#yer all still bilge rats though

[avirael]

FFxivWrite 2024

Day 03 - Tempest

(Content warning for slavery and violence)

It was the sound of the pouring rain that brought A'viloh back to his senses in the middle of the night.

Even down here, lying on the dirty old floorboards of the crew‘s quarters, he could hear the heavy raindrops drumming against the hull of the ship.

For some reason the slavers hadn’t locked him up again with the others as they usually did when they were done with torturing one of them. Vaguely he remembered how he had gotten here and immediately wished the rain hadn’t awoken him from his stupor.

He pressed his eyes shut hoping to go back to that hazy numbness, that somtimes graciously spirited his mind away when the monsters returned to fetch him from the cell. He didn’t want to be here and if he couldn’t change physically being here, he at least wanted to be elsewhere mentally.

He was so tired. So exhausted. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, not here. Sometimes he thought he would never be able to sleep again at all.

In the distance he heard the creaking of a wooden door and with it not only footsteps appeared but also the noise of howling wind outside. Heavy boots made the floor tremble right beside his head and he prayed to remain unnoticed, as if a naked Miqo'te with long tangled fire-red hair sprawled all over the floor was something that could just turn invisible. Maybe if he prentended good enough though they would think he was dead and throw him overboard or at least leave him alone for a while.

The man who had entered the room however didn’t pay any attention to him. Nonetheless his angry deep voice startled A‘viloh as the man began to shout.

„Get yer asses o‘ hammock ‘n onto deck! The Seven Hells be breakin‘ loose up thar! The cap‘n wants all o‘ ye ugly bilge rats t‘ muck in!“

A few ill-humoured groans echoed through the room and after another impatient yell by the first mate the remaining crew members reluctantly crawled out of their hammocks and up the stairs leading to the deck of the ship.

One of them stumbled over A'viloh in his drunken half-sleep but luckily just got up again with a string of profanities on his lips but without really taking notice of him.

Then the Miqo'te was left alone in the dark stuffy room and finally dared to breath again. And as the thunder outside began to growl and everything turned silent apart from the muffled sound of the storm, he allowed himself to cry. For a long while his pained bitter sobs where all he could hear until with a deafening crash another lightning struck down from the sky and made the whole ship tremble.

Alarmed A'viloh shrieked and stared up to the ceiling with his arms raised in defense. This sound had been too loud, too close, and the yells on deck got louder and more nervous too. For a a few moment he just lay there and listened, trying to understand what was going on.

Something was wrong.

This is your chance!, a voice whispered in his head but he knew better than to listen to it. The first time he had tried to flee - or whatever you would call the only way to escape from a ship in the middle of the ocean - he had been caught quickly. Immediately they had noticed him running over the deck and before he could even get one leg over the railing they had grabbed him. Their punishment had been severe and the black and blue bruises all over his body still reminded him never to misbehave again.

But what if you all break out at once?, the voice whispered. Now they are distracted. There won’t be a better opportunity.

Weakly A'viloh tried to sit up but every single part of his body protested. He hadn’t eaten anything in days except for a few crumbs of moldy hard bread they had thrown to their captives. Neither did all the bruises covering his body help, nothing dangerous that wouldn’t heal but it hurt nonetheless. He remembered the captain ordering his crew not to damage his cargo beyond repair, after all he still planned to sell them all. And yet A'viloh was quite sure one of them had broken his tail earlier that evening and apart from this he also felt pretty much beyond repair too.

Suddenly something upstairs creaked dangerously followed by a loud crash and more shouting. Whatever was going on there, seemed to be more than a small problem. Maybe no one would see him distracted by the turmoil…

With his eyes always fixed on the doorway he wrapped himself in the tattered rugs he had been given instead of his clothes and slowly crawled towards the stairs. He used the doorframe as support to get onto his feet but his legs felt so wobbly he more stumbled up the staircase than walked. However when he saw the chaos unfolded outside he froze in his his steps.

One of the the two masts had broken and fallen sideways, maybe struck by the lightning A'viloh had heard earlier, causing a great amount of damage to the ship. There was fire, bright and hot, greedily spreading itself over the deck of the ship and everyone seemed to run around without coordination, trying to put out the flames or pulling on some ropes, to at least keep the rest of the ship working. For a moment A'viloh just stared in disbelief before one realisation flared up clearly in his mind.

The ship is going to sink.

He whirled around in panic and ran down the first and also the second pair of stairs as fast as he could, down to the cargo hold of the ship. Weakly he threw himself against the heavy wooden door and rattled at the handle. A face appeared behind the little barred window. He couldn’t recognise it in the dark but the voice sounded familiar.

„A'viloh? You are back! What is going on? Are you alright?“

He didn’t answer the question and instead kept pulling on the doorhandle with as much energy as he still possessed. Of course it didn’t open.

„It is locked“, he croaked and noticed how thin and hoarse and miserable his own voice sounded to him. Disheartened he added, „I think the ship is going down…“

Wasn’t that what he had wished for? For these monsters to get their rightful punishment? Hadn’t he been willing to welcome death gratefully if it meant for him to get away from here?

Why did he still feel so terrified then?

„Do you know where the key is?“, the voice on the other side of the door asked. Nervously A'viloh searched the room in front of the door for any clues but could only shake his head.

„I think the guy with that ugly scar on his face has it.“, another voice called from inside the cell. „You have to get it, A‘viloh! You have to get us out of here!“

Horrified he stared into the darkness of the cell. He would never be able to steal the key from one of these men, especially not if he had to search for him in that chaos upstairs first. And what if they caught him?

„Please!“, one of the Ala Mhigan girls cried in fear but to A'viloh it felt like a slap through his face.

They were all going to die unless he did something. So he nodded and turned around, running up the stairs again. He at least had to try.

When he arrived on the deck wind and rain greeted him, but despite the rain the fire had already gotten worse. Hesitantly he stayed hidden in the half-dark of the doorframe and tried to find the man the woman had spoken about but with smoke and chaos everywhere this wasn’t an easy task.

After a few moments that felt like an eternity his eyes finally landed on a man at the front of the ship, pulling with all his power on a rope attached to the front mast. A'viloh thought he recognized his hair and his clothes even without seeing his face and indeed he spotted a key ring fixed at the side of his belt.

As quickly as he could he sneaked along the side of the ship, trying to stay unseen and avoid running into any of the pirates. But they had different things to worry about anyway…

Carefully he climbed the handful of steps leading up to the front deck, not that anyone would have heard the boards creak through the noise of this tempest.

There right in front of him the man stood with his back turned to him, focused on his work, and at his belt the wanted key ring.

Slowly he stretched out his hand.

Just a little more.

Then another loud crash split the air.

For a second A'viloh thought he had lost his hearing but then he heard the man in front of him scream.

Panicked he jumped backwards in fear but the scream hadn’t been directed towards him. Instead the man retreated while he stared up to the mast, which had apparently been struck by another lightning. Slowly the material cracked and the mast started to tilt. A'viloh could see the thoughts racing on the man‘s face, as he quickly dropped the rope and tried to run away. He wasn't fast enough though. In a slow but unstoppable movement the mast fell towards the back of the ship burying probably a dozen of men beneath it. The weight of the impact tore a gaping hole into the deck and made huge chunks of broken wood fly in all directions.

For a moment most of the screams apart from the wails of wounded had gone silent. Then through the noise of thunder, wind and rain the ship started to groan. A deep, ominous sound that made A'viloh shudder.

Luckily he had remained unharmed by the accident and briefly he wondered if he could reach for the keys still at the belt of the man who lay buried beneath the front mast a few yalms away from him.

But then with another ugly crunching sound the hull of the ship, weakened by the fire and the damage, broke apart.

The whole vessel tilted dangerously sideways.

For A'viloh on his shaky legs it seemed impossible to remain standing.

