Tumgik
#pirate AU
nekogaaaaaaa · 2 days
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Doodle stuff, get this idea from discord and now I can't stop thinking about it
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sharpedgedfool · 1 day
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Teammates across time and space
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the-kr8tor · 3 days
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Sink or Swim
Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader
Total Word Count: 16k
Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), Hobie is mentioned taller than R, CW food mentions, CW suggestive, TW blood, CW injury, CW miscarriage mention, TW violence.
A/N: I've divided this chapter into two because of how long it is and tumblr wouldn't let me draft the post without the app crashing. So sorry for the inconvenience. I'll put the link at the end and on top.
Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist
Navigation
CHAPTER 13 >>> CHAPTER 13 II
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Hobie's throat feels like he swallowed glass. Yet, he screams until his lungs give out, until his body gives out. Fist pounding into steel, skin splitting, blood staining the metal, he continues to call for you. His ears could only hear your frantic yells, his name falling out of your lips, vomited out desperately, asking for him, calling for him to get you out.
He kicks and thrashes at the metal bars, his mind imagines the worst— nails ripped from your fingers, bones breaking, skin scraped and slashed. He doesn't need to imagine how it could feel for he had lived through it all, survived through sheer will alone. But he promised, he promised to you and in that hollow grave that it will never be filled with your body; that your own blood wouldn't spill in between his fingers.
Yet, like the knife that he is, like the one who breaks skin and bleeds everything he touches— he hurt you, shot you where you stood, when he should've protected you, shielded you from the bullet. But how could he do it when the bullet is from him? When he used the same weapon that has ended dozens of lives to protect his crew, to harm you; the only person he deems worthy of telling all his secrets, you, who is worth more than every single treasure in the world.
Maybe he should've listened to you and stayed on the island.
Hobie calls for you once again, in hopes that you hear him too, in hopes that his voice is enough to bring you hope. The lighthouse that guides you home. But he knows, he knows all you could hear are muffled sounds and the creaking from the rocking ship.
Your voice wavers, like you've been forcefully silenced. So he does the screaming for you. It's loud, tone furious, ready to scratch at anyone who gets closer.
“Hobie—” Gwen tries to get his attention as the door opens, revealing the two guards staying in the doorway, keeping their distance.
Guns are strapped to them, knives glinting in the lamp light, armed to the teeth. Hobie knows it's all for him.
“Shut the fuck up.” One frustratingly said, teeth clenched, hands kneading at his temples.
“Keep screaming and you won't get supper.” The bigger one utters, the large scar on his cheek tightens as Hobie taunts them with a grim smile. The smile he reserves to strike fear.
They stiffen in the doorway, shoulders straight, hands reaching for their weapons.
“Do it then.” Hobie says, voice guttural, hands gripping the bars. “End the screaming.” His sheer tone alone sends everyone's hair to stand upright.
No one in the crew dares to stop Hobie. He doesn't know if they're afraid just like the men in front of him or if they're biding their time to scratch and bite too.
“Come closer and end it.” He doesn't yell, and that terrifies the men in the doorway. “And you'll find out exactly what I did to Admiral Kinney all those years ago.” He can still taste the admiral's ichor on his tongue.
The hulking men share a look, sweat dripping off their brows. And with that, they shut the door behind them, returning to their post with their tails tucked between their legs.
“Cowards.”
If it wasn't a grim situation, James would've laughed.
Hobie hears Gwen sigh behind him, the liquid in her hand sloshes as she practically shoves it in his face.
“At least drink some water. For your throat.”
“No, ‘m not drinking that slop.”
Gwen has had enough, she takes him by the collar, eyes bravely glaring at her captain. “If you want to leave this ship and save her, then drink the slop, eat the fucking bread and keep your goddamn energy for when we get the window to escape. Screaming won't help, captain. It's not helping anyone.” Her jaw is set, eyebrows knitted together.
The rest of the crew stand on the side, ready to get between them if it gets physical. He'll never hurt Gwen, never even thought of it. But he can't stand the thought of his family standing against him rather than next to him. So he fixes it, you'd like it that way.
Hobie gingerly takes the cup, chugging it down in one gulp.
“Good, now eat some bread and sit down.”
“Y/N—” he starts.
“She'll be alright, she's a fighter ain't she?” He nods, “you know her better than us, so tell us, cap'n, that she will survive this.”
He roams his red eyes at his sparse crew. For a brief second he sees the ones he lost behind them. For the first time, he's glad he doesn't see you with them.
Returning his attention towards Gwen, he utters the words with the confidence of a captain.
“She'll survive this.”
Sitting down in the corner, he rests his poor throat, the dry bread didn't help much. It was shitty to say the least, times like this, he misses Finn. He'd beat him if he ever knew that he let the famous bloodsail pirates into the hands of a former admiral and you into the hands of someone you fear the most.
Hobie shuts his eyes for a second, he swears it's only for a second but when he wakes up with a start and the door opening with a creak, the moon is already shining outside the large boat.
When he sees you appear by the doorway, he thinks he's still dreaming.
“Ten,” He hears you say between gritted teeth. All he could focus on is you, checking for signs of an injury, he starts from your head—nothing, arms, also nothing, save for a few scratches. Then he settles on your bandaged leg, and he remembers what he did, what he did to you. Guilt and grief overtakes his body, he tries his best to hide into the background, into the wooden walls, to become part of the ship, to hide his shame. Because he hurt you, and he'll never forgive himself for what he did.
Hobie watches from his corner, defeated when you tell him subtly that you're alright. And when you called for him, called his name softly like summer wind breezing by, warm and reminding him of home— he couldn't help but oblige.
Who is he to deny the sky?
When you held him in your hands, he felt anew. Apologies spill from his mouth, eyes forlorn at the red spot on your bandages.
What is the tides without his moon?
He feels lighter when you forgive him. But his past action still haunts him, he knows it'll join the long line of nightmares that plague him at night.
“That's my girl.” He says truthfully and proudly, he feels your heartbeat hasten through your pulse.
You tell him your choice, your decision to give up your freedom for him and the crew. He feels like he was back on the revenge, facing Mathias, refusing to let you go as you offer yourself for their freedom.
His heart beats harder as you ask him to read your mother's letter. He's unsure why you would let someone like him read something as heavy as the letter. It's reserved for someone whose hands wouldn't stain the paper with crimson.
“Because I trust you.” You say, and everything aligns in his mind. Like Poseidon shaking him inside out, like the tides itself is splitting him open.
Hobie reads it with trembling hands and broken skin. Like he thought, it turns the paper pink like ink blots dirtying the pristine paper.
He dictates it, heart shattering at every tear you let out. Wiping your cheeks dry, he's careful not to let his split skin touch your softer ones.
“It's real, innit?” He asks like the earth isn't eating him whole.
“It's real.” You answer and the world caves in around him.
Hobie teases to feel the resemblance of normalcy, “little tomato?” He asks.
And you answer with a “I don't want them, just you.” Like you didn't just mend his shattering heart with one sentence. And you break it right after with a “We'll meet again, in this life or the next.”
He's terrified once again. He shakes his head as the door creaks open. “No, Y/N—”
As you kiss his wounded knuckles gently, you ask him something he can't possibly do.
“Don't follow me, please.”
Reaching for you, he should've read the last line in the letter to you. ‘Don't trust anyone’ it said, whatever it was, it's not your burden to carry, so he'll do it for you.
Hobie apologizes in his head for keeping it away from you and for what he's about to do.
With the dinner bell ringing, and heavy footsteps retreating, the crew takes their chance. The key opens the door smoothly. They sneak around the ship, only leaving shadows and footfalls that's barely audible.
Climbing up the steps towards freedom, Hobie spots a door at the end of a hallway. Like two hearts beating as one, he knows it's you behind it.
Miles takes his arm before he could come to you. “Don't.” He whispers to his captain. “Don't waste her sacrifice.”
“She didn't sacrifice herself.” Hobie shakes his head, scoffing quietly. “I can't leave her behind, Miles. I can't.”
“I know,” he pulls him away from the hallway. “she asked you to not follow, so don't follow.”
“If this was Gwen—”
“If this was Gwen we'd be doing the exact same thing. She wouldn't ask us to follow and we'll leave because she asked us to.” Miles spares a heavy glance towards your locked door. “I know it hurts, but we'd be in the gallows by morning if we don't leave now. We'll have another chance at saving her.”
“You don't know that.”
“I don't, but it's better to not know instead of being dead. At least we'd have a chance.” Miles tugs him further away. “Do you think it's better for her to think that she caused our deaths just because you took the chance?” His voice is determined.
“Don't hurt her like that, Hobie. It'll ruin her.”
With one last look towards your door, Hobie nods, following the others to the deck then to safety. As the dinghy drops down into the sea, and into the dark night, he hears Miguel curse his name.
He asks for your forgiveness silently.
Hobie and the crew finally make it to the docks without being seen by anyone. It was pure luck that no one saw or even heard them, he thanked the early morning and the still dark sky for lending them a hand.
“We need to wait for her.” He says, stretching his stiff hands from rowing the boat.
The sparse pirate crew hides in the shadows, hidden behind the dark alleyway. They lean on the grimy walls, hands cradling their fatigued heads, huffing and groaning at the aches and pains they had from their daring escape. They can still hear Miguel cursing Hobie's name, his voice ringing in their ears.
“Hobie,” Gwen calls for him. “Leave her be.”
“What the fuck?” Hobie turns sharply. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means we leave her alone.” Pavitr says forlornly, eyes downcast at the dirty pavement.
“We promised her—”
“That was when we didn't know it was her actual family. Back when we all thought Miguel was a threat to her.” Yuri pipes up, hands braced on her knees. Fatigued and clearly needing rest. “I love her, Hobie, I really do. We all love her, but she's with family now. Let her be.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Miles scoffs, “We're talking about the same person right?” He stands next to Hobie, arms crossed on his chest.
“C’mon, Miles,” Gwen says tiredly. “We all heard their conversation, it's real, she's noble—”
“And what of it?” Hobie snaps back. “You were too.”
