OK, so I wrote this with the thought "Can I get Reaver to beg for a woman?" And since my princess always ends up being a vanquisher, butt-kicker type girl, I wrote her in it. This is what happens when I aim to write humour. It's a bit weird, and might seem fast at times, but do try to enjoy. And review.
The first time Reaver spotted the princess, prancing about the garden with a young boy in tow, he felt very much the same way he did whenever he saw a fine specimen: magical. His heart pumped eagerly, the adrenaline flooding him in anticipation of a hunt - followed by another activity just as beloved by animals everywhere but a bit more strenuous. His lips curved in an attractive smirk. His eyes narrowed, his pupils dilated. It was all so pure and mushy he sometimes fancied the feeling to be love. A love comprised of a great deal of sweat and skin, accompanied later by a blasé dismissal, but love nevertheless.
Yes, she was young - six, if her mother's affectionate prattling was to be believed - but new experiences were nothing if not oh, so delectable to Reaver. And in the spirit of trying new things, Reaver had asked for her first. As opposed to his usual 1-2 step process of sweeping one off their feet and plundering them into oblivion.
"Over my dead body," the Queen said resolutely, punctuating it with a firm stroke to her daughter's dog's back. The mangy thing squirmed in her lap.
Reaver bit back a sneer, remembering that while it certainly didn't make him look bad, he wasn't his best doing so either. Instead, he sent an imploring look to the other two seated at the table. The dark male - Garth, he reminded himself, because the man didn't seem to like being called git - gave his disapproval with a silent look of exasperation. The other female - who truly looked more like a hermaphrodite than a "Hammer" so could he really be blamed for calling her as such every time he saw her? - voiced her opposition more verbally.
"What? What is wrong with you? T-that's sick! She's just a wee little girl and you've- you're-"
She broke off with an indignant snort, which reminded Reaver of the nickname he had thought of to give her last night. Perhaps "hog" could be saved for a time when she wasn't riled and equipped with weaponry though.
"No. Just no." Hammer turned in her seat, away from her source of irritation. The blatant rejection might've had more an impact if Reaver had not been musing on where they'd found a chair sturdy enough for her. She muttered about perverts, delirium, and poor children that didn't stand a chance against their "weird uncle". Reaver ignored it in favour of making note to ask the Queen of the origin of the chair.
"I'm sorry, dear," he said, snapping his eyes from the rather large fanny making not even a groan as it shifted in the chair. "What was that? Over your dead body?"
The Queen's eyes smouldered with all the intensity he had come to enjoy as much as he hated it. Her brow wrinkled and she spoke carefully. "Yes? You thinking you can send me there early?"
He balked at the mere suggestion. "My goodness, no! Me, kill off the beloved Queen? I could never! Such a thing, how dreadful." He crossed his fingers just in case.
But it turned out he hadn't need to, as the Queen passed not two years later. Of natural causes. Her son, a creature Reaver found fascinating - though in a different way than his sister - and easily proved worthy to be watched, took the throne not much after. Still quite high on the new thrill of following standard social procedure, he gave them a mourning period of a year before coming to collect that which the old Hero Queen had all but promised him would be his after her passing.
He decided to ask again this time, dismissing the idea of simply snatching the little pumpkin up and heading for the nearest suite. The getting permission thing had been deemed interesting enough. (No, it would be more correct to say it was quite a good deal interesting. The look on fathers', mothers', the lovers' faces themselves never got old. And if he played it well enough, the resulting orgy came with quite the show of dramatics after.) He looked the King - Logan, who had already been mistaken as 'loo' and 'lavatory' twice in one meeting - in the eye and asked that the man fork over his sister.
"Never," he replied, followed by, "I've been thinking about having Reaver Industries expand to some new territory. The move would be more fluid if you were to offer some new products at the same time."
Reaver took that to mean "I'm going to say never and expect you to stay away from her, however if you take her while I'm caught up in this ruling gig, so be it. Also, please have more land to cultivate into a money-making wasteland." It sounded like the makings of a future brother-in-law, if Reaver had ever heard it. He could almost kiss him if he was more aesthetically pleasing. But he wasn't, so the immortal just stayed in his seat and prepared to give a pitch on a machine that did the blood-letting for you.
The next time Reaver made a move to go forward with the princess and his relationship was two years later. It found her a pre-teen and blooming, him as young as ever and spotted in a few places after a month-long interest in leech-play. But despite the spectacular climax, in which he was dizzy from euphoria and a great deal of blood loss, two years later found him bored. His partners could come and go, the leeches could come and go, an unfortunate experiment with tar and feathers had come and left not soon enough, but his tedium just didn't seem to quit.
So towards the end of one appointment with his new favourite monarch, who provided a respite amidst waves of dull, he decided to pay a visit to his darling. What he was met with was dripping sweat, flushed skin, harsh panting, and trembling muscles - none of them caused in ways he'd prefer.