With a yelp he fell to the floor and began to roll over the wet planks of the more and more tilting ship.

He tried to hold on to something but before he could find anything his back painfully hit the railing of the ship.

For the tiniest moment he was flying.

Then he hit the water.

Shocked he gasped for air but instead swallowed a mouthful of sea water. The ocean felt cold but the salty water burned. In his eyes, in the scratches all over his body, in his lungs. He had never learned how to swim, not that he would have had the power to do so now. Instead he helpless struggled against the waves and tried to reach for a piece of wood that swam in the water beside him.

But the slippery surface escaped his fingers and another wave of angry water hit him, almost pushing him under. Gasping and coughing he thrashed around, trying to stay afloat.

Then finally he got a grip on the broken piece of the ship’s hull. With the last bit of his energy he pulled his body onto the lifesaving piece of the wreckage, before he fainted.

[shamelessliarkickapow]

Arrvatarr! The Last Arrbender!

Just a little WIP

Zutara pirate AU inspired by THIS FUN ART by singswan-springswan and also THIS SWEET PIECE from the Zutara coloring book by fabdante

I have this whole story outlined at about 8 chapters. (*desperate promises to self* This definitely won't be another 100k word story, definitely. I'm aiming for 40k this time. Max.) I'm gonna try a new thing and post parts of chapters here as I go - no backward glances. Chapters will go on AO3 and ffn as they're completed.

Rating: M for violence and sexual content

Summary:

Set four years later than the show in an AU where the Avatar never returned. Instead of finding Aang, Katara and Sokka went looking for Hakoda and had lots of adventures. Fast forward to now, they’ve gathered a few motley friends into their life of piracy. Hey, it’s a living! After seven years circling the globe in search of the Avatar, Prince Zuko finds himself beset by weird pirates. They mean to ransom him, but the waterbender is distracting and Uncle Iroh seems to have some kind of plan so, if Zuko's lucky, this could all turn out okay... But when is Zuko ever lucky? A silly but pretty grown-up story with real swears and some sex stuff. Here be knavish pirate jokes and most ignoble puns - avast ye bilge-rat-vipers! yarrr

Chapter 1, part 1/3:

It was a junky little steamer, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and pirates loved junk.

They struck when the fat waning moon was still high, sparkling off the sea. Katara brought their little ship up from the depths alongside and raised it up on a mighty platform of ice to put their decks at a level for boarding. The wave of their emergence shook the steamer like a can of bees - but that hardly mattered when Sokka swung aboard and Toph dropped off his back. All the soldiers who came running half-dressed onto the deck wound up trapped, bound with strips of steel torn from the very vessel they sought to defend.

“Surrender, ya scabby seal-dogs!” Toph cried, striking a pose and really hamming up the drama. “Or I’ll paint this tub with yer stinkin’ guts before I sink ‘er!”

Most of the time, as soon as Toph broke out the metalbending, the fight was pretty much over. Suki was quick, so she could usually knock out a couple of soldiers before they realized how incredibly out-classed they were. Sokka had drawn his sword and found himself without an opponent so many times now that he usually just posed with it while he demanded surrender. Which was a shame - because it was such a nice sword.

Katara, always watching everybody’s backs, locked the ships together with thick bonds of ice and boarded last to come down hard on any remaining resistance. Tonight, though, she was still on the deck of their vessel, reassuring their new swab that nobody was going to get seriously hurt.

“She doesn’t mean it about the guts, Aang,” she said with a shrug and a crooked smile. “Toph just misses those earthbender tournaments she was telling you about. Remember, we do this to feed our villages through the winter. The Fire Nation can afford to be plundered a little after everything they’ve taken from us.”

This last she said with the faintest measure more steel. But the little monk didn’t notice. He only smiled trustingly up at her, his lemur clinging to his head with a grip on his bandanna.

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” he growled, a kid fully sold on the game.

“And what’s the rule?”

“No airbending - yarr!”

Katara grinned. “Great, now let’s go loot the boots off these guys.”

She took a few running steps and surfed the short distance up to the other ship’s deck, landing in a ready crouch with a tight stream of water looped through the air around her. There was no sound as Aang alighted behind her, but even if there had been, she would not have noticed.

Most of the time, these fights ended quickly. Firebenders weren’t at their best at night to start with. Soldiers rushed out, found themselves overwhelmed, and surrendered. The captain made an appearance and perhaps fought briefly, perhaps tried to rally his subordinates, but ultimately admitted defeat and gave up the goods.

But tonight was apparently a special night, because when Katara landed aboard the steamer, there was one firebender shouting and persistently unleashing all manner of fury in a three-on-one match against her friends.

He didn’t wear a uniform or even a shirt, just a pair of loose sleep pants as if he’d fallen from his bed into battle. And he seemed entirely ready for that battle, based on the way he spun and leapt and kicked unrelentingly in the air, dodging a chunk of metal from Toph even as he kept Suki and Sokka back with athletic moves and bright crests of flame.

Katara noticed at once that he didn’t look like a regular Fire Nation officer. His bared torso was all taut muscle - not that that was unusual, as many officers maintained their conditioning, it was more just… interesting. Drew the eye. No, it was his hair that marked him as peculiar. It was grown long past his shoulders and it fell loose and very straight around his scarred, snarling face. Most officers only kept their hair long enough for their military topknot. It might have occurred to Katara to wonder just what kind of captain this was, but presently, she was more interested in putting a stop to him.

Her water whip cut the air with only a chilling hiss for warning.

.

.

Zuko woke when he flopped hard off the edge of his bed onto the floor. A floor, he quickly realized through the fading disorientation of sleep, that was still swaying from some massive disturbance. He scrambled to his feet and craned his head to get a look out the wide, high window.

On the deck below, something was going on in the dark - but the strange ice that jutted up around his ship shone brilliant and deadly in the moonlight.

“Uncle!” he shouted as he slammed through his door into the hallway. “Uncle Iroh! We’re under attack!”

The old man was already emerging from his quarters, rubbing his bleary eyes. “What, did we hit something?”

“They have a waterbender,” Zuko snarled on his way to the stairs. “It must be pirates.”

“Pirates!” Iroh exclaimed, following at a sedate trot. “How terribly exciting!”

Zuko had leapt far enough down the stairs that he could pretend not to hear that last bit. Uncle had grown increasingly… whiny in recent years. He complained largely of the boredom of their life at sea, constantly trying to get Zuko to do something - anything else.

Hey, maybe we take a little break from searching for the Avatar and visit the colonies! I know a most pleasant spa where the masseuses could work the tension out of a stone. I think it might really change your perspective on things, my nephew. A man needs to release his tension every now and then, you know?

It was insufferable and uncomfortable and Zuko always dismissed the notion and stormed off to scan the horizon… but the old man had a point about the tedium. Zuko had circled the globe in his hunt for the Avatar - and then did it again, and again, until what he was doing was less hunting for the Avatar and more hunting for any kind of purpose or meaning in his life.

Because the Avatar was never going to return. That much had become obvious over the course of seven years spent searching ruins and sniffing out half-baked stories. What had not become obvious was what Zuko could possibly do instead, what other path to honor might remain open to him.

He was confident, however, that such a path would not be found in some thinly-veiled whorehouse in the colonies.

In truth, Zuko was no longer entirely sure he wanted to capture the Avatar even if one did appear. The chance to return home to his scheming, ruthless family no longer inspired in him the driving desperation he had felt when his banishment began. His sister was set to inherit the crown, presumably in half a century when Ozai succumbed to the inevitable fate of the terminally evil-and-wealthy and died peacefully in his sleep.

Meanwhile, Zuko had grown into a man in exile. A bitter and angry yet philosophical man deeply schooled in the arts of firebending, Pai Sho, and longing. Because what else was there to do?

Except, thankfully, finally, thrash a pack of pirates?