“I was.” She scowls. “But she has a home to go to, a family that's waiting for her. We need to let her be until for whatever reason she decides to stay or leave with us.” Inhaling sharply, she rubs harshly at her eyes. “Let's make a compromise then. We're all clearly feeling conflicted. I don't want to fully let her go, we all agree right?”
Everyone nods, tension running high, glares thrown about the small group. Gwen continues, “Then we stay close to her, we watch her like when we used to observe potential crew members. But this time we make sure she is actually safe and not thrown to the wolves.” Her idea reminds Hobie why he chose her as his first mate.
“I'll keep first watch,” Hobie quickly says, "we switch after I say so.”
“And when will that be, Hobie?” Yuri clasps her hand on Hobie's shoulder, comforting the man. “You haven't slept a wink, add the fact that you were stranded on a bloody island for a month, you're not in the right state for this.”
“I'll be once I see that she's safe.” His voice cracks, “I didn't keep an eye on MJ and look what happened. I-I don't want that to happen again. Please let me do it. You can follow me all you want just let me keep watch—”
“It's Y/N,” James whisper yells, he peeks around the alley, watching you slowly walk down the ship.
They all clammer to see you ignore Miguel's helping hand. Pride swells in their chest, they remember now why they can't exactly leave you behind— you're family.
As if fate is pulling the strings, you crane your neck to look in their direction. The crew ducks away, but Hobie stays, staring at you, waiting for your signal, anything to indicate that you want to run away with them.
He sees your subtle shake of your head, and with that, he hides with his crew.
“Did she say something?” Pav asks, concerned for you.
“No, nothin’” He holds his heart in his hand. “She said nothin'”
Hobie follows you quietly throughout the day. Hiding from Miguel's watchful eyes and your sad eyes. The crew left to rest in an inn, Miles offered to come with him, Hobie's glad he did for he found an unhitched horse in a street corner. But it could only seat one so Miles, the angel that he is, let Hobie go on without him.
“I'll take care of them.” He promises before he lets his captain go.
They all know your house, they've raided their ships before. Crates upon crates full of luxury, with the same design on your necklace stamped on the wooden sides. Hobie knows them quite well, the favourite of the king, always giving them special treatment. Yet the queen holds them at an arm's length away, but she never left her eyes away from their business. He guessed sacking random ships has its perks, gossip is one of them.
Hobie silently trots his horse, eyes never leaving the carriage you just left. The cemetery sends his nerves alight, with the crows cawing in the background, he strains his ear to listen in. He's hiding behind the chapel, the irony doesn't escape him.
The truth is revealed to you, and unbeknownst to you, he has learned about it too. His head is in his hands as he listens to how broken your voice is, tone splitting at the seams. Then his heart stops when you tell your mother that you want to stay, that you want to find the person responsible for their deaths, that the same flames burning inside him now have spread to you.
Hobie doesn't want you to go down the same path he walked on, to let the embers singe your skin, to let the fire burn you from the inside out like it had with him. You helped him through his, helped him control it. Now it's his turn to do so for you.
He cares for you, loves you for all your soft touches and gentle tone. But he's prepared to love you through your jagged edges, through all the anger that's inside you. He'd love both sides of you, because it's you, and no one else.
His foot accidentally steps on a twig as he sees you leave. Hobie almost ran towards you when you looked at the source of the sound. This time he ducks away, knowing that there's eyes on you, eyes that are prepared to take you away the moment they see him. So he waits, until there's no more eyes on you.
The next time he saw you again was when you stepped out of the carriage and into the golden doors of the palace. He's terrified for what's to come, whether or not Miguel has brought you on a silver platter for the wolves to devour.
With his guns accompanying him, he readies outside the walls of the palace until you leave, until he sees you again climbing inside the carriage.
He can finally breathe again, he doesn't have to kill this time. Not yet anyway.
Hobie tries his best to stay hidden, he bribes and lies to get inside Hazelside. Then he waits, and bides his time just to talk to you.
“Hazelside estate,” Miguel says when the large manor looms over the horizon. “Your family has owned it for two hundred years. Passed down to every first born child of the family.”
Acres and acres of land stretch across the vast space. Primed apple trees and oaks line the road, men and women in work clothes walk near the carriage, not even craning their necks to take a peek inside. It seems this was a daily occurrence for them.
“Two hundred years.” You repeat, contemplating how many generations owned it. “So it's mine once the papers are signed? Where would my…uncle and aunt go then?” Your mind goes through a hundred scenarios where you stay and where you decide to leave it all again.
“They have their own house. Granted it's not as big as Hazelside but it's enough for them. Knowing his majesty, he'd take his sweet time from releasing the papers.”
“How well do you know the king and queen?” You ask, eyes scanning your family's land.
Stone houses are standing miles away from the main estate, employees of the house you think. Chimneys billow out smoke whilst the sun is just about to rise. You imagine them having breakfast with their families, sleep still clinging in their lashes, hot tea wrapped in their cool hands. Opening the window, the smell of fresh apples wafts over you. Home, you think. It smells like home. Or it just reminds you of the apple tarts Jessica made for you when you were younger.
“You alright?” Miguel asks, watching you frown.
“I'm fine, just tired.” You lied, in truth, you miss them all.
“You had a hectic day, I don't blame you. You'll get to rest soon, I promise.”
How could you even think of sleeping alone? After being near him? After saying goodbye?
“You didn't answer my question.” You shift your attention from the trees to the man before you. “How well do you know them?”
“I barely know the queen, but the king? Yes, short answer? He's a moron, a buffoon wearing a crown.”
Lyla snickers next to you, head plopped on the carriage wall, seemingly asleep.
You smile, “You have a monkey for a king.”
“Once you're the Hazelside duchess, he'll be your king too.”
“Christ.” You chuckle nervously.
“Don't worry, I'll help you get accustomed to polite society.” Miguel reassures you and you still have no idea if you'll stay long enough to bear the title.
“Polite society.” You say with a scoff, “What I just saw wasn't very polite.”
“Just remember, everything here is political. Everyone here is climbing the ladder, kissing the royal asses. Some are doing it for their families, some are doing it for their personal gain.”
“Which one do you think I am?”
“Neither.” The carriage stops, horses neighing, hooves stomping on the gravel. “You're not like them, Y/N, that's why you'll end up walking all over them.”
The footman opens the door, Miguel gives you a look before coming down the small steps. He reaches towards you, helping you down. You hesitate. You still don't take his hand even with your bad leg.
The wind blows cold, goosebumps appearing on your skin, face worried at the sheer size of the manor. The glinting silvered birds catch the early morning's sun's rays. Beady eyes seemingly blinking when a cloud passes by.
Vines cling to the ancient walls, small purple flowers run along the plant and along the large windows. Strong columns line the façade, laurels carved on the marble, oak doors displaying the house sigil— your necklace bearing a similarity to it. Flower beds cradling violets lay by the foot of the building, blooming and fragrant. The smell hiding your trepidation from the dozen or so people watching you with unreadable eyes.
The staff greets you with a stiff nod, they stand on the stairs leading towards the manor. Their uniforms are perfect, perfectly ironed and clean; perfect white gloves on their hands.
A couple of them help your drunk uncle off their own carriage. He groans, head swirling, eyes rolling to the back of his head. Fancy clothes sweaty and moist, neckerchief lopsided and dirtied by ale. In contrast to his wife, who looks tired with the heavy eye bags under her eyes, she still looks like a proper noble compared to Frederick.
“Freddy—” She groans, kicking her husband's leg, “get up!”
“Darling…” he slurs, “there's two of you—oh wait…now there's three!” His guffaw fills the quiet morning.
Victoria gives up, leaving the man to the care of her staff. She walks off, huffing and puffing. She gives you a glance, “what are you waiting for? Get inside.”
Her eyes flick to Miguel who stands behind you, she immediately clamps down her bitterness. “Welcome to Hazelside, niece.” With a stomp of her heeled foot, she heads inside, no doubt seething.
“Catty.” Lyla says next to you, elbowing your side. “C’mon, your grace, before the sun gets in their eyes and sends them into a murderous frenzy.”
You chuckle, shaking your head. Something flickers in your peripheral vision, when you move your head to look, whatever it was, it's already gone behind the thick bushes.
“Y/N?” Miguel beckons you over. “It's cold out, come inside before you get sick.”
“Coming,” you call back, eyes darting around the thicket.
Miguel shows you around to your room in the west wing. Various historical paintings decorate the walls, wooden simple frames around them, showing the true beauty of the art without all the extravagant gold laurels around it.
Sculpted busts of your ancestors wait at every corner, marble eyes staring blankly at what's in front of them. Large windows line the walls, just outside the glass lies an expansive field of apple trees, bulbs of reds and greens adorning the branches of the mighty orchard. You stand in awe at the sight, workers start flocking the trees, picking and plucking at the ripest of fruits. The sun shines directly at the field, apples aglow with its light like red and green stars.
You lag behind Miguel as you gawp at the scenery, hand tucked inside the pocket of your gown, mindlessly rolling the pearl. Wishing the crew could see it too, wishing that he could see it and harvest the fruits with you.
Miguel calls for you, hand reaching but he retracts it back to his side. “Apples are new around here.” You genuinely smile at him, so he continues. “It used to just be hazelnuts, which still grow plenty in the estate.”
“Why the change then?”
“They didn't change, your family merely adapted. Your grandmother was the one who started planting the apple trees. Whenever she had a—” Miguel falters, you can practically see his brain turning.
“Had a what? I'm a big girl, Miguel, I can handle whatever it is.” You encourage him with a nod.
“A miscarriage,” he says lowly, “At the end of her life she planted seven trees. There was only one seed she didn't plant and that was when your mother was born.”
Your heart aches at the story even though the people in it are practically strangers to you. “Apple of her eye.” You murmur.
Miguel chuckles, turning to watch the vast orchard that spans acres upon acres of land. “It’s an understatement. She was spoiled, your mother. But she had a heart, most of her gifts almost always ‘gets lost’ somewhere.” He smiles fondly. “Strangely enough, it always ends up with someone who would benefit from it more.”
“Which one ended up getting lost in your backyard?” You smile at his rare grin.