The little sweetheart was clutching a sword, that side of her body drooping for the effort to keep hold of it. Her glossy hair clung to her skin, her skirt mostly tucked into her tights in an attempt to gain more mobility. She offered a half-hearted smile when she saw who had interrupted her lesson, before flopping down as her mentor greeted their audience. Walrus- er, Walter marched forward with purpose, the stride only making Reaver take note of his girth rather than his imposing stature. He supposed he used the same chairs Ms. Hog had. The moustached man blocked the princess from his view. He'd guessed that there might be a few unsavoury rumours about him around the castle by now. No matter.
"I wish to claim the princess for my own now."
"Over my dead body," the larger bloke replied. Reaver again had to restrain a sneer, wondering if perhaps he should have such a thing arranged for these obviously death-giddy folks. It would probably make the courting thing go so much smoother.
The promiscuous male held the others' gaze, practically feeling the frustration begin to ooze off him as he kept his own stare decidedly flippant. Finally, he smirked. (Which succeeded in making the giant splutter.) He had received a nice recharging dose of amusement and was ready to dive back into life with fervour. He had gotten the magical feeling back just by being in near proximity to the charming royal. He couldn't wait for the day when no borders - be it clothing or walrus-like beings - would stand in the way.
He thought the old man understood that, if the scowl and glare was anything to go by. Reaver leaned around him, waggling fingers at the dazed-looking youngling. She summoned enough strength to beam at him and he barely summoned the restraint to not blow kisses at her. He offered her a dazzling grin instead. "Tatty bye, sweetness!"
He managed his boredom better from then on. The lulls in excitement were either spent conquering the business world or taming other things in more... private settings. King Lavatory and a slew of salacious wonders kept him occupied, though in different realms. Admittedly, his thoughts hadn't wandered much to the highness. There was something most accurately described as manic in the air to keep him engaged.
The King was in a hurry, but for what was unknown to even him. There were pauses in his speech, elongated as a mixture of emotions passed through his vibrant eyes. Worry, despair, hope, bitterness, resolution - year upon year of living gave Reaver the keenest insight to the minute shifts in feeling. But there was something in the smouldering look, so much like his mother's, that held Reaver back from asking the meaning behind it. So instead he acquiesced to the winding storm the monarch had become, submitting to being pulled along for the ride. It at least promised to be entertaining.
Cacoethes seemed to be the theme that year. It wasn't just Logan's plotting. Everything seemed excited, vibrating like a vein but as tense as a string pulled taut. There was discontent forming amongst subjects, bloody whining amongst the workers, nosy prattling in the ranks of soldiers. New advances were being made and things were changing. While his bedroom had never been more exhilarating for it, the changes scared others. As they had a tendency to do.
The panic, lying just under the skin of the kingdom, was frankly annoying. A bother Reaver didn't care much to pay attention to, but nevertheless made itself known. It was so much harder to dictate every measure of your employees' life if you weren't the principle thing on their mind. Even harder if you were biting back a bit of trepidation yourself. He decided it once again time to grace a certain royal with his presence. But rather than a small, cloying sweet noble offering a fully-developed body up for pillaging, he was met by what he assumed to be her lackey.
Elliot was one of a special few in that didn't receive a nickname, though not for reasons that applied to the late Hero Queen or her youngest scion. He simply didn't register the effort put into one. He was a bland sort, all clever in words only and rather plain in looks. Reaver took it as bad taste that the younger had somehow managed to secure a spot at his princess' side. After all, if he wasn't bright enough to bugger off when Reaver showed up to claim what was his, he obviously wasn't smart enough to hold court.
"No," Elliot said, his voice cracking with an ongoing change that Reaver could only foggily recall going through himself. He chose a wave of nostalgia over listening to the tirade the younger male then embarked upon. Ah, but weren't those the good days...
"-Therefore, I absolutely refuse to even think of handing over-"
"Hm, that's quite nice and all, but where did you say I could find the little sprout?"
Reaver inspected his nails. While never interesting before, held up next to a countenance screaming boring, they seemed almost as enthralling as sex. Almost.
The youth began working his way up to another diatribe. Reaver could almost feel his life ticking away. If he had a normal lifespan to lose, that is. He glanced around the area Elliot seemed to be determinedly protecting. Sure enough, one angelic form swimming in rich cloth could be found in the shade. He sidestepped the boy, leaning over to examine his discovery, resting under a tree and breathing softly. With her eyelashes fluttering, her cheeks rosy, and her lips plump, it made it a difficult matter resisting taking her now. And he had always had a thing for exhibition too.
"W-what are you doing," was the youngling's stuttered question from somewhere behind him. He thought it best to show him. His lips lowered until they met smaller, pink ones.
The look on Elliot's face, paired with an overdose of the "magical" feeling, left the eternally youthful bloke sated for quite a long time. Five years to be exact, in which he hadn't approached the youngest royal again. Being as desired as he was kept a man busy.