The only warning Zuko had about what awaited him on the deck was Lieutenant Jee, hanging by a strap of steel that had certainly not been affixed to the exterior door last night. “Prince Zuko,” he gasped against the pressure of the band, “it’s a metalbender.”

“Impossible,” Zuko managed - but the evidence was there before his eyes.

Beyond the open door, a girlish voice was cackling.

Zuko hurriedly kicked the restraint off his Lieutenant so the man fell free to the deck, then sent him off to rally the rest of the crew. “And get my uncle down here. Now!”

Then, bold and furious, Prince Zuko leapt out the door and reignited the lost fight.

The cackler turned out to be the metalbender, a muscular but petite girl - a teenager - whose smirk and hard postures bespoke unshakable confidence. At the instant of his appearance - almost as if she had sensed him coming and was waiting to do it - she moved through a sequence and ripped a sheet of the deck out from under Zuko’s bare feet. Or she would have, if he hadn’t hurled himself forward into a flip and come down in a roaring kick that crashed down a huge gout of flames. The metalbender blocked with another chunk of the deck.

“Stop tearing holes in my ship!” Zuko shouted, punching more blasts at her to try and flush her out of her shelter. While she was under cover, he blasted the restraints off a couple of his firebenders, then quickly went back on the offensive to cover their rise and return to combat.

“Get a real ship!” the little brat shouted from behind her shield. She shot a chunk of steel at him and he was forced to dodge even though she couldn’t possibly have seen him to aim. “This clunker’s more rust and barnacles than metal anyways!”

“Rrah!”

“Finally!” A lean man with a sword darted in to beset one of the freed firebenders. Zuko didn’t see the fight, but he saw the moment his soldier toppled over the gunwale with a cry. The swordsman grinned and shouted back toward the rigging of the pirate vessel Zuko only then realized was locked in alongside - that’s what all the ice was for. “Katara, you’re missing it! Captain’s out-! Woah!”

He went staggering back from the low arc of flame Zuko kicked in his direction. Zuko turned his whole attention back to bearing down with a sustained blaze on his first opponent. The metalbender was strong, but her technique was a little slow and, if Zuko hit her shield with enough heat, he suspected she might-

“Ow!” She tumbled out of the way, holding one hand close to her chest. “Why you bilge-sucking biscuit-burner! I’m gonna mash you good for that one!”

It happened as if in slow motion. Zuko had drawn back for a knock-out blow and was initiating the punch, but from the corner of his eye, he saw a golden flash and another figure moving rapidly toward him. He redirected his punch but was too late to do more than block the fan that had been about to strike him in the side of the head. The pale, painted face of a Kyoshi Warrior was suddenly there, looming like a specter out of the night.

She was much faster than the metalbender, and came at him with a lightning-quick sequence of jabs and slashes with her fans. For a moment, Zuko was hard-pressed to evade her attacks. She drove him a few steps until he stumbled over one of the torn places in the deck and went sprawling on his back. The warrior darted in-

-but Zuko wheeled his legs around in a dazzling circle of fire that sent her leaping back, blocking with those fans. He rode the kick to his feet and took the offensive, laying down a hard, quick series of blasts that had her backing up toward the pirate vessel, where the metalbender was one-handedly locking the last of his firebenders back down.

Zuko might have been annoyed, had he not been so busy almost getting skewered. The lean guy with the sword came up from his flank. If he had led with a stab, he might have ended the fight right there, but he tried to brain his enemy with the flat of his blade instead.

Zuko didn’t give it much thought as he ducked, darted in close to grab the guy’s sword-hand, and, with a grip on the front of his vaguely Water Tribey pirate jacket, pitched him bodily at the warrior. She was charging him with her fans out to either side and barely managed to dodge out of the way as the lean guy came hurtling past.

“Waugh-!”

Zuko kicked fire to keep her diverted and simultaneously ducked out of the way of another chunk of his ship that came hurtling toward him. He was about to press the advantage when a hissing sound cut the air, he felt a hard jolt of impact, and pain bloomed from his left pectoral like he’d been stung by a buzzard-wasp. He fell a couple steps back and took in this new opponent.

“The waterbender,” he growled, momentarily stunned.

TBC

[sheepwithspecs]

March CarvRhos Ficlet: Rivals

|| FFXIV || Rated G || (2/??) ||

Prompts Found Here!

Every so often I think about how Carvallain and Sicard have the same voice actor.

He was not jealous.

He was not jealous.

After all, what reason could there possibly be to feel envious of a young, inexperienced bilge rat with an ego as large as the Rhotano but none of the brains to back it? It’s not as though he craved the harpy’s undivided attention; in fact, he scorned the very idea. He would much rather be consigned to the Navigator’s hell than endure a full day of nonstop screeching and posturing. If she was too busy consorting with other captains to pay him any mind, then that was all the better.

He could not care any less that Rhoswen and that little milksop of a deckhand—er, acting captain of the Executioners—seemed a little too friendly. That they were standing a little too close and smiling a little too much, and in broad daylight for all the city to see. What did that matter to him? For all he knew, they were planning a coup at this very moment. His concern was purely selfish; it was his duty to keep an eye on them, if only to ensure that he was not their intended target.

It was this concern that kept him lingering outside the Drowning Wench, half-hidden in the shadows of the Mizzenmast, eyes narrowed as he watched the proceedings. That was the only reason he kept an ear cocked in their direction. That was the root cause of the thorny little knot in his breast that tightened each time that boy—Sicard, was it?—nudged at her shoulder with a conspiratorial grin. As if they were comrades. As if he knew her.

He waited in vain for Rhoswen’s notorious temper to flare. Why was she not threatening to toss him over the nearest bridge, or at the very least to cut out his incessantly wagging tongue? To his immense surprise—and disappointment—she didn’t seem exasperated or frustrated in the least. On the contrary, she was listening to his endless ramble with an expression of mild amusement.

“I ain’t forgot me debts, o’ course—” He could only hear snippets of the conversation, Sicard’s voice heightened with excitement and yet still barely audible over the clatter of cutlery and overlapping voices inside the alehouse. “—still owe ye from back when we—entirely free o’ charge, I’ll see to that meself—decent investment opportunity, I’d wager.”

“Hmm… so ye say.”  

“Well?” Sicard practically bounced on the balls of his feet with anticipation, flashing her a bright grin. “What d’ye think?”

“I’ll think on it.” Rhoswen cocked her head, chin on one fist as she studied the young man. “In the meantime, however… see that ye mind yerself, boy.” Sicard’s winning smile faltered, eyes widening as he rocked back onto his heels. “Keep up this kind o’ chatter, n’ ye’ll start to forget yer roots.” The lad let out a sigh of relief, shaking off her advice with a wave of his hand.

“Oh, there’s no need to worry about that. We Executioners might be more of a shipping enterprise now, but I still know who I am in ‘ere,” Sicard assured her, thumping his chest with one fist. “Once a pirate, always a pirate.” “But ye can’t blame me, either,” he added with another too-friendly nudge. “Krakens have a tight fist on imports, n’ Sirens are pulling double duty between feeding the landed n’ guarding the seabound. We Executioners were the only ones who didn’t have anything else up our sleeves… which is why I’m going to work thrice as hard as the rest of ye!”

“That being said… I won’t say no to a push or two in the right direction,” he admitted sheepishly. “Captain says I’m too full o’ meself, but I know good advice when I hear it. N’ while I might not act it, I do like… that is, I guess ye’d say I’m grateful when… erm… if I ever start toeing the line, ye’ll be sure to put me in me rightful place. Won’t ye, Rhos?”

Rhos? Rhos?! The knot unfurled behind his ribcage, thorns digging deep into his flesh and sending a wave of heat through his veins. For gods’ sakes, the boy was more than ten years her junior! Who did he think he was, addressing a lady with such familiarity? Not that she’s much of a lady, he admitted somewhat bitterly. Regardless, he has no respect for his elders— If she was insulted by the nickname, Rhoswen didn’t show it.