“A lot, pocket watches, jeweled eggs, there was a kitten once. Only because her mother didn't like it.” He sighs, hazel eyes shining under the sunlight.
“You loved her.”
“I did,” he stares at you with kinder eyes. “She was my best friend, and so was your father. They both were.”
“What did you mean back at the carriage when you told me that they did the same to you?”
He swallows thickly, staring back at the outside of the opulent manor. “My daughter, Gabriella.” he says after a moment, “She was only a few years older than you. Your parents were her godparents, this was before they eloped and had you.” You can feel the strain in his voice. “She got sick…they poured everything into giving her the best doctors the country has to offer. They were at her side while I was drowning my sorrows in the navy. When they weren't by her side, they were with me. But in the end everything was all in vain.”
“I'm sorry,” you say genuinely, “I'm sorry, Miguel.”
He gives you a tight smile and a pat on your shoulder. “Even after all that they were still by my side, even when I pushed them away.” Sniffing, he subtly wipes his eye. “I didn't cross the sea and traveled thousands of miles to find you because I want us to be even. Or to pay the debt, I just wanted to find the last thing they left in hopes that I also find them in you.” His chest heaves. “I couldn't even say goodbye to them.”
There's tears in your eyes as he chokes on his own words. “I lost my friends but you lost your family before you could even meet them. And for that, I'm sorry, Y/N.” His hand shakes. “They didn't deserve what happened to them.”
“Tell me what happened to them.” You stand toe to toe with him, determined to get answers.
“Pirates, I told you they were pirates.”
You shake your head. “Do you really believe that, O’Hara? Or are you still trying to convince yourself otherwise?”
His jaw clenches, “It was pirates, Y/N.”
“Tell that to the former navy medic I call mother.”
He whispers, “the last time I looked further into their deaths I lost my Job, stripped of all my titles. I almost lost my house because of it.”
“Then tell me what you found.” You challenge him back. “Tell me who ordered it so I can live in this house in peace.”
“I don't have definitive proof—”
“Who?”
“Edward.” He says through gritted teeth. “He wanted to marry your mother, even going as far to ask for her hand. But when she refused him for your father—” he heaves. “I think he has probable cause to order the attack.”
“You were answering the man who might've killed my parents and wanted me dead?”
“How do you think that makes me feel, hm? I had my full trust in the navy, trusting the report they gave, trusted them with my whole life, even dedicating my life to them. And the moment I get a whiff of a planned murder on the only family I've ever had they bar me from the only life I've ever known. How do you think that made me feel?”
“I'm sorry you went through that but you could've done something.”
“He is king!” Miguel's voice booms around the hallway. He shifts his voice, pinching his knitted brows. “His word is law, I couldn't have done anything, even if I had proof.”
“You should've started with that instead of telling me lies, then I would've come to you without a fight.”
“There would've still been a fight.” He states matter of factly. “Hobie was ready to fight the moment I stepped below deck.”
“Could you blame him though? We both know not every single pirate crew is as nice as them, he didn't attack because you claimed it was pirates. Or that he was offended, he knows that he has done unsavoury things too. So what did you say that made him lunge at you?”
Miguel shakes his head, refusing to say anything. “It's best that you don't remember it.”
“Fine, be like that, just know that there will always be a wall between us.” Your heels clack loudly against the oak floors as you leave him behind.
The room they gave you was surprisingly comfortable, unlike the apartments in the palace that you explored. It's ten times bigger than the inn you were in, complete with your own bathroom and sitting room. It's all wooden walls covered in beautiful tapestries of various scenes from history— the thick cloth helps keep the heat inside. All the windows are wide open to let the cool air in and the moonlight. So you could hear the rustling of the trees outside, so you could smell the crisp apples. It helps, you think as you sit in front of the large stone fireplace with birds engraved in every corner of the stone.
You're already sick of the bloody birds.
You wrap the fur blanket closer to your body, still in your gown, refusing to wear anything else they've provided for you. You've heard of poisoned dresses before, it's far-fetched but you can't risk it now that you're in a more unfamiliar territory where your own family holds a grudge against you just for existing.
Especially now that you're alone in a large room filled with strange things. And with only his dagger to keep you safe.
Anyone would kill to be in your shoes right now, to be pampered and placed in a household that can provide for all your needs. If it weren't for the hunger in you, you would've left all of the gold in this house just to get back to them. Instead, the fire has you in its hold too.
Miguel's information only fueled the glowing embers in you, you're determined to find who killed them. But you're still restrained in this large manor, and until you can get your answers, you say their names to satiate the hunger.
“Edward and Mathias.” You say through shuddered breath, feeling if you could just say it louder, the sky would strike them down where they stood.
The pearl in your hands is warm, the shiny surface reflecting your scowl.
The flames mesmerize you as it dances in the kindling. Orange and reds illuminate your face, it's the only light in the whole room. You exhale and a puff of clouds escape your cool lips.
It's getting colder, and you're missing him.
Just when you're about to stand up to close the windows, a pebble lands near you. It thuds on the wooden floors, the sound gets your attention.
“What the hell?” You say confused. Standing back up, another flies through the open windows and into your room. “Who the fuck?” Speed walking towards the window, you almost get hit by a pebble if you didn't dodge it in time. “Hey!”
Fifteen feet below your window, you see two people dressed in their night clothes, bundled up in fur coats. They look up at you with wide eyes, like they got caught with their hands inside the cookie jar.
“Cousin!” One exclaims, a wide apologetic smile on his lips, showing you his perfect teeth. “Sorry about that! Can you come down?”
“Who in the world are you?” You ask, confused, you lean down to take a better look, hands gripping the sill for support.
“We're your cousins! I guess?” The girl next to him says, eyes shining in the moonlight, hand holding another pebble. “We waited to see you during supper and around the house but you were apparently hiding!”
“Alright, why do I need to come down then?”
“Because we want to properly introduce ourselves! Without screaming at you from below that is.” The girl shrugs, smiling prettily at you. “Please, cousin?”
“...fine.” you grumble, the dagger is still hidden underneath your skirt in case they're planning something nefarious.
They beam up at you, the girl daintily claps her hands. “Brilliant! We'll be waiting at the entrance.”
As you trudge down the unfamiliar sprawling halls, trying your hardest to not get lost in the maze-like structure. You accidentally encounter another painting of your mother.
Her name is etched on a golden plaque just below the portrait. This one was different from the one in the palace, she was stiff there, lips tightly closed into a line, eyes cold and empty. The one in front of you is warm, a soft smile on her lips, eyes shining and alive. Her dress is in lilac, golden stars adorning the bodice. She still wore the same necklace you're currently wearing, it rests perfectly on her neck. In her hand is a closed locket, you wonder whose portrait lies inside.
“Hi, mum.” You whisper into the cold hallway. “Where's dad's portrait?” You ask like she would open her mouth and answer back. With a sigh, you head downstairs.
Walking the ancient floors, the moon shines down at you, the light peeking in from the gaps of the heavy curtains. Silently, you meet with your cousins in the foyer. Carefully coming down the curved staircase, hand gripping the bannister, the boy who is about the same age as Miles meets you halfway. He reaches towards you, giving you a hand.
“I heard about your leg, I thought you'd appreciate some help.”
“You're Frederick's children?” You say, questioning whether or not you should take his hand.
“We are,” he says with a sigh. “Come on, cousin, or you might miss it.”
“Miss what?”
“The birds.” The girl waiting in the foyer excitedly says. “They're migrating.”
“Oh, I don't see why that would be so interesting.” You say as the boy flexes his fingers, beckoning you down.
“You’ll see why. Take my hand please, you look like our grandmother going down the steps.”
“Fine,” with an exhale, you take his hand. You hold his hand, a feather light touch that he barely feels, giving yourself enough time to react if he decides to do something.
“I'm Jonathan, or just John.” He says as he gently leads you down the steps. His stride is slow, waiting for your own feet to keep up. “And this is my sister—”
“Collette!” She suddenly clasps your hands when you reach the last step. “Sorry–” her tone is sweet and genuine, quickly removing her hands from yours. “I got too excited! I'm Collette, my brother and I are twins.”
“Unfortunately…” John says under his breath.
Collette jabs her elbow by his side, earning a groan from him. You see the similarities on their faces now that you're closer to them. From the slope of their noses to the curls of their hair, they look very much alike. Except for their eyes, Collette has emerald eyes that shimmer from the oil lamp she carries. While her brother has brilliant blue eyes that remind you of the sea when the sun shines above it.
You get reminded of him again.
“Who's older?” You ask teasingly, pushing the previous thought away.
“I am!” They both speak at the same time. John looks at her sister with disappointment, while Collette scrunches her nose.
“I'm five minutes older than you, Jojo.” She says with a tone you could only describe as annoyed.
“Father told me I'm the one who's five minutes older. Not you!”
“Sure,” she nods sarcastically, the lamp in her hand sways. “Because father was in the room when we were born.” Her head swivels to look at you, and you almost jump at how fast she moved. “He wasn't in the room.”
“Ah, I think I got it—”
“Like you could bloody remember.” John says with a scoff.
Before the argument could go on, you stop them with your hands on each of their shoulders.
“I need to sleep, so whatever you want to show me, just fucking show me.”
Collette stares at you with a gasp, eyes wide like you just said the darndest thing. Meanwhile, John has the biggest grin you've ever seen.
“Wow, cousin.” He says, amused. “I heard you used to run with pirates but I didn't know you got their vocabulary too. Hazelside would be more interesting now that you're here.”
“Gosh,” Collette exhales, clutching her pearls (literally) “I didn't know that word could be uttered by a woman.”
“You should try it sometimes. It's very freeing.” You chuckle at their reaction whilst you make your way outside. “Before we freeze to death, cousins?”
“The oldest should lead the way.” John takes the opportunity to rag on his still bewildered sister.
She groans audibly. “You're not the one with the lamp.”
You smile, there's a warm familiar feeling in your chest.
Leaves crunch under your bare foot, you've got blisters from the uncomfortable heels Miguel gave you. You'd take walking on bare feet rather than wear that torture device ever again. The only plus side of the fancy shoe is that it makes you feel powerful with every click of the heels. Walking along a path, tall apple trees carve a way for you and the twins.
