small now as he’d grown but still desperate for the secrets, the sound of the waves that seemed to reach out and know when they needed to break louder, faster to drown our the shouting, to wash over the way his father had hauled him up and thrown the shell to break a window and sneered your idiot secrets, boy, there’s no ocean in that fucking shell, s’the echo of your own coward heart that you hide in, there, stupid fucking—

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, not because Eddie got knocked to the floor much like his shell, after; not because it made a kind of sense, because if the secrets of the ocean were the mirror of his heartbeat then of course they were faster and louder when his father came home drunk, sometimes he chest got sore over how his heart raced on those nights; and not because when he finally gets his feet back under him, when his father’s wood-sawing snores signal the coast is clear and he can creep out and search in the dark for his shell and find it, cracked from the spin of the handle-like bit so he just has to cradle the wide bell careful in his palm and ignore the slice of the spires into his skin, ignore it for the sake of finding, finding—

The waves. The secrets. His own heartbeat like the thunder in a storm and it doesn’t matter because if that sound is his own heart, then, then it’s like the ocean’s secrets are in his own chest, a little.

Like if the ocean had a heartbeat, there’s something of it pressed inside his own.

And for all that his father tried to whip that wonder away from him, straight out of his hands? That reality is somehow more magical. And Eddie’s been drawn to the pulsebeat of the sea—devoted, even, almost like a lovesick longing—ever since, so.

Failing at pirating, including the fishing part? Isn’t a failure.

Because he’s on the Sea. And that’s all he’s ever really wanted.

It’d help his pride if he got like, one fucking fish, though. Even a tiny one. Though they’d probably mock him worse for a minnow than for nothing so: small mercies, maybe, that he’s pulling up untouched bait.

Still he sighs, and takes a moment, rakes his gaze over the setting sun on the water—they’re far enough out now that there’s no sight of land, just the ripples nearby that smooth into pure water stretching aft and aft further out and Eddie doesn’t have a shell but if he presses his hand to his chest and over his ear at once it’s almost, almost—

He both hears and feels his pulse jump, like the secret is a warning, and he believesthat’s it’s both because it’s the only explanation for the way he turns, at that precise moment that the water moves uncannily agitated, and lifts up something weighty, a heavy shadow, and—

“Man overboard!” Eddie’s voice cracks as his hands reach for the oars and he rows before he thinks because the Ocean told him to look—and maybe it’s childish, and foolhardy, and a silly winsome fantasy he should have left behind ashore long again but…

He can’t tell if the man—because it’s a man, indeed, he can tell now that the water has calmed, and how else to explain its sudden surge to command Eddie’s attention, to call him in close and then ease the way to the waterlogged body—but Eddie can’t tell if the body moves at all save at the water’s own whim, can’t see yet if the flesh is too pale or worse, too blue, and—

“Man overboard!” he cries out with feeling, now; he’s far from the ship but not so much that no one will hear screaming if not yet discern the words and he just needs them to know, needs them to be ready, especially if it’s somehow one of their own and he just repeats it, too of his lungs, shrieks it to the sky as he reaches the man’s form, facedown in the water, and that alone seizes in Eddie’s chest—why tell him a secret if it’s only a heartbreaking one, yet he cannot, will not be picky, he will never reject the confidences of the Ocean no matter how it chooses to disclose its mysteries, even its tragedies; he curses his crewmates for the pitiful size of his little vessel, a joke upon his lacking hauls but now he has need for size and sturdiness as he reaches for the body—broad and leant further mass by the water itself and far more precious than a hundred fish for feeding and for trading, this is a life and he strains to balance the boat and heave the man aboard so not to capsize them both and leave the circumstances worse for his help—

“Man,” he manages to screech before he tumbles back, but with the man in his arms to drag along into the dinghy and he knocks his own breath a little for the fall but the man’s here, and they’re upright, and Eddie scrambles on his knees toward his new charge and he—

Should not have wasted time trying to steady his lungs, really, because this man, on his boat, dragged from the waters, he, he is—

He’s absolutely breathtaking.

Eddie gapes at him, at the play of the sunset on his soaked hair, his skin—pale, but not blue, not dead yet—he is stunning even like this, what unimaginable beauty must be possess when he’s not—

Oh hells, yes, right; he—

Eddie probably needs to fucking check if the breathtaking man is breathing, before he contributes to losing something at sea far more precious than an improperly-knotted boat.

>>>CHAPTER TWO

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