“Off with ye,” she ordered, shoving him lightly in the direction of the alehouse with an expression of detached fondness. The gesture, at once both affectionate and annoyed, reminded him more of an older sister taking special pains with a particularly bothersome sibling. Perhaps that is how she views him? Even so, he took the time to glare as Sicard passed him on his way to the docks. The lad glared back with all the plucky haughtiness of the unchallenged, golden eyes fearlessly locking with his own.

“What’re ye starin’ at?” he huffed, more impatient than affronted. He didn’t bother offering a response, arching one brow and hardening his gaze until the boy looked away. Sicard shrugged, rolling the unspoken insult off his knobby shoulders before continuing on.

Turning back to the Aftcastle, he found that he was now the object of close scrutiny. Rhoswen stood alone, one hand on her hip and a puzzled frown tilting her mouth; it was clear she was trying to decide what he was doing alone in the Drowning Wench at midday. He met her eyes and smirked, throwing in a cheeky wave just to further kindle her ire. Scowling, she paused only long enough to flash a rude gesture in his general direction before turning on her heel and stomping towards the Missing Member. The thorns retracted somewhat, the knot smoothing into a far more manageable lump.

Rhoswen could have all the friends she pleased, but there was only room enough for one rival.

Author’s Note: When you think about it, Sicard and Rhoswen’s stories + their relationship with their captain have a lot of parallels. I like to headcanon that she’d view him as an annoying little brother figure who’s trying his best to keep up with the big kids, but he’s not quite there yet. She sees herself in him and secretly wants him to succeed as captain, but if anyone acknowledges it she’ll have to kill them on principle.

[mxrdertramp-moved]

Alright now that I’m awake, here’s an official promo post: Reblog / Like if you’d like to interact with a good ol’ (headcanon based) Kenny McCormick / Mysterion. 

[blackbutterfliescal]

A Storm Of Trouble

A Michael Clifford One Shot

Pairing: Pirate!Michael Clifford & Reader

Word count: 3.3K

Rating: Just For Fun

Requested by: Not requested but it was supposed to be part of the Michael Week @sadistmichael hosted. I’m late as always but I’m still gonna post it 🤷‍♀️

Content: second person POV, gender neutral reader insert, best friends finding themselves in a night of chaos, drinking, swearing, violence but no graphic details, reader as a sex worker, brief appearances of Calum being A Little Shit

A/N: This all started because of that damn earring... I know that romance (in any form) does well on here, but I thought it would be fun to write a friend fic. Sue me. Big thank yous to @mashlums @haikucal @sexgodashton @jae-writes-fanfiction and @cheekysos for encouraging me on this one!

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Feedback is always appreciated! 😊

———

The wooden slats above Michael’s head groaned, heavy with footsteps and many years of wear on the high seas. It was clear that the ship was docking somewhere for the night to restock supplies, but Michael couldn’t be stirred from the hammock where he rested just below deck. Several minutes passed as he concentrated on the slow drip of water into the pail in the corner, looking for some sense of peace in the chaos the rest of the crew was creating. The metal made a sharp sound with each drop that hit, but it was a tone he’d grown accustomed to after many months aboard this particular ship. He often used it to lull himself to sleep, struggling to ignore Calum’s incessant snoring. It wasn’t until one of his crewmates shouted the name of a familiar port that Michael paid much attention to the commotion happening on the surface. Usually preferring to stay aboard the ship and not risk any potential scuffles on land, he now understood why so many of the crew were anxious to disembark.

Port Royal was notorious for the wide array of debauchery around every turn. Especially this time of night, it was always crawling with other scoundrels just looking for a bad fight or a good fuck. Or maybe a good fight and a bad fuck. The derelict port had such a reputation for its treatment of outsiders that none of the king’s men ever dared a visit, leaving the people who were floating through to act as their own law and order. 

The grimy, dilapidated buildings just past the worn dock called to Michael. He’d lived a pirate’s life since he was orphaned as a young boy, sailing far and wide, but this port was the closest thing he had to a home. He only hoped that he could find his oldest friend still in the hut just past the wall where the land met the sea.

———

Michael made his way beyond the wobbly old dock, peering in the dimly lit pubs only briefly as he passed. His well-worn leather boots carried his tired feet through the filthy streets to an all-but-forgotten yet somehow still familiar scene. Covered by the shadow of the night couples of every sort were pressed against each other, no doubt trading secret desires. At his unfamiliar approaching figure, the silhouetted couples all vanished into the brothel before him quicker than he could blink an eye. 

Hidden from easy view in the moonlight, the door slammed against the frame just as Michael approached. His hands, rough from years of work as a swabby, landed hard against the faded green wood thrice before it swung open. It rested uneven on its hinges and revealed a plump young woman in dark red corseted dress. The ruffles around her neckline were no longer a crisp, clean white but still managed to pull Michael’s attention directly to her ample bosom. His eyes continued to work over her figure. He didn’t miss the way her stomach pushed out against the ribbed garment covering it. She was such a sight that Michael considered a short detour before beginning to search the brothel for you.

“Well, ain’t ye a handsome devil. Fancy cracking Jenny’s teacup, eh?”

Before Michael could let a smooth response fall from his mouth, footsteps landing hard under long strides sounded down the hallway. Michael’s eyes, dark with lust, brightened as he took you in. You were exactly as he remembered and somehow completely different. It had been years since Michael was last in Port Royal but the two of you had kept up through letters as you were able. 

“Back off, wench. This one’s wit’ me.” The woman in red threw a scowl and a few choice curses at you as you squeezed past her in the doorway, arms quickly finding Michael in a tight embrace. “Oi, s’that a hornpipe in yer pocket or are ya just happy t’ see me?” You offered him a cheeky grin as his face warmed, caught red-handed, and he cast his gaze past you to find the woman in red missing from the door frame.

———

As seemed natural, you and Michael found yourselves kicked back in the corner of the closest pub. Boot-clad feet resting high on the table and a second bottle of rum nearly gone, you shared laughs and stories between swigs that were drowned out in the raucous noise of the other patrons. Two large men were attempting to settle their score through a game of fisticuffs at the bar and neither seemed to have their wits about them, stumbling on their own feet. A number of recognizable faces from the brothel were here to pick up company for the night, or maybe just the next few minutes. The most familiar face among them was Ash. A wordsmith of sorts, he had settled in close to a pretty, young blonde with eyes so blue that you could make them out across the room. Michael could pick out the back of Calum’s head as he raked in a pile of coins, no doubt employing his sharp mind in a game of liar’s dice.

Unphased by the rowdy crowd, the two of you were content in a universe that was contained entirely at that corner table. Michael told you stories of all the places he’d visited since you’d last seen him. Tales of India and China and all the bounty you could imagine. To be no older than he was, he’d done a lifetime’s worth of travelling. It didn’t come easy though. Work aboard a pirate ship, even with a fair captain, was endless and often meant risking life or limb to secure loot. He also listened intently as you recounted your tale of the one who had left you high and dry after a broken engagement. It had left your heart with an unhealing wound as deep red as the rope burns on Michael’s calloused hands. His eyes remained soft as you spoke of the person you thought was finally going to pull you out of the life you led. Routinely selling your body to the highest bidder had never much bothered you. You often found a sense of power at being the agent of someone’s deepest desires.That was until this one particular person became a frequent caller of yours. You knew no shame about the way you earned your coin but now you were crushed under their broken promises of a steady life, a life that didn’t mean hiding from the law or rousing up drunk sailors just to put food in your stomach.