“I like your dress.” Collette says right next to you, you sense her wariness by how she keeps her distance. “The color is beautiful, it's our house color.”
“Thank you, but I've been told that red suits me better.”
“Oh, I think they're right actually.” She smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Yeah, I'm slowly getting used to this one though.” You lift up your skirt a bit for emphasis.
“Is it true that you were shot?” John asks in front of you, looking over his shoulder. “We heard from the footmen that you were shot by a pirate when O’Hara rescued you.”
“I was, but that's not the whole story. Miguel didn't rescue me.”
“Really?” Collette's brows are raised in question and surprise. You nod at her question. “Huh, I told you we shouldn't listen to gossip.” She slaps her brother on his bicep, he winces, glaring at her. “It's bad to begin with.”
“That's the thing about gossip, Co, it's not always the truth.” He spits out.
“I knew that, pssh.” She crosses her arms on her chest, annoyed and embarrassed.
“Why are we out here again? If you're planning to ambush me—” Colette gasps loudly, like you've shot her.
“Ambush you? Do we look like we know how to fight?” She stops you from going further down the path just as you see a dark river at the end of it.
John knits his brows with a pout. “We're here to give you a warm welcome, cousin. We heard mother and father didn't even give you a tour, so I guess it falls on us to show you around.”
“At night though?” You gesture around the silence of the grounds, save for a few crickets chirping and the flowing of the lake, you're practically alone in the dark.
“Guess we're just living to our house motto, ‘carpe noctem—’”
“‘Seize the night’” Collette finishes her brother's sentence. “The ancestor who established our house was a gambler.” She shrugs.
“That's our house motto?”
“Nope!” Collette answers you. “It was our house motto.” She gestures to herself and her brother. “Before the crown granted us Hazelside, after—” John elbows her. “I'm sorry.”
“It's alright, what's the actual motto?”
“‘alis volat propriis—’”
“‘She flies with her own wings.’” You translate, the siblings look at you with awe. “There's latin in medicine.”
“You know medicine?!” Collette shrieks, the sound echoing through the dark.
“Brilliant.” John murmurs.
“Oh you must tell us more!” Collette loops her arm around yours, walking side by side. “How and where did you learn it?”
“I—”
“Don't pester her, Co.” John clicks his tongue, “have you cut anyone's arm off?”
“How grim!” She exclaims.
As they lead you towards the sparkling lake, you three chat through the night by the banks of the hazelside lake. They ask about the world outside the capital, they ask about the sea and the pirates you were with. You don't tell them about all the blood and violence, deciding that you shouldn't mar their innocent hearts with stories of death. It's not yours to tell, and you don't want to traumatize the only people who don't look at you with contempt.
“So you're not mad at me or even at least a bit annoyed for showing up and taking the estate from your parents?” You ask whilst the sun slowly rises, bathing the lake in bright blue. The hazelnuts in your mouth is a welcome one since you haven't eaten a single bite since you got to the capital.
“Not really.” John munches on his own pile of hazelnuts. He lounges near the water, hand cradling his head, chewing quietly. “We were surprised at first because there have been a handful of girls who claimed to be you. Who were obviously not you.” You raise an eyebrow at his statement. “But when they told us it was Miguel who found you, we were sure it was really you.”
“Wait— there were people who claimed to be me?”
“Mm-hmm.” Collette hums, sitting close to you, hanging on to every word you utter. “They weren't very convincing.”
“The story of Miguel trying to find you was pretty famous around here. I mean, the guy abandoned his post to find a missing duchess who may or may not be alive. That was a big story back then, so a lot of women threw their daughters and young relatives at the manor's gates to get a chance.” John informs you.
“We were quite young back then, but the fakes dwindled away through the years.” Collette finishes his statement.
“‘Quite young’ she says,” he scoffs, “we were barely out of the womb, Collette.” His sister sticks out her tongue at John.
“Huh, that's probably why I haven't heard of it either, I was still young.” You wonder.
“The sun's almost out!” Collette points at the clear sky. “Get ready, cousin, because you're about to see the most gorgeous thing.”
“The birds here migrate at this time of year,” John helps you both up to your feet. You surprisingly take his hand. “like clockwork. Collette and I used to watch it with our parents before they got all…well, too much. Now it's some sort of tradition for us.”
“Look look! The trees are rustling!” She points, jumping up and down.
“Any minute now.” John smiles at his sister as she half hugs him.
The three of you wait for a sign of the birds, a minute passes, then two, then five. Yet, not even a feather flies overhead. The early morning sun shines brighter with every minute that passes. And with every minute, the twins grew agitated.
“Why aren't they coming out?” Collette asks sadly.
“I'm sure they're just getting ready for the journey.” John reassures his sister with a pat on her shoulder. “My calculations are correct, why aren't they here yet?” He questions no one.
Their slumped shoulders and frowns get to you. An idea pops in your head, and you think it's all Hobie's fault.
“Maybe they're still sleeping.” They look at you simultaneously, “I mean it's really cold out, they probably wanted to stay in bed— or nest to sleep more. I know I would want to.”
“Oh,” Collette gives you a small smile at your attempt to make them feel better. “That's probably it. Thank you, cousin.”
You grin mischievously at them, “what if we wake them all up?”
John makes a face. “How?”
You inhale, putting your hands around your mouth, you scream, “wake the fuck up!” The sound echoed throughout the field and across the lake.
Your cousins let out a loud guffaw, you giggle at their reaction. John joins in, copying your actions.
“Wake up you wankers!” He yells, exhilaration filling his chest. “I've always wanted to say that.” Chuckling, he laughs louder at the face his sister is making.
“Johnathan!” His sister gasps next to him.
“What? Try it out! Come on then! No one's out here to tell us off.” John shakes her shoulder, giving you a wide grin.
“Join us in the dark side, Collette.” You sing song, “the birds need a wake up call.”
“You won't tell mother and father?” She asks the both of you. Wiggling, she’s excited.
Crossing your heart, you promise. “I won't, I'm not a tattletale.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die, Co.”
“Alright.” She exhales deeply before letting loud the loudest scream you've ever heard. “Wake up, cocksuckers!” It's so loud that you swear your eardrums are blown out. Smiling, she turns towards your surprised forms.
Now it's you and John's turn to gasp.
“Cocksucker?!” You exclaim, bewildered.
“Where'd you learn that, Co?!” John pokes his sister.
“I heard it when Mrs. Williams stubbed her toe during lessons.” She said shyly.
“Good on you, sis.” He pats her back. “Good on you.”
Collette looks at you expectantly. “Good show, Co.” You wink at her and she giggles happily.
Facing towards the thick trees across the lake, the birds still don't fly overhead. There's nothing but the wind rustling the branches.
“They didn't wake up though.” She says forlornly.
“What if we do it at the same time?” Your words have them smiling again.
“Yes!” They say simultaneously.
“Ready?” They both nod, taking in air before screaming their hearts out.
“Cocksuckers!” The three of you let out simultaneously. The canopy rustles and out comes a hundred or so birds from the thicket.
You all jump up and down, arms up in greeting the birds. Their feathers shine in the sun, light filtering through their wings. Iridescent blues and whites glowing, reflecting in your eyes. Wings flapping loudly, beaks held up high as they greet the sky with open wings.
Amidst the beauty of it all, you wish that he was there to witness it.
A tear slides down your cheek. You wipe it quickly before the twins notice. Head staring up at the sky, amidst all the beauty and light, there's a darkness swirling inside you. Amidst all the life around you, you feel the opposite. And you miss him. The worst part is, you see this place becoming your home.
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>>> CHAPTER 13 II
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Thought about Ghost pirate AU instead of sleeping last night, so here are some of said thoughts (I really wanna make that a fic but i'd need to research some specific vocabulary since english isn't my first language and even in french i don't know much about how to describe ships and things like that) :
Copia is the captain of the Impera ship (how original, I know).
Cirrus and Aether are his seconds in command.
Phantom has tons of eyepatches that he decorates with shells Swiss picks for him, pearls Rain brings back from the deepest parts of the sea, shiny things Aurora gifts him, etc...
Sunshine is constantly up in the sails, swinging from ropes and masts, keeping an eye on the sea and the sky, always on the lookout for danger or opportunities.
Dew is an incredible shot, and he's very proud of it - likes to show off, though he knows when to prioritize efficiency over elegancy.
Rain is some kind of siren, and lures whichever ship the crew has eyes on toward them by singing. He usually swims after the ghouls' ship, when the sea is calm and he isn't needed on the deck.
Swiss has a variant of Rain's capacity, but without singing. He just...sort of hypnotize people just by talking. Like...enhanced charm. It wears off the longer the person is exposed to it, though, so he has to use it wisely.
Their ship is the fastest on the sea, since Cumulus and Cirrus can manipulate wind and basically give it a speed boost whenever.
Mountain's sense of orientation is impecable. As long as you have him, you're never lost. He's like a living compass. (maybe he can "sense" the lands around them to a certain extend ?)
Aether ties and unties knots in loose ropes when he's anxious (kinda like Finnick in Hunger Games) and is the medic on board.
Cirrus is a sword master. Do not challenge her in a duel, she will win.
Aurora is an explosion enthousiast. Do not let her unsupervised around canons or powder. It does come in a handy when the goal is to blow up the enemy, though.
Cumulus is a frightenigly clever strategist. Whenever a plan needs to be made, she always come up with the best, most twisted ideas. She's also in charge of drawing the maps (she's the only one with a neat handwritting).
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cindernet-explorer · 18 hours
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My heart is pierced by Cupid I disdain all glittering gold There is nothing can console me But my jolly sailor bold ♪
Surely this won't turn out badly.
[featuring Odette from the lovely @ahollowgrave]
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Alternate shots!