In that time, power had become synonymous with his name. He felt a consuming need for more. More people acknowledging him, more money to keep him placated, more time to waste and enjoy. (A lot less tar and feathers, however. No amount of time seemed to fix how... wrong it felt.) He could recognise the change in him, even more the reason behind it. But admitting it was another matter entirely, one that required more willpower than he could deign to collect. So if the price of remaining ignorant was a little less pleasure taken from life, well, he was already pretty much the first authority on enjoying life and could gleam pleasure from it just by being himself. The money and the never-ending cycle of partners just fell into his lap.
Asking permission for anything hadn't been used much since his confrontation with the Walrus (who he had since taken to calling Wanker, due to the man seeming to have enough time to follow him around the castle every visit, probably ensuring the princess' purity remained intact. Swinging a sword around wasn't the only reason his hands were calloused). Such formalities had all but fallen into disuse. It still made the occasional appearance on Flashback Fridays. The orgies then always got quite raucous, and as such were under consideration to be renamed Freaky Fetish Fridays. As long as leeches remained, and tar and feathers were kept out, Reaver supposed he didn't mind either way.
He didn't mind much these days, it seemed. Not Lord of the Loos and his frenzied scramble for a new kingdom; not a stalker coming in and trying to steal his undergarments - though he took measures against that just in case; not a rebellion surging under his feet; not his workers' complaints, though he shot them anyway, since it was rather good fun; not that he'd been kept from the one thing harder to claim than immortality. It was bleeding unfair is what it was. Reaver, expected to be mollycoddled by all life's fleshy pleasures while they snuck his prize from under his nose.
He thought on that for a while, simmered in the frustration that resulted. Then epiphany struck and he bounced off rather jauntily to kidnap some rebels, and in turn, win back what he was owed.
However, that said, he hadn't expected it to go this well. It was easy enough to say, but he had expected a little difference in how he planned it and how the event actually was executed. He had to admit that his eyes might've bulged a centimetre larger and his mouth might've opened the slightest in shock. It could easily be explained as watery eyes and poor oxygen supply from close quarters with blood-scented balverines though. No, really.
Presence of shock notwithstanding, the princess had finally bloomed in the half decade since their last encounter. She was more a zaftig than any he had come across in a while. None of her mother's brutish charm, or the villagers' meagre appeal. She was just her own exquisite breed. She was a collection in and of herself. By herself. A comment about coming between two siblings died on his lips. What came out instead was:
"Can I have you?"
There was a pregnant pause in which Reaver was certain the woman with the princess was getting flustered on how to answer. Probably thought - hoped - he was talking to her, poor dear. Maybe at a later date, however... The princess was silent as well, though not a calculating, or shocked, or awkward kind. She just didn't seem to think it warranted an answer. Which it really did. This was Reaver after all, the best she could do whether she knew it or not.
"Over my dead body."
A sneer flickered onto his face, though he wasn't sure if she could see it from the distance. She could, if the smile crooking her pretty, little lips was anything to go by. His sneer didn't let up.
"Well, it's something I've never tried before. It might be interesting to see if a stiff can get me stiff."
The royal runaway neither smiled nor frowned at his quip. Reaver said an oath under his breath, dedicated to all those that had made his rose so prickly. Then he flashed her a smile, taking another approach.
"What's wrong, little one? Rebels tell you I'm the big, bad wolf, come to eat you up?" He added an impossibly salacious smile as punctuation, but her expression didn't budge. "Come now, is that any way for a guest to treat her host?"
Impassive. Maybe a bit exasperated, if the sigh said anything. But she stepped closer to where he was perched, so he supposed he shouldn't feel too bad. Her eyes lifted and locked onto his. He felt his heart quicken at the fire in her eyes, ever more bright than any look seen in her kin. It seemed to flay him alive, to roast him from inside out, to drag talons up and down his skin. He found he rather liked it.
"Listen," she started, as the rebel mistress wrung her hands and glanced around shyly. "I have need of allies and funds. You happen to be in possession of both. I have something you need, you something I want. Should we make a deal?"
Reaver didn't need anything, he was close to telling her. He had immortality, wealth, looks, and a bed that retained its plushness despite regular abuse. He was good on all the necessities. And it wasn't even like he wanted her. It was more his sense of duty and loyalty to her late mother, urging him to take the orphaned child under his wing. And all he asked in exchange for his protection, his care, was that she spent the hours not occupied by rabble-rousing on her back. On his bed. Which was rather not too much to demand.
And he had intended to tell her all the aforementioned, making it quite the monologue, but instead what occurred on his lips was a smile. One which the princess returned with no small amount of amusement. One which caused even the dark skin of the rebel female to flush. One which, he realised with equal parts trepidation and wonder, sealed his fate.
He tapped his cane twice against the ledge, spun the wheel, and knew without looking that it landed on the question mark. He proffered a knowing grin to the royal rebel's confused glance. His arms gestured towards the open door with all the suggestion and grandeur he could manage. Without turning to see if she moved towards it, but knowing she would, Reaver left through the door behind him. What he knew, and what the princess and possibly her friend would soon find out, was that a man can never have too many secret bedchambers. And that once claimed, Reaver wouldn't let go of his beloved toys too quickly. Over his dead body.