Neither of you would have chosen life as a criminal for yourselves, but any trace of life before this felt like it belonged to someone else. As Michael began to yell for another bottle of rum, the back door to the pub flew open and landed harshly against the wall behind it. The man standing where the door had been was intimidating.Twice as large as Michael and covered in tattoos. He was flanked by a woman whose arms looked strong enough to crush you with ease and a bald man with a weathered scar down the right side of his face, covered only briefly by the leather patch on his eye.

“I knew I smell’d a bilge rat. Clifford! We ‘ave a debt t’ settle!!” His accent was heavy and you thought maybe it was Irish. His eyes landed on Michael, lounging in the far corner. As Michael’s eyes went wide and he leapt to his feet, he felt his head spin from the booze. The man that had barged in drew his sword and that was enough to bring Michael back for just a moment, long enough to process that he was in trouble. He quickly pulled you to your feet and tugged you behind him. “Shame! We’re jus’ leavin’!”

It took most of your self-control not to spray out the last burning chug of alcohol you’d just thrown back before being snatched up from your seat. You made a quick recovery, considering the amount of rum you’d already swallowed down, crashing out the front door and spilling into the muddy road. You weren’t sure how long the two of you had been in the pub but you’d clearly missed any indication of the current downpour. You splashed through the streets, following Michael’s already soaked form in and out of countless doorways. As he cleared what had to be the twentieth doorframe, he stepped quickly into the corner and pulled you with him. You landed against his broad chest with a thud. It would have knocked the wind out of you if you hadn’t already been breathing heavy from the zig-zagged marathon.

As you took a step back from Michael, he let his fast grip fall and looked around at where he’d landed the two of you. He saw the pigs in the opposite corner sleeping in the cool mud and the horse’s stall just next to the pig pen. He held his index finger to his pursed lips, signaling you not to disturb the livestock. Just as you were finally able to catch your breath, you felt it hitch in your throat again as the large brutish man called out to Michael. “Alright ye filthy animal. I know yer hidin’ ‘round ‘ere somewhere.” You shared an amused glance at the choice of words. Michael began to slowly draw the large blade looped through the belt hanging against his hip, preparing to go down fighting. You felt a brief sense of panic at the realization that you’d left your own sword behind. Spying a smaller handle on Michael’s other hip, you reached your hand out to grip the tarnished handle and pulled it up in front of you. The knife flashed in the low light, smaller than the blade you were accustomed to, but desperate times....

Taking careful steps, or as careful as possible after two bottles of rum, Michael inched his way out of the barn door and into the rain. You were a few steps behind him and hadn’t cleared the door yet when the scar-faced man appeared behind Michael with a taunt. Just as he raised his blade to engage Michael, you brought the heavy handle of your weapon down on top of his head. The man immediately fell face-first into the water at Michael’s feet. Michael’s hair clung to his face in the rain as he spun to give you a wide-eyed but silent thank you, hoping the others that were still after him weren’t close enough to hear.

No sooner did the thought cross his mind than two menacing shadows appeared at the other end of the barn. You stashed Michael’s knife in your belt, bending down to snatch the sword from the man lying on the ground, and took off again hot on Michael’s heels. You followed him around the back of another house and down a pitch black alley.

As you emerged on the other side, a loud grunt sounded beside you, followed by the clang of Michael’s sword meeting the Irishman’s. It was shortly followed by his partner’s blade meeting your stolen one. Though you’d had your fair share of practice with a sword, you felt like a novice next to Michael’s skillful hand. Metal clashed as the storm raining down on the island intensified, lightning strikes flashing through the sky with every scrape of swords. The woman you were up against was clearly a better swordsman than you and you weren’t sure how long you’d be able to keep up. You weren’t sure how it had happened, but she had you backed against a wall. Your sword was the only thing keeping her blade from bearing down on your throat. As quickly as you could manage, you brought one hand to your belt, pulling the knife out again before landing it in the woman’s side. Her mouth fell open and she stumbled back from you as you removed the blade. Her sword clattered to the ground and it wasn’t long before she fell beside it. The wound wasn’t enough to kill her but it would keep her out of your way so you could help Michael.

You hadn’t been able to spare him a glance as you fought for your own life but you weren’t shocked to see that he was holding his own against the giant. You ran up behind the man with a yell and he spun around to meet your blow. After sending you stumbling back a few steps, he turned to face Michael again. He wore the shock on his face as Michael’s blade came to rest in the hollow of his throat. The man slowly lowered his weapon, realizing Michael had bested him. You heard a shuffle behind you as the woman reached for her sword. Your boot landed heavy on top of the metal as you trained your sword on her, daring her to make a move. Behind you, Michael’s words were lost in the sudden boom of thunder. Only when you heard him call your name did you take your eyes off the woman on the ground in front of you. Michael was backing away as he lowered his weapon, seeming to have settled his debt. You slowly removed your foot from the sword on the ground, giving the most menacing look you could manage, and ran after Michael’s retreating figure. When you caught up to him, you noticed that the sleeve of his open shirt had been torn and under it there was a gash in Michael’s bicep. After much persuasion, Michael agreed to follow you back to the brothel to get it cleaned up. If it became infected, it could cost him his life.

———

Bringing Michael in would have caught attention in any state, but as he held onto his arm and dripped rainwater everywhere, you gathered more stares than you would have liked. He leaned over the kitchen table, waiting for you to gather supplies. It wasn’t pretty but you doused the wound with alcohol and Michael seemed more upset at the loss of rum than the burning it caused. Once it was cleaned to your satisfaction, you ripped the hem of your clothing to tie it around his arm.

“Thanks.” His eyes were soft as they met yours. “I would ‘ave been a dead man without yer help.”

“Yer goddamn right! But what else are friends fer?”

You shared a laugh as Michael pushed himself back upright with his other arm, following you back to the front door and out into the night. The storm seemed to have run its course and left only a light drizzle in its wake as you made your way through the streets again, walking under cover of any roof you passed. You walked with your heads ducked between coverings as you laughed and recounted your astounding victory over Michael’s assailants, wondering what happened to the scar-faced man. 

Up ahead, you spot a familiar figure walking in your direction. Without warning, you shove Michael into a dark alley and shush him with wide eyes. Luckily for you, your unfortunate recurring caller had kept their gaze on the ground in an effort to keep the still-falling droplets off their face. They hadn’t seen you disappear but you hadn’t noticed how incredibly narrow this alley was. You shivered as you felt Michael’s warm breath fall across your rain-slicked face. Your feet stood between his and there was hardly enough room between your chests to take a full breath in. Michael’s eyes stayed trained on you, looking for any sign of an all clear. You watched intently, waiting for the caller to pass by. Once they made their way by the narrow opening where you hid without suspicion, you placed your hands on Michael’s sides to steady yourself and pushed your head toward the street. As the figure made a turn, you counted to three silently and stepped out into the street again with a dramatic exhale. Michael slowly followed you with a quizzical look on his face.

“Ya can wipe that look off yer face, ya smug bastard. I ain’t talkin’ ‘til ye explain the burly man and his goons chasin’ ya earlier.” Michael’s expression dropped with a humorous scoff, unwilling to share what had landed him in such trouble. Nights like tonight were exactly why he preferred to stay aboard the ship. He just couldn’t resist the chance to catch up with you. You also knew that tonight would cost you. Literally. You’d have to up the ante the rest of the week to make up for the night out but you felt that Michael was worth it.

———

Conversation continued to flow easily, as if nothing between the two of you ever changed. You weaved through the streets, careful to avoid main thoroughfares for worry of any more excitement. Two close calls was enough for one night. It didn’t slip your notice that both of you took to yawning big, deep breaths much more frequently as the last few hours slipped by, a sign that the morning light was well on its way. You knew you’d be able to catch a few hours of sleep once Michael was back on the water, but you also hoped he’d be able sweet-talk someone into letting him curl up in his hammock for a little while. You didn’t give it too much worry though. You knew Michael never had trouble sweet-talking his way through anyone. He’d always been a charmer.