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hitlikehammers · 2 days
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PART TWO: Fail-Pirate!Eddie/Castaway!Steve (Pirate AU)
🌊Under the Water (Our Hearts Will Dream Again)🌊
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Chapter Two: A Most Compelling Gaze
CHAPTER ONE // Chapter Three on 28 March 🌊
also on ao3
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He might be a piss-poor pirate, but Eddie’s not an idiot. He knows this was intended as a test—for the both of them, according to the Captain:
To test your loyalty after so many missteps, Munson, can’t help but doubt your commitment to this ship Reefer Rick had cackled at him through those rotting teeth of his; and to tease out the worth of the heftiest catch you’ve managed to date!, and they’d all laughed then, the whole of the crew, even those Eddie counted as the closest thing he had to friends, though their bellies shake less, their chuckles carry less an echo, and that’s something, maybe.
Maybe.
So yeah: Eddie’s well aware it’s a test, setting him up to babysit the castaway? It’s also to have a fucking laugh; probably more geared toward the latter, if only because they won’t fucking stop.
Because it’s one thing to imply attraction to the 'pretty-boy flotsam that was too big for even you to miss, Munson', because one, they’re pirates, degeneracies of all stripes were in their natures, Eddie’s known preferences being the very least of the lot and certainly far from unique, and two: fuck but yes indeed, even Munson couldn’t miss the heaven-sent vision who was now resting in his care, or capture, depending on who was asked.
Eddie didn’t see much difference, if his heart fluttered when he looked upon that face each time; if his pulse eased and the sun shone brighter through grimed window panes like sorcery, when Eddie watched the man’s chest rise and fall: alive, color back in his cheeks, his lips, and gods be good or cruel in turns, those lips—
But the crew, of course, can’t stop with the obvious; oh certainly not.
No: they have to cackle and ask more lewd lines of implication, most egregious—and of course most popular—being variations on oh yes, yes, too big for even the Merry Moron Munson to miss, but is the catch big elsewhere, hmm? Did you stick him with your pole, forwent the hook altogether? Or maybe he’s so large even you could have snagged him by his coc—
Eddie does his best to ignore all that, and just stand watch over their formerly-waterlogged not-quite-prisoner, scooped from a not-quite-wreckage, as in: no wreckage. None anywhere near, and the Captain had demanded they look and look hard, not chancing leaving unclaimed booty on the water but—nothing. The man came from nowhere. The crew’s more suspicious than curious.
But that’s another thing Eddie never fit in with, when it came to his shipmates.
And if—if, in the purely hypothetical instance—but if Eddie does retreat from the taunting behind the closed cabin doors where they’ve laid the mystery man to recover, and hopefully soon wake? Maybe Eddie retreats to the room he's babysitting in part because...he blushes easy, alright?
That’s not a crime, save one of his birth; nothing he can do to fight against it. So much as learned well in his youth: he knows keenly when it’s best to run.
Behind the doors to the cabin where the pretty mystery man too large to miss is lying in an oddly-clean bed for the vessel. That’s just a happy coincidence of the sort Eddie doesn’t normally stumble upon, so he’s got no interest now in staring the gift-washed-up-on-his-metaphorical-shore in the mouth.
“Your mouth will get dry.”
Eddie startles hard enough at the bedside of the Mystery Man to splay on the floor, knocked to bruise: he hadn’t realized he was gaping.
The sprawling as he stares up from the floor doesn’t seem to…incline his jaw to closing.
Mystery Man—who’s awake, good god, he’s awake, alive and awake and dry and warm, Eddie scrambles to pull himself up on the bed frame and he can feel the man’s warmth, and his skin’s got a golden sort of gleam that Eddie hadn’t noticed before but oh hell that does absolutely nothing to stop the stirring in Eddie’s trousers, holy fucking hell—
And oh. Oh, then the Mystery Man is reaching, slowly, blinking just once before he slips a fingertip under Eddie’s chin and nudges his lips closed with a pop.
He feels so warm. Eddie cannot goddamn swallow.
“Sorry,” the man’s turned half on his side, half on his stomach now, peeking almost adorably, almost shy but no, no: far more coy the way he looks down at Eddie, sitting up but still on the godsdamned floor. “I’m just kind of really partial to not drying out.”
Eddie blinks, stares, tries to parse the words around the echo of the touch; mouth. Dry. Right.
Right, he…right.
In hindsight, it’s either a very odd or very suggestive comment, but Eddie doesn’t intend to have access to hindsight any time soon, certainly not soon enough for it to matter, because the Mystery Man is blinking at him, and his lashes look like the patters on the hard outsides of a scallop, so long and previously delicate, fanned out to cast their own shadows, catch their own light.
“You’re awake.”
Which: obvious. Idiotic to state plain. No wonder they call him ‘moron’ as a rule on this ship, he does nothing to prove it wrong, though in fairness here and now: how in every hell imaginable is he supposed to be anything but dumbstruck by the eyes open, fixed on his, close-on to glowing with the amber shift of them, like fine whiskey he’d never had the coin for but has once or twice proven light enough fingers to snag. But they’re more than that, even: the same color but caught inside the sunset-meeting-moonrise where it lilts along the water, the copper starburst of it with the soft shift of the waves in greens, bare hints of blues—intoxicating.
What else can Eddie be but a fool, in sight of those eyes?
“Mmm,” Mystery Man hums with a quirk to his lips and stretches between the linens as if they were silks, rather than hole-ridden, and quite suspiciously stained; “for a bit.”
Eddie halts, pulse kicking a little extra hard because—
“A bit?” And his voice doesn’t squeak. It doesn’t squeak.
The way the man’s mouth curls upward calls Eddie out as a bald-faced liar.
“Your friends are,” the man licks his lips as he seems to consider his words; “quite colorful in their attempts at humor.”
Good god, the things, the things they’ve been saying, that this man has heard, about Eddie, and, and—
“You’re stuck here with me?” Mystery Man tips his head, half askance but also almost half apology which: in light of the moment, it’s the oddest thing to concern himself with.
In light of the man’s everything, it is the most absurd concern Eddie has ever been led to entertain.
“I wouldn’t say it quite like that,” Eddie manages to speak almost-evenly, with his heart still thudding loud enough to muffle his own words back to his ears. He’s almost proud of the effort made.
He’s absolutely proud of how it seems to be at least part of what provokes a full smile out of the Mystery Man, and if Eddie’d thought his eyes could, did glow? Gods above: this smile itself, but then compared in turn to the warmth that rises through Eddie to see it, a soft banked fire that rises from his toes and licks around his limbs, swells in his chest: oh.
Just, just oh.
“Good,” the man grins at him, sounds the like warmth Eddie feels, with an extra hint of satisfaction, a gilded edge of teasing maybe, even: “I wouldn’t say I’m stuck with you, either.”
Eddie let’s himself have a moment, even two or three, just to bask in the light of it, the way his pounding heart’s shifted to fluttering: no less frantic but more like how flames can dance, erratic but so clearly life-giving, evidence shone inside their light. He lets himself have the moments before he clears his throat, and tries so best to act like a grown man with some shred of dignity. Only a shred.
He’s not asking for miracles, here. Or: none beyond the vision wrapped above him in a pirate’s best bedding.
“How are you feeling?” Eddie finally manages to ask a question of import.
“Oh,” the man almost startles, or else his brows quirk a touch in something close to confusion before he seems to take stock of himself.
“Mostly alright,” he concludes with a nod; “I’d just gotten,” he chews his lips and oh, perhaps Eddie asked after the well-being of the wrong person in his room, his heart back to drumming because all hells, but that is a sight.
“Disoriented,” the man settles on; “the water was,” but he stops short, cuts himself off and something in what’s not said feels important and Eddie may have chased it if not for how shiny the man’s lips still looked.
“I’ll be fine,” the man smiles soft, then, assured him genially; “you needn’t—“
“They’re suspicious,” Eddie blurts, suspects he lands on it like a die rolled at random in the hopes he’ll say something other than you’re exquisite or the like. At least he rolls random but safe, not to mention true.
“You,” Eddie narrows his gaze, means to nod down to the unexpected quality of the man’s clothing and—
Meets the tufting of chest hair where the bedclothes end beneath the throat. Oh.
“You wore finery,” Eddie manages, and barely that, maybe not even that because his eyes catch the careful drape of the white cloth softer than anything Eddie had ever felt, drying as best as possible across mismatched seating, hoping to catch sunlight when it couldn’t be trusted just to the deck for the breeze, but however it drapes: it is very much drying. And very much not being worn. Which, which means—
Eddie might start believing in the deities for the simple fact that he hadn’t fully processed until this very moment that the beautiful Mystery Man was wholly bare beneath an ownerless shift that someone had scrounged up when they’d stripped his sodden form, drenched from the waters after rescue—and that, aside from the longshirt?
The man was nude under the sheets in front of him.
Especially given his height—about to Eddie’s own but even lying down, hells; even sleeping his frame was more impressive, more expansive somehow—but either way the shift was from a woman once braved back to the vessel, clearly, and it didn’t stretch far past the Mystery Man’s waist and—
Oh, oh, Eddie may have chosen the exact moment to consider belief in the gods just so he could wish them fire and damnation and a swift death for the way his blood rushes southward, the way his eyes dart to the line visible under the coverings where the shift has tucked even higher, under the clear peaks of firm but unbothered nipples—that peek through the linens very much as if they should be bothered, nay, worshippedas a gods-damned rule—but the line of the shift runs just below those tempting buds now, and Eddie is going to damn all the gods to their own hells because of course his eyes drift lower, to where the line was expected to fall; lower to where a different line of a clear curve and shapebetrays itself with an almost casual grace beneath a single thin covering, so close to Eddie’s face, Eddie’s lips—
“This?”
Damn all the gods to every conceivable hell.
Eddie tries to suck in a steadying breath when he looks up, grateful the man’s eyes are cast down but cursing the deities to burn in punishing flames for eternity when he sees the man’s hands near his throat, the linens pooled closer to his waist and the shift pulled down to betray more of the thatch of curls at his chest, but his fingers are threaded through something shining, something metal: a chain, not good but brighter, the likes of which Eddie’s never seen, not Pirate’s gold with its enchantments but similarly beguiling; otherworldly.
How did he still have it, where none of the crew had pocketed it before they left him in Eddie’s charge? How had Eddie missed it in the hours between?
“They think you royalty to ransom,” Eddie chokes out as the man tucks the pendant under to the shift he pulls back up just the slightest bit, and Eddie wills himself not to dwell on what that means for its too-short hem; reveals to his own heart that his will is lacking in the extreme before he barely sighs out: “or some competition to send to the plank.”
Because the clothes, even without the adornment at the neck, betrayed wealth, either by birth or business. Neither was particularly kind or tolerated by a pirate crew.
And ostensibly it was part of Eddie’s job, here, to discern to which the man belonged.
But before Eddie even has a chance to collect himself to something more pressing, if not imposing, the man takes it in his own hands to turn serious in a way that…that feels weighted, heavy in the air. Like the clouds hand spread palms to press upon mere mortals, Eddie none to be spared.
“There is no one who would pay my ransom in any manner you’d deem fit,” the man speaks solemn, but resonant, even if he’s tone is just above a whisper; the words themselves are honest, and that pangs deep in Eddie’s heart—who could not miss this man? Who could not desire nothing more in this world but his safety, his return to their side?
Unthinkable.
“And I swear to you upon all that I am,” and it’s the resonance, again, the way it almost shakes intangible things in the air around them, as if the vow it in as power somehow, or else isn’t actually the important piece of the statement at all:
“I do not deal with, or approve of, the trading companies that pollute these waters,” and there’s a pause, and it strikes heavy too; somehow mournful; “and so many others.”
The man’s voice dips then, there’s no clear reason for the way an echo rings but it does. It rings inside Eddie’s bones.
“I believe you,” Eddie breathes, a little shaky with it just for the gravity still in the room; “but that means we will have to concoct an alibi to get you safely back to shore."
Because Eddie believes him wholly, even if he cannot articulate the why—still, though.
The crew saw tell of riches. They will need a reason—not a particularly ironclad one, none of them are especially sharp—but some means of convincing them to let the beautiful man return to his home. No matter how Eddie wishes he wouldn’t, and not only for his own selfish, foolish wants—if it’s true they’d pay no ransom, Eddie can barely stomach the notion of returning this near-heavenly creature to such people who cannot see his worth.
He begins to ponder, concoct a tale, but then the man intervenes, definitively:
“I did not intend to get to shore.”
There’s something certain in his tone, but something strange likewise in his words. Eddie isn’t sure if it’s their cadence, or their order, or maybe the words themselves.
“You are very curious,” Eddie doesn’t hesitate to say, when an answer eludes him for enough heartbeats in a row.
“I am aware,” the man smiles crooked, but his eyes dance, prismatic.
“You have the most compelling gaze.”
Eddie has to blink a good many times, and swallow around his galloping pulse, to realize he hadn’t spoken. Longer still to process the words hedid not speak.
When it hits him, though, the curse of his easy flush sets his cheeks aflame.
And the breathtaking mystery man smiles wider, stealing breath he’s already taken entire: greedy.
Eddie is flooded with heat, with; with want.
“Does your compelling gaze have a name to match?”
Eddie nearly chokes on the thump of his heart because, how is a man so suave and charming real, and how is he mostly-baker, barely covered laid out before Eddie Munson?
Unfathomable.
“Eddie,” he coughs out, like the syllables get knocked by his riotous heart; “and,” he 
does not squeak, he 
stammers at a particularly high pitch:
“And you?”
“We are…where?”
Not an answer, nor a question Eddie expects. It must show, because the mean leans his chest, and his wholly unreasonable patch of curls between his pectorals just a little bit closer to ask anew, as if to clarify:
“Where would the stars place us in the night?”
Location. Bearing. Right, yes.
“New Providence is far in our wake by now,” Eddie answers in truth, which was part of why the man’s appearance made so little sense, especially in absence of a wreckage.
“Hmm,” the man hums, and strokes his chin—which should not be attractive, which should not somehow find a new way to ramp up his heart rate, and yet.
Eddie can feel the wild pumping graze the neck of his shirt.
“I am known by different names in different places but, no matter,” the man shakes his head and smiles before the first half of the sentence has a chance to make as little sense as it deserves; before he speaks but not just speaks, reaches for Eddie’s hand where it’s still gripping the edge of the bed where he still sits on the floor and Eddie thinks he means to shake it.
No.
No, he lifts it swift to his lips—so >i>soft—and kisses quicker than a blink before giving back Eddie’s hand and smiling oddly…oddly genuine—
“Eddie of the most compelling gaze,” that’s the genuine thing, he means that and Eddie marvels for it; “call me Steve.”
Steve. Steve. The name flows, sings, swims a little like the man’s own eyes. It suits so true.
“In our alibi,” Steve picks up, and it’s unfair for Eddie to call it sudden; it >is>feels sudden, but he has no concept of how long he’s sat and tried to brand to feeling of lips on his knuckles, perhaps minutes at least; “do you suppose there’s a tale to be woven that could keep me aboard with you, for a time?”
And it’s a surprise, but Eddie’s learning: this man, this Steve, is steeped in secrets and surprises. And maybe Eddie wants to devour him entirely.
Asking to be kept here? To stay, near Eddie, where he may have some chance to try and catch him in actual fact, instead of laughable happenstance?
Oh; he’ll give the deities another chance, in that case.
“You’re in luck, fair Steve,” Eddie chances a little hint of a flirt, mostly in heat, for show, but Steve lights up and he lets himself hope as he stands only so he can bow a bit theatrically and look up through his curls with a wink when he says:
“Weaving the perfect tale just so happens to be my strongest skill.”
And he thinks that’s the end of it, that he sticks on a high note but then Steve’s eyes drag across him, up and down where he’s stood in full height before him for the first time and those eyes: they expose him before those lips quirk at the corners and the voice speaks simple and clear but strikes somehow, inexplicable, like a pie down Eddie’s spine as Steve breathes deep, sighs smooth:
“I do not doubt you in the slightest, noble bard,” he says with feeling; “but I find myself unconvinced you’re not selling the rest of your attributes short.”
At which point Eddie may or may not turn on his heel and make for the deck to fetch water for his charge before the blood-rush to his cheeks sets some precarious too-parched woodscrap to flame and put fire to the whole fucking ship.
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unboundprompts · 18 days
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Pirate Terms and Phrases
-> Pirate Lingo
-> A Pirate's Glossary
Batten Down The Hatches - tie everything down and put stuff away for a coming storm.
Brig - a prison on a ship.
Bring a Spring Upon 'er - turn the ship in a different direction
Broadside - the most vulnerable angle of a ship that runs the length of the boat.
Cutlass - a thick, heavy and rather short sword blade.
Dance with Jack Ketch - to hang; death at the hands of the law (Jack Ketch was a famed English executioner).
Davy Jones's Locker - a mythical place at the bottom of the ocean where drowned sailors are said to go.
Dead Men Tell No Tales - the reason given for leaving no survivors.
Flogging - severe beating of a person.
Gangplank - removable ramp between the pier and ship.
Give No Quarter - show no mercy.
Jack - flag flown at the front of the ship to show nationality.
Jolly Roger - black pirate flag with a white skull and crossbones.
Keelhaul - a punishment where someone is dragged under the ship. They are cut by the planks and barnacles on the bottom of the ship.
Landlubber - an inexperienced or clumsy person who doesn't have any sailing skills.
Letters of Marque - government-issued letters allowing privateers the right to piracy of another ship during wartime.
Man-O-War - a pirate ship that is decked out and prepared for battle.
Maroon - to leave someone stranded on a. deserted island with no supplies, typically a punishment for any crew members who disrespected the captain.
Mutiny - a situation in which the crew chooses a new captain, sometimes by forcibly removing the old one.
No Prey, No Pay - a common pirate law that meant crew members were not paid, but rather received a share of whatever loot was taken.
Old Salt - experienced pirate or sailor.
Pillage - to steal/rob a place using violence.
Powder Monkeys - men that performed the most dangerous work on the ship. They were treated harshly, rarely paid, and were expendable.
Privateer - government-appointed pirates.
Run A Shot Across the Bow - fire a warning shot at another boat's Captain.
Scurvy - a disease caused by Vitamin C Deficiency.
Sea Legs - when a sailor adjusts his balance from riding on a boat for a long time.
Strike Colors - lower a ship's flag to indicate surrender.
Weigh Anchor and Hoist the Mizzen - an order to the crew to pull up the anchor and get the ship sailing.
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umstansich · 5 months
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unleash me ( wizard's tower as a prison)
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youhalfwit · 1 month
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If you go, I want to go with you
And if you die, I want to die with you
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sonicmarinermay · 2 months
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A New Adventure Awaits!🏴‍☠️
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yakowo · 3 months
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One more Price commission! Pirate Captain this time ✨🫶🏻✨
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cndarts · 11 months
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captain lupin got in trouble
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sharpedgedfool · 2 days
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jumping ship from one au to the other like the boats on fire
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darkdemeter · 1 month
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SIREN, BE BOUND TO ME
The DARK DEMETER WRITING CATALOGUE, BUCKY BARNES COLUMN (ONESHOT) #1 —
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—- not my gifs, credit to original posters! -—
Pirate! Bucky Barnes x Siren! Female Reader
A/N — Yes. Yes... YAAAAS! IM DOING IT! I'm frickin' writing a pirate Bucky! Mmmm! Fuckin' love pirate stuff, I'm just living for Bucky being a hotto potatoh commanding a vessel on the high seas.
WORD COUNT — 4.1k
READER DISCRETION — Pirate Bucky — semi dark Bucky — submissive/soft captive reader — possessive Bucky — SMUT 18+, Minors DNI! — P in V sex — memory loss/wiping via magic (reader affected) — light use of physical and sexual acts to avoid conflict — indirect breeding kink? — pet names — brief consumption of alcohol — I think that's it?
NEXT COLUMN →
SUMMARY — He is your captain. There is no place you'd rather be than by his side, nothing you could ever want for that is not him. You owe everything, your entire self, to him. And yet overboard and on the tide you set sail across in search for a great and ancient treasure, a song continues to seep through the cracks of your heart and soul... a song so familiar yet unknown. Forgotten. And Bucky reminds you yet again that there is no place else for you that isn't beside him, that there is nothing out there.