As you made your way through the last side street and onto the dock, you heard a loud rumble of footsteps and immediately braced your newly-found sword. Your other hand fell on Michael’s knife, still tucked into your belt, and quickly handed it over to him as he drew his own blade. A flash of surprise crossed his face as if he’d gone all night without realizing the knife was missing. The sounds of enraged men grew louder as they rounded the corner. Michael immediately recognized Calum at the front of the crowd, realizing quickly that Calum’s clever antics had landed him in trouble yet again. You followed Michael’s lead and dropped your weapon as he let out a full-bellied laugh. As Calum dashed past you down the dock, he yelled out a casual greeting and flashed a cheeky grin. “Michael!” One hand raised to meet his brow in a salute. “Michael’s friend!” Another salute.

You joined Michael in another fit of laughter. As he turned to watch Calum running down the dock to their safe haven, Michael saw their ship and realized the ropes were being pulled off the dock as the ramp to the ship was being dragged back over the railing. A few curses fell from his lips as he took off in a dead run after his friend, yelling something unintelligible over his shoulder that was surely meant for you. You thought it was something about not groping for trout in any peculiar rivers but had no idea what he could mean and dismissed it as Michael being Michael. Your sides began to hurt from laughter as he passed the angry mob to catch up with Calum. Both men leapt through the air at the same time as their ship pulled away from the dock. Calum’s hands grabbed hold of the railing while Michael employed his knife to keep hold of the ship. Calum pulled himself overboard with ease and turned to quickly bring Michael onboard with him. A few brave, but ill-fated, members of the mob risked a jump but landed in the water with a splash. They resurfaced with enough curses to make Blackbeard blush. Michael threw an obscene gesture at the disgruntled men before lifting his gaze to wave goodbye to you as they made off into the bright sunrise under a clear sky.

———

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[axispheydra]

Prompt 24 - Groveling

Hastswys had begun singing right before she and Orara took the aetheryte to Mist. Half of the words were mumbled, and the other half weren’t things Orara thought anyone should’ve been singing aloud, but the other passersby of La Noscea appreciated her crooning.

“C’mon Orara, sing with me!” she said, patting the Lalafell on the back.

“I don’t even know the words,” said Orara, trying to walk in a straight line. They’d both had a little too much to drink, and while she normally wouldn’t be doing this type of thing not sober, maybe that had contributed to their decision. After all, it wasn’t every day you went out to ask your Free Company leader if he framed one of the other members.

“You ain’t no fun, lass! It ain’t ‘bout the words, it’s ‘bout the... yanno, th’ sounds! How it sounds in yer head! That’s what’s important.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard plenty of that in the Flames,” she said, scanning the houses that lined the ward. Their own Company house had its lights on, which meant someone was inside, and that someone was like Ganzeidin. He hadn’t left much since the show down with Ibe’ir the other night. A loud, rhythmic sound could be heard from inside- likely Ganzeidin repairing the damage that had been done.

At the door, Orara muttered under her breath as she fumbled with her keys. The door handle was damn high up, and someone kept moving the crate she used as a stepping stone, so with a sigh, she handed her set to Hastswys. “Can you get that?”

“Sure, sure, I got it,” said Hastswys, taking the keys and unlocking the door after only three tries. “Ganzeidin!” she called, pushing the door open. “Where are ye? We wanna chat with ye!”

“Office,” he called, recognizing his sister’s voice. She was the only one who could talk to him like that, Orara had noticed.

He looked up from the hole he was boarding over when the pair finally entered the room. That part of the wall would always be foreign, a blemish on the Free Company’s estate from when Ibe’ir had blown a hole in it. He was making decent progress on it; perhaps that was part of the reason why he seldom left.

“Wondered what you meant by ‘we,’“ he said, eyeing Orara.

Hastswys nodded. “Yeah, yeah, me an’ Orara were just thinkin’-”

“And drinkin’, by the looks of things,” he said, turning his attention back to the hammer and nails in his hands.

“Guilty as charged,” she laughed. “But no, no, we just had a coupla questions.”

“About what happened the other night,” said Orara.

Ganzeidin stopped hammering. “Go on.”

Orara felt the world become a little more focused as she spoke. Though she was still fighting to keep standing straight, the space around her leader became clearer. “What did you and Ibe’ir talk about when you asked us to leave?”

“Can’t you guess? He was tryin’ to defend himself, but I wasn’t havin’ any of it. When he realized that, he blew this damn hole in the wall.” He grumbled and went back to pounding nails. “Gonna take me a moon to get fixed up right...”

“He said you called him on linkpearl and told him to come here.”

“You sayin’ you believe that shite-eatin’ bilge rat?” he said, raising his voice. “After all I did fer you an’ this Company? If I’d have known you’d be sayin’ shite like this, I woulda left your arse at the Drownin’ Wench!”

Hastswys spoke up this time. “What about the arrow, Ganze?”

Ganzeidin rose to his feet, turning to face the two women. “The one that got me in the leg? What about it?”

“Ganze, he...” Hastswys swayed for a moment, frowning. Orara hadn’t thought about it, but they were accusing her brother of something heavy. It was only natural she’d be hesitant. “He didn’t have a bow, Ganze.”

“Hastswys...” His voice softened as he crossed the room towards his sister. “It was dark, aye? You just didn’t see it. It was a... a stressful night, you ain’t rememberin’ it properly.”

Hastswys nodded, but Orara could see the doubt in her eyes. “I don’t... maybe...”

“Hastswys, you know how important this Free Company is to us. Why would I lie about somethin’ like this?”

“Yeah, you got a point there,” she said, shrugging.

Suddenly Orara felt the tension in the air. She had already taken a step back towards the door when Ganzeidin turned on her. “But you. You been in this Company less than two moons, an’ yer tryin’ to turn me own sister against me?”

“That’s not it,” she said, taking another step. “I just wanted to make sure-”

He took a step forward to match her. “How do we know you ain’t the one who stole the gil, eh? You Ul’dah types are all that like, greedy bastards who’d sell their own kin for a handful of gold!”

“I’m not like that.”

“Yer tryin’ to set me own blood against me, ain’t you? I told Hastswys we didn’t need you in the Company, but she insisted!”

“Ganze, she just wanted t’make sure everythin’ was okay,” said Hastswys, putting a hand on his shoulder. “She didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

He shrugged off her hand, now shouting. “Look at you, sister! She got you all plastered so you could come over here an’ start accusin’ me! An’ you almost bought it!”

“It ain’t like that, Ganze! Just listen for once!”

“I’m done listenin’.” With a growl, he lowered his shoulder and charged at Orara. Eyes widening, she leapt out of the way, scrambling as she heard the crunch of him impacting the door.

“Hells are you doin’, Ganzeidin!” came Hastswys’ voice.

“Cleanin’ up this damn Free Company!” he shouted back. “We ain’t got room for anyone like that in here!”

“Yer gonna hurt her!”

“Like her boy Ibe’ir did to me?”

Orara rose to her feet, already feeling the adrenaline pumping through her limbs. She had to get out of here, fast. “It’s not like that, Ganzeidin!” she said, though she knew her words would fall on deaf ears. “I want what’s best for the company too!”

“Liar!” Ganzeidin turned on her, bringing his foot forward in a savage arc. Orara should’ve been fast enough to roll out of the way, but the alcohol had dulled her reflexes, and she caught his foot in her shoulder, sending her skidding back across the floor. The Roegadyn was quick to chase her, his large hands grabbing for her head as if to squeeze the life out of her.

Again, Orara was reminded that the world was very big, and she was very small.

“Fuck offa her!” She heard Hastswys’s voice from somewhere behind Ganzeidin, and the shadow that loomed over her face fell away. “Get outta here, Orara!” she shouted.

Orara’s limbs moved without any input from her thoughts. Even when Ganzeidin’s hand reached for her and found purchase on her gun, she simply undid the belt and fell away.

Falling onto her backside, Orara was able to watch as Hastswys wrestled her bother to the ground. “Fuck are you watchin’ for?” she shouted. “I said get outta here!”

And she did. Some part of her shouted and yelled to go back and help, but what could she do now? She had no weapons, and they were both so large, what could a Lalafell do in that situation?

She ran through the streets of Mist, the cold night air slapping her cheeks as she went past. Only when she arrived at the entrance, where a pair of Malestrom guards were standing, did she finally stop. One of them remained with her as the other dashed off to the Company House.

“You alright?” she asked. “Don’t worry, we’ll help your friend.”

Orara only nodded, feeling her limbs trembling as that last imagine replayed in her mind. She hoped Hastswys was safe, but before she was able to say anything to the Malestrom officer, a voice came over her linkpearl.

“I don’t appreciate what you’ve done, Orara,” said Ganzeidin, his voice low. “Siccin’ my own sister on me... I can't forgive that.”

Despite the fear that wracked her, Orara answered. “Where’s Hastswys?” she demanded.

“I ain’t gonna hurt her. She’s my own blood! More than I can say for you, lass. So you better-”

Orara knew listening any further was pointless. She instead took the linkpearl from her ear and dashed it on the ground, despite protests from the Maelstrom officer.

“Miss, what’re you- where are you going?” Although they shouted, they did not try to stop her.

“I can’t stay here. It’s not right.” Her limbs began to protest her own movements, but she dared not stop. “A paladin exists to protect those who need it.”

“A what?”

“A paladin!” she turned to the guard, eyes wide. “I’m a paladin, dammit! And I’ve gotta...” she swayed for a moment, shaking her head as she went. “I’ll do something about this.”

[rayne-storm]

Nemesis Mine

My first real story on my writing blog! I dedicate this to @rpsocsandcanonohmy, a delightful person and rp partner.

This is based loosely on the Nemesis comics from Hark! A Vagrant!~

Blood and gunpowder. After 12 years on the sea, he knew these smells intimately. They, with the beautiful richness of the surrounding ocean, were the greatest scents to awaken to. They meant that another adventure was upon them, and, if the seas were willing and the winds favourable, that he would be the source.

Upon leaving his cabin in his resplendent gold and purple coat (now tattered and torn but still commanding attention and authority), he sheathed his nicest sword. The illustrious and magnificent Captain Mesmerize (Esmer) L’Enfer strode to the helm of his pride and joy, The Beast, and saw that his suspicions were confirmed.

The ship that had broadsided them was none other than The Belle Rose, and the wretched men now leaping across to his own vessel were commanded by none other than the horrible, terrible, deliciously vile Captain Harry Hook. The only man he had ever truly hated, and the only one he knew he ever would. Esmer would die before he would find anyone so loathsome, so awful, so perfectly, perfectly monstrous. No, Hook was the only one for him, and he always felt his heart beat faster in loathing whenever the bloody bilge-rat affirmed that the feelings were mutual.

He recalled briefly their various skirmishes over the years. Ten years, to be precise. He remembered with disdain their first skirmish -- he had been caught stowing away and pilfering loot on a small cargo ship that Hook had been apprenticed on.

They had tussled fiercely, no quarters were held. The fight lasted nearly an hour and a half, and they ended up giving each other scars: his being a hideous slash through his left eye, and Hook’s a nasty patch of scar-tissue on his right cheek. They had loathed each other passionately ever since.

Esmer could not hide his fierce grin on the sight of the chaos aboard his ship. Fighters were dancing in fantastic feats of fencing and pugilism. He noted with grim amusement how it appeared that several of his men had found their own nemesis amongst the Scotsmen. It was terribly convenient, everyone able to fight with minimum crossover between waters. It made him grin to see that many of the fights were nearly as fierce as his was sure to be. However, Hook wasn’t among them, which left only one possibility -- the delightfully devilish bastard was waiting for him.

It was cocky and arrogant, to be sure, but after all the years they had been at each other’s throats, he expected nothing less.

Their third fight, Hook had nearly cut off the necklace he wore -- a simple locket with the bloody brigand’s picture in it, close to his heart to cause it to always beat with rage. They had paused when the string had frayed, Esmer hurriedly catching and removing the trinket, stowing it in a pocket of his coat. Hook had naturally attempted to overpower him (to show he absolutely did not care) and he had slashed up instinctively to reveal a silver pendant. His fury was nearly palpable when he saw a terrible attempt of his own likeness. It was official: they were each other’s nemesis.

Calmly walking through the carnage (though no men had actually died, he noted with immense satisfaction) and to one of the gangplanks, he spotted a light from the Captain’s quarters, and he chuckled maliciously. This was almost certainly a deadly trap, which could only mean one thing: the slimey limey had remembered their anniversary. Oh how he hated the perfectly punctual fop. It was positively awful.

“Alas, you pox-ridden louse, I can see through your deadly trap,” He growled with a smirk as he stood in front of the door to the captain’s quarters.

“Well, that’s certainly a shame,” came a smooth and suave voice right above him. He looked up and, sure enough, on the catwalk was his nemesis.

He began to climb down the rigging, and Esmer got a better look at the lout. He was dressed in his finest cloak, recently pressed and mended to perfection. He was the picture of Hook-ish propriety. It filled the pirate with pure loathing.

“What, get all dressed up for me?” He hissed, taking a step back.

“Of course. I decided that I would prove that I’m the better fighter. When we’re done, I won’t have a mark on this coat,” the vile worm said with an arrogant chuckle. That was just like him.

“Oh sure. I’ll let you think it a moment longer. You’ll still be grinning when I run you through!”

“We both know otherwise, ye filthy rat.”

“Oooh, those be fightin’ words, boy.”

“Boy? I do beg yer pardon, but ye’re hardly three years me senior, old man,” He spat. Esmer chuckled darkly, drawing his sword and suddenly launching towards his foe.

The battle raged on for hours, each holding his ground remarkably well, as they had by now long since learned each other’s tactics. Both were exhausted, staggering about the narrow walkway.

“I... ain’t be raisin’ any white flag, you dog...” Esmer gasped out, panting heavily.

“Nor will I surrender... ye dirty bastard,” Harry quipped back as they both slid down to the ground.

“Don’t... Don’t think I didn’t notice yer necklace chain,” Harry muttered. It was true the fearsome pirate had recently acquired a gold chain in one of his many plunderings.

“It be none of your business,” he said grumpily.

“No, it’s nice. Won’t fall off that way. I had thought of getting you a new one, after I nearly cut through the other”

“Oh... Thank you kindly, but I don’t be needin’ any charity from a Hook brat.”

“Hm. Good thing I spent that latest haul on me baby sister, then.”

“How is dear Lilly? Her child is what, four now?”

“And a little monster. You’d be proud,” the weary man said with a chuckle, before adding, “but she sends her love, and thanks you deeply for that warm blanket you gave her. Says it helped them through a hard winter.”

Esmer smiled fondly. Lilly was a good lass, had a heart of gold that melted even his iron demeanor. It was always good to get along with the family of one’s nemesis, since that way one was regularly updated on their comings and goings, and thus better able to plan battles and traps.

Harry sighed, glancing to The Beast.

“I believe my men have won this day, old man. Good thing ye’re already here. I’d hate to have to drag ye over that rickety old plank of yers.”

“Aye, it appears lady luck has smiled on you. Though I haven’t got the first bloomin’ idea why,” Esmer finished with a scowl. Still, he made no move to get up, watching half of his crew being taken onto The Belle Rose. The others were left on The Beast, sneakily plotting ways to free the prisoners. The cycle would begin anew, and the next time it would be The Beast that held the prisoners, as was proper nemesis etiquette.

Still that was for another time, and as he was pushed roughly into his cell inside the captain’s quarters, Esmer couldn’t help but grin maliciously. The awful bilge rat had really gone all out, and this anniversary would not be soon forgotten. It was absolutely dreadful.

[tyranttortoise]

Fell Underwater

Soooo, for Day 9, I wrote something that I’ve wanted to write for a while!  It’s a small one-shot drabble of me doing some world-building on an AU I’ve had on the backburner for a while.  It’s pretty much Oceanfell, I suppose, but mine doesn’t really follow any of my standard Oceantale headcanons, so maybe Fell Underwater?  Or Ty’s Oceanfell?

-shrug-

Either way, it’s got pirate skeletons.  

I did quite a bit of world-building before I got to the smut, so I’m going to post all the SFW bits here, with a link to continue reading on Ao3 at the bottom.  Hope you guys enjoy!  It’s the first thing I’ve written with a legitimate AU and AU Sans that’s mine.  

You’d always had terrible luck.

If something could go wrong, it couldn’t just go wrong for you; no, it’d be a disaster.

That’s why you saw it coming. The Raffle occurred every seven years, after all. When you came of age to be put into it, you tried to run – to move away from the coastal city you despised – but they dragged you back, kicking and screaming. Your name had been entered thrice as punishment, but somehow, you miraculously didn’t get pulled.

You knew your luck wouldn’t last, however. You knew it, and yet, you weren’t able to leave the city, your infraction pushing back your request until after the next Raffle. And when they called your name that time, along with six others, you weren’t surprised in the slightest. When they forced you to stand along the coastline, dressed in your best attire, you didn’t wail or whine like the others. No, you impassively stood there, glaring at the crashing waves and cursing the fact that you’d been born beneath a terrible omen.

When the pirate ship rose from the depths of the murky water, sporting a Jolly Roger sail and a skull with flashing red eyes affixed to the bow like a demon rising from hell, you sucked in a breath and put on a brave face. When literal skeleton pirates disembarked from their vessel and began examining the sacrifices, trying to pick out which one had the strongest SOUL to power their barrier, you concentrated on keeping your breathing even. One by one, they Confronted the others, calling forth their SOULs despite their frightened cries. You kept staring straight ahead, though you saw flickers of greens and purples and light blues from your peripherals.

And then the shorter of the two skeletons stopped directly in front of you. You defiantly stared at a point just past his shoulder, and you could see his smirk widen, the sharp golden tooth glinting. Skeletal phalanges gripped your chin and tilted it back, forcing you to look up and meet his single crimson eyelight. The opposite socket was concealed beneath an eyepatch, a jagged crack vertically running through his orbit and disappearing beneath his feathered hat. Despite the grandeur of his attire, his appearance was slovenly, the dark jacket too big for his frame, a rusted shackle clasped around his neck, and his ivory, button-up shirt mostly undone and halfway untucked.

“well, well…” the monster drawled, tilting his head as he regarded you with amusement. “ye look like a lass that gives no quarter. i wonder if that’s the tale yer soul’ll be singin’.”

A shiver ran up your spine; you could smell smoke and must on his breath from his close proximity, and you had to avert your eyes. He chuckled, and the tips of his fingers dug into your chin. In the next moment, you felt something grip within your chest, squeezing the very breath from your lungs. The feeling forcibly ripped something from within you, and you gasped, the world suddenly draining of color.

All except for the bright orange glow of the little heart floating before you.

Your SOUL.

The stout monster’s bone brow raised, and the light seemed to draw the attention of the taller one. You barely registered the other’s lankier, more jagged appearance; everything seemed muffled, like their voices were coming from underwater.

When they both smirked at you, you finally allowed yourself to feel fear.

A month has passed since that day, and yet… you’re still alive.

Your SOUL hasn’t been harvested for the barrier, and the skeleton brothers (you discovered they were brothers the second day, when you realized just how comical their nagging, back-and-forth banter could be–under other circumstances) have kept you fed and well. Their boat descended beneath the water, to some part of the ocean that felt much colder than you expected, but… you were actually able to breathe and see just fine underwater. They amused themselves in watching you struggle that first day, desperately holding your breath and clawing at the porthole of your cabin.

“FOR SUCH A COURAGEOUS LASS, SHE’S RATHER DAFT,” the taller one (Papyrus, you later discovered his name was) rasped as he passively observed your struggles.

“breathe, bucko,” his brother (Sans, the one with the golden tooth and promiscuous winks) instructed, chortling over your display. When you actually gave in and were forced to take a breath, you were surprised when water didn’t fill your lungs. You turned your wide-eyed stare to your captors, and they both started laughing all over again.

“did'ja really think we’re such monsters that we’d drown ya first thing? underwater’s full o’ magic, lassie. an’ magic can do all sorts o’ things.”

You’d hated them at first. Their mocking smirks, their probing questions… you avoided talking to them, but also flailed your arms out whenever they got too close. If you were going to die by two monsters much stronger than you, then fine. The world was cruel, but you accepted the impossibility of your situation. But that didn’t mean you were going to just roll over and let it happen. No, you were going to fight for your life until the bitter end.

As time stretched, however… you began to wonder what was taking so long.

You had full run of the lower decks of the ship, though most of the wood was rotted and riddled with holes that you could easily slip through if you wanted. The first time you attempted that, however, a monster with jagged teeth and fins almost immediately devoured you. Sans had been there to save you; he’d apparently been lazily tailing you the entire time. He didn’t force you back to the ship, but he warned you of the dangers lurking beneath the ocean. It confirmed every horrifying myth you’d ever heard growing up.

You tried to swim to the surface, but your arms and legs got so tired that you actually passed out. When you woke up, you were back in your cabin, with monster food left on the nightstand. Sometimes, it was disgusting… sometimes, it was actually delicious. It depended on which brother brought you the food.

One night, when Sans was in your room, kicked back in a chair with his feet propped up (one of his legs was a peg leg, you’d discovered) and his hat tilted over his face, you finally spoke.

“W…why?”

Your voice was hoarse, and cracked with disuse, but the sound was enough to rouse Sans immediately. When he tipped his hat back, surprise was clear on his face, though he quickly amended it with his usual smirk. “ahhh, so she finally speaks! i was beginnin’ to wonder if ye were mute, lassie.”

You ignored the comment and pressed on, “Why am I here?”

He shrugged with nonchalance, crossing his boot over his peg leg. “ye got a fool’s luck an’ one o’ the strongest souls i’ve ever laid eyesocket upon.”

“But if you were going to use my SOUL for the barrier… why haven’t you done it yet?”

He’s silent. After a few moments, he starts to snore.

UGH, did he seriously fall asleep in the middle of an important conversation?

More time passes, and you’re still alive.

You begin speaking to Sans whenever he comes by to loiter in your cabin, and you also begin eating meals at the table with both brothers at night. They’re growing on you, despite your best efforts.

There’s even a moment where Sans falls asleep on the couch in your cabin, and you end up moving to lie down on the cushions beside him. You don’t know if it’s Stockholm Syndrome, or the fact that these brothers have been much nicer to you than any human has on the Surface, but… you just wanted to be close to him.

He slings his arm around you, and you fall asleep with your cheek pressed into the ribs exposed from his sloppily-buttoned shirt.

When you awaken, you’re back in your bed and wondering if it was all just a dream.

Whenever you ask Sans why you’re still alive, he either hedges the query or Papyrus decides to choose that very moment to interrupt.

“SANS! YOU BILGE RAT, I SWEAR YOU’RE ALWAYS SLACKING OFF! IF YOU DON’T COME HERE AND FINISH YOUR WORK INSTEAD OF CONSTANTLY GALLAVANTING WITH YOUR WENCH, I SWEAR YOU’RE IN FOR SOME KEELHAULING!”

Sans rolls his eyelight. “aye, cap