  There lays a song forgotten in your heart and soul, distantly faint as the receding tide to the shore. With each spare moment of peace you were given to dwell beneath the lapping waters, you spend a portion of it in search of that song. And what time remains within the falling sand’s glass, you bask in the blue and faded black abyss. 
  Tonight is no different. You could not remember the forgotten song that lulls you tenderly, pulling through skin and scale, calling you somewhere far, much too far, away from the balancing hull above. 
  You could not abandon your captain. Betray the trust between you both. After all, it was he who found you washed atop the rocky crevices of the island, who rescued you from a fate of drying out in the sun’s merciless heat. Who took care of you when there was nothing left of the life you once knew. 
  To break that earnt trust, to betray him, you can’t think of anything far more heartbreaking than that. 
“Time’s up, my Siren,” the voice of your captain beckons you. He calls you to the surface. 
  A sigh ripples through the water and your head tilts up towards the surface, the darkened slits in your milky white eyes shrink away from the moonlight penetrating through the waves. The long limb of your tail sweeps back and forth, thrusting you upwards, skin and scales shimmering brighter as you near the barrier between water and air. The breach pulls a lungful gasp of the night's chillingly crisp air, the only warmth coming from The Avenger. 
  Hair drench-pressed and thinned forms a curtain over your features as you peer up at the looming figure pridefully arching over the ship’s wooden rail. The slivered slits of your eyes grow wider as they focus on him, with a lantern beside him, glass scorched and worn by smoke, it illuminates the upper portion of his body. His white shirt ruggedly wrinkled and loosened to showcase a muscled chest, skin tanned by the sun’s heated kiss, sleeves rolled to the elbow, black ink painted legendary stories over his body in memorabilia. Stories forged into his flesh for all to study and cower in fear.
  He summons you with a kink of his finger and you obey his silent command with an all too eager nod. Around you, the water spirals into a column and rises up, pushing you higher to reach the wooden railing. Aboard the ship, the crew is merry in their celebrations. Another successful day of conquest and battle on the high seas, another amassed sum of gold and valuables to add to hull and reputation. 
  Of course spirits would be high and cheerful tonight. And of course, what was a conquest without the captain’s prize at the end of it all?
  Gathering yourself over the rail and onto the deck, the glistening shine of your tail morphs into two shapely legs, the milky hues of your eyes and other remnants of your true body hide in their human disguise. Your eyes find the hourglass on his opposite side, the sand all gathered in the bottom glass pit. Your captain holds something out for you and you graciously accept his gift, pulling the thin veil of your robe over your naked body. 
  His ocean blue eyes scan you up and down, the left corner of his plush, chapped lips turns upwards. 
“Did you find what you were looking for?” He purrs his question and it brings a cold chill to run up and down your spine, your lungs freeze with what little breath they had at that moment. 
  He turns his body properly to face you, burly shoulders and thick muscles straining the fabric of his shirt. His eyes fold slightly into a sharpened stare of interrogation. 
  “I–I don’t…” You shake your head, breath hitching. “I don’t understand, Captain. I search for nothing that is not you.”
  “Aye?” 
  Your gaze drops to the limb of his remaining flesh hand, the other limb itself brings an uncomfortable yet hazy familiarity, you dare not to look at it up close when in the awoken presence of his intimidating stature. Often you would question its being there and admire its raw and unique - mystical - materials, when your captain lay beside you fast asleep. 
  Wrapped tightly over and under the callousness of his palm, the golden chain twinkles in the pale moonlight, the larger pearl at its centre holstered by binding gold and tinier pearls, beneath the gilded net a more refined shape of a pearl dances on its link. 
  However, your mesmerised pupils flicker up in an instant, brought to the attention of your captain awaiting your obedient answer. A noise is pitched in your throat with the answer but it dies swiftly before its deliverance. 
  Your vision focuses behind him then, up near the ship’s helm, her fingers lace slowly in their hypnotic movement as the fabric of her scarlet magic is weaved together. A warning. You do your best to hide the distressed visage of fear, batting your eyelashes and brushing aside the death of your verbal response, you bow your body forward submissively to his that towers over you.
  When your lips touch his, he almost instantly devours yours in a hungry kiss, the soft caress of your fingers tracing the curves of his chest brings pride and lust to possessively reel you into him, your nude front colliding against the hardened wall of his own. 
  Your hands run their course of exploration up the swollen bulk of his arms until they find purchase and entangle themselves in his dark locks. His own hands ravage your body, kneading the flesh and slim muscle of your hips.
  He groans when you submit to his overpowering will, mouth parting to his eager tongue that shoots forward like a fired cannon, aimed to dominate you in every sense of the word. Your soft whimpers beneath him bring him unimaginable pleasure, the sort that drives him to seek it evermore, with no seeming end to his insatiable hunger for what is you; your entire being. Wolves are known to be ravenous beasts. It’s why he’s known by the moniker as the White Wolf. 
  His tongue fiercely dances over yours, swirling and his bottom teeth tease you by nipping your lip, earning a high pitched squeal from you. He chuckles, the sound rich and dark in its intention. Your core comes alight, burning hotly and the once cool air dissipates as heat courses through every vein and nerve in your body, your mind swimming in the ocean pools of his eyes. Eyes that at times are the only thing you need to be connected to the sea. 
  The prominent tent of his erected endowment presses against your stomach and lower abdomen. You finally pull away, however, in his caging embrace it’s not very far you’re able to move back. 
  “Wait for me in my cabin, little Siren,” he orders gruffly. Your mouth falls agape and you sputter in your rattled confusion. 
  “But I—” Still he penetrates you with that cold stare. It prods at you with radiant intensity, it matches the ominous scarlet glow that now burns brighter now as it moves down the upper deck’s stairs. Your eyes dart between the woman who controls the rolling waves of red magic and the ferocity of your captain’s hardpressed gaze. 
  Your head bounces quickly. “Yes...” 
  A few words of compliance are cut off by a gasp. As you attempt to follow his order and return to his cabin, he halts you within his metallic grasp and pulls you back in, curled lips mere inches from your own, in the clutches of his brazen hold, he commands your attention. Your hands are forced to rest over his chest. 
  He drawls with a warning growl, “Yes?”
  “Yes, Captain Barnes.”
  Bucky nods his head once and lets you go, his eyes flicker between the cabin door and you, silently instructing you to hurry along. Your bare feet barely make a sound over the wooden deck in your traversal towards the cabin, where you would await your captain to claim his prize. Treasure that he greedily gets to have all to himself. The conquest he takes glee in ravishing himself full of. 
  Once you’re tucked inside, exactly where he wants you, Bucky scratches at his stubbled jaw, his recent shave already beginning to grow in again. Wanda approaches his side, the fabric of her magic ceasing at her fingertips like embers passing over into lowly ashes. 
  “That was a close one,” Bucky growls, his tongue that savours your taste runs over his teeth. She hisses with a hushed tone, “With each outing she is given to delve into the sea, my magic weakens, Captain.”
  His eyes roll to glare at the woman beside him. She sighs with a bow of her head, eyes downcast as to not provoke him into thinking her words a challenge. 
  “All I mean to say is that you must reinforce her rules. She’s beginning to suspect far too much, and with each piece of recollection, my power is sapped by her own. Enforce her rules once more.”
  Bucky’s shoulders shrug upwards with an all too arrogant huff, haughty in his conviction. He idly tilts his flesh hand, admiring the piece of you he has wrapped up in his iron grasp. 
  “She will do well to keep in mind her place. She’s intimidated.”
  “She’s conflicted, Captain.” Her words bring about a scowl to Bucky’s face, lips coiled into a snarl and nose wrinkling, eyes thinning. “And it will be a matter of time before she is free of you, and you will be known as the captain who lost his siren.”
  The bridge of this knowledge leaves Bucky in a state of strife. An aspect to his notorious reputation was garnered by your captivity. The White Wolf known by all as the fearsome pirate captain who tamed a siren; held you in the oyster of his clutches. If he did lose you, then his reputation would be suffering a heavy loss. As if to sense his change of demeanour, her hands raise up with her glowing, magic tipped fingers. His nostrils flare and the harsh prestige that made him a force not to be trifled with, he commands,  “Do it.”
  Bucky struts off with a roll of thunder beneath his leather worn boots, swiping up a half drunk bottle of rum and swallows an animalistic gulp, joining in on the festivities of his crew. Wanda observes her captain for a moment before diverting her attention towards the cabin. Her hands fold over one another, and with her palms outstretched, the scarlet hue dances through the air in a thin, cloudy blanket, searching and finding the miniscule gap beneath the wooden door. 
  He pummels into you until your back pushes far into the mattress, eliciting sharp whines and sultry moans from your parted lips, breath caught in a pattern of shallow pants. He chases after his second high as he drives his cock deep into you, the sound of skin slapping skin perverts the cabin’s air and already you begin to feel your core tremble in its own pursuit for its fourth orgasm. With each powerful snap of his hips, his throat chokes out a grunt in his exertions, the girth of his cock sinks deep into the channel of your hot, velvety cunt. 
  “Fuckin’ hell,” he growls lowly with a hiss, “so fuckin’ tight! You feel so good, you’re— taking me so well.” 
  With an exceptionally powerful rut of his hips and he has you on the precipice of screaming, thighs quivering in their hold around his waist, heels digging into the dip of his large, muscular back. Any coherent thoughts and words die on the vine of your vocal cords, only able to procure sounds of pleasure, to chant his name over and over again. 
  “Captain Barnes!” you mewl with fervour. Bucky’s chest vibrates with a husky chuckle. “That’s right, scream my name, let the crew hear you, Love. Let them hear how drunk you are for my cock.” 
  His one palm is laced with sweat, thick and roughened fingers squeeze yours in a passionate display of his dark possessiveness over you. Your captain could be very jealous when another’s eyes lingered on you for even a second too long, many others had suffered the brunt of his fury - weapons ablaze - and you in the end suffered the brunt of his envy with his cock pounding into you for the next several hours. 
  To remind you to whom it was you belong to. 
  His lips suckle one of the erected peaks of your breasts, moaning as his tongue leaves a wet trail around it before passing over to the second to repeat the treatment. Your head turns to the side sharply when the head of his cock splits you open even further than you could previously imagine, hitting a hidden crevice that leaves you without breath. 
  He gauges your reaction, the colour of your eyes blurring, phasing between the natural milky white canvases and the hue of your disguise, your canines and incisors now elongated, all because of the pleasure that pools at the junction where your bodies meet. But for a moment, you catch the glimmer of gold still wrapped around his hand, glimmering metal gnawing and rubbing across his skin, you’re torn between your euphoria and clouded curiosity. 
  “Say it again,” he grunts with a hard thrust that makes his muscles ripple insanely beneath his skin.
  “C’mon, say it for your captain, Love.” 
  Your lips and tongue drag across the flesh of his wrist, the pulse of his racing heart beats through, you can almost taste the rhythm. His sweat tastes strong with his musk, a strong flavour of the salty sea, sandy beaches and gunpowder. 
  You moan softly, almost in a whisper, “Captain… C-Captain Barnes.”
  The effect you have on him is indescribable to him. Never has he been able to put it into words, all he can do is feel it; carnally. The repetitive pounding into that deeper and sweeter spot has your back arching up, the smooth layer of your sweat covered body rubs against his, able to feel each defining muscle, he uses his metal hand to grip hold of one of your thighs, angling you so that you’re spread further apart for him. Your eyes begin to fall heavy and roll back into your skull in your drunken haze, the shimmer of scarlet presently blooms from time to time in them.  
  “That’s right. You belong to me, little Siren. It’s my cock that has you dripping wet.” His thrusts become faster, losing the precise edge he had before, his climax inevitably as close as your own. Your nails embed crescent moons into the skin of his one hand while the other bites into his shoulder. 
  “I’m the only man— fuck! The only man who gets to have you like this. Shit… shit. ’M going to fill you up.” 
  “Please, please… Cap—”
  “Aye, I’m going to fill you up, have you nice ‘nd full until my cum is leaking out of your little cunt, Siren. Fuck… you want that, don’t you? I know you do.” 
  You gasp with each attempt to breathe, each push and pull of his cock strikes you like a match to light the powder keg, the explosion of your climaxes comes as a white hot flash in your vision, momentarily blinding you. Your hot walls squeeze around his large endowment, forcing him to thrust back and forth even harder, grunting hot breaths against the shell of your ear. 
  His seed is flushed into the channel of your pussy in thick, seething spurts that paint your walls that milk him for every precious drop. 
  What he gives makes your lower abdomen weigh a little heavier, a little bit fuller than you were before. His hips grow slower with each dissipating explosion from his tip. His large chest expands hugely with every intake of air to his lungs before deflating as a pleased groan. 
  In his reverie of contentment, having had his fill of his prize - for now - he withdraws his softening cock from your pussy, a moistened pop echoes in the emptiness of your thoughts. Bucky rolls off of you to lay at your side, atop the furs and silken drapes of the bed. Before you can make a move he uses his metal arm to drag you in closer, tucking you into his side, the coldness of his fingers skimming the delicate texture of your arm. 
  The soothing rock of the ship is enough to lull you to sleep, the lids of your eyes inching closer and closer together. 
  “Still deny that you found nothing?” 
  His question only brings your brows to knit together. You shake your head and huddle closer into his side, basking in the comforting warmth of his body. Why on earth would he ask you such a silly question? As if there was anything of importance that outranked him, by being at his side. 
  The answer you give is instant in its resolve, “I don’t understand, Captain. I needn’t find anything out there… I have you.” 
  Your answer, though unable to see it from your position, pleases him and his lips curl into a toothy smirk, long sweeps of his dark brown hair tousled about in his post sex state. You lay your head against his chest to hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat, eyes closing to seek rest and refuge in the arms of your beloved captain. The man that grants you safety, that promises you nights of passion followed by the comfort of his body next to yours. All he asks in return is your loyalty. Your devotion.
  For you to be his siren. 
  Behind the blurry curtain of sleep layered over your eyes, you awaken and by your estimation, only for around an hour or maybe a little more. The morn still hasn’t risen over the ocean’s horizon, the moonlight shimmering and shining over the waves. The candlelight that bathed the cabin with a sensual atmosphere had now burnt out. 
  Breaths of deepened sleep sound next to you, the chiselled sculpt of his chest you’d used as a pillow takes steady form, as he sleeps. It makes you wonder as to what he dreams about, sometimes a scowl is etched into his attractive visage and he becomes restless, leaving you to somehow comfort him. And other times, mostly after he’s spent drawing orgasm after orgasm from the two of you, he finds respite. 
  You take the time to thoroughly yet delicately rub your eyes, robbing the tiredness of its hold to take you once more. With a tilt of your head, hair coming over your shoulder to graze the top of your breasts, his other hand lay out over the bed, residing just over the edge. 
  The mysterious object that somehow you know is linked with you, but as to how or why, or its significance to you in any case, is still laced around his calloused palm. Despite its odd gleam of familiarity, you believe this is the first time you’ve seen it before, however, the tiny voice in the back of your mind says otherwise. Then you must have seen something like it before somewhere. 
  Something deep in the recess of your heart, you have to know. Is this somehow linked to the estranged longing to a home you can’t remember? Does this necklace bind you to the lost melody of times erased from your memory?
  You take caution in moving carefully, inching your way to lean over the sleeping form of your captain, skin brushing skin, you slowly rotate your hips and hoist a thigh over his waist. Heated crimson flushes into your cheeks as you analyse your newfound position, but also from the way his body stirs lightly, still enraptured by sleep yet his body adjusting to your core lining over his naval. 
  Thawed from your frozen idle of panic, you take a moment to calm the racing of your heart that hammers vigorously against your chest, your nimble fingers reach out towards his flesh hand that clings protectively to the mysterious necklace. 
  This almost feels… too easy. You swallow a silent gulp, fingers grazing against his palm when his body shifts, bumping up into yours, you pull your reach back so fast, your hand slaps against his ribs, doing your best to cover up your true intentions. His stills beneath you once more and your shoulders fall lax with a sigh of relief. 
  Again you dare another attempt to grab the necklace, this time you don’t risk breathing, holding it for what seems like forever until your lungs begin to swell with an ache that makes them feel like bubbles about to burst. 
  You work the chain until it's loosened and finally allow your held breath to escape you, the strain to remain silent proving far more difficult than you would have liked. The weight of your body shifts backwards, now sitting up, you allow your eyes to take in every detail of the object in your hands. The gold chain is light, ghostly as it graces your hands, your fingers lace and loop it around amidst the process of your conjuring thoughts. 
  Like a puppeteer pulling the strings you raise the necklace up by its precious thread. The pearl encaged by its makeshift net swings from side to side, as though even when you are completely still, it has a soul of its own accord. 
  Everything you knew about pearls is forfeit, the identity of this one brings the bevel between your brows to form in thoughtful wonder. Therein lies the piece of some puzzle, the missing notes to the melody to which you only recall the faint rhythm of the song. 
  It has to mean something of greater importance. But if it did, then why is your captain so adamant to dismiss your curious nature to find the answers?
  As if the pearl itself is the key, you hear within your heart and soul the song. Voices sing a tone that is calming to your senses, a sweet and endearing lullaby meant for you to hear whenever you find yourself in the loneliest of places, in the darkest reaches of the ocean, the connection will bring you somewhere you call home. 
  But your home is The Avenger. Aboard the ship with Captain Barnes. The man known as Bucky to his closest inner circle. So why do the voices mingling with the tide call you away from all that? With each passing second you become ensnared by the spell of the pearl, the voices of whom you somehow find solace in become louder, the softened chorus of their song echoes a hundred times over in your head. 
  Before you even give pause to reason, your own voice becomes paired with the orchestra of sirens. You have no words, and maybe you never did, all you did need is the pearl to help guide you in remembering the melody. The uncertainty of your humming eases, the unforeseen instructors aiding you, your voice is soft within its deep reverie when it all comes to an abrupt pause, a gasp severing the tune. 
  He has you by the wrist, fingers bruisingly tight and giving you no choice to pull away from him, as he often did whenever he saw you retreat from him without his say so. 
  Bucky’s eyes bear into yours, penetrating the barrier of the necklace, he stares you down the way a wolf does the lonely prey in its path. His eyes match the brooding darkness of a storm at sea, a breed of villainy that threatens those who dare to try him. 
  “Captain…” Your throat bobs with a nervous swallow.  “I– I wasn’t—” 
  Out of pure instinct to not tempt his fury, your hold on the necklace ceases and it gathers in the roughened pad of his palm, large thumb that has caressed your sensitive nub plenty of times now works against the spherical shape of the pearl, brows heavy in their judgement to assess your punishment. His movement is sudden upon the brink of your awareness, a sharp gasp that cuts into the tender muscle of your chest as he plants you flat on your back, hands both of flesh and metal pin your wrists on either side of you until the bruising ache becomes far too unbearable. But you do nothing to voice the level of your pain. He would not hear of it. His newly erected shaft ghosts over your entrance, the beginnings of your slick painting his already drooling tip.  “I’m beginning to think you like breaking my rules, Siren.”
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TREEHOUSE TAGLIST
@identity2212 @sebastianstansqueen @openup-yourmind @kandis-mom @calwitch @cjand10 @ashdoctor @missmarvelophilic
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frostbitebakery · 7 months
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“It’s not as hard as it looks,” Cody admitted. His hand tightened around Obi-Wan’s: he didn’t mean the footwork.
“A good partner makes a great difference.”
Obi-Wan turned his cheek into the weathered ridge of Cody’s knuckles: a roll of sensation, like the deck pitching with a wave. Cody didn’t think he was talking about footwork either.
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for @elwenyere’s pirate AU | dream version and sketch under the cut
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yuki2sksksk · 6 months
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Lionfish based merman Kyojuro and Betta fish based Akaza! (Ft Inosuke the same fish as Akaza but he has split/double tail while Akaza has crowntail)
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[Masterlist]
Edit (tagging those people that first wanted to see merman Kyojuro): @raccoonkumi , @mirrorcatcreditcard , @askcookieanon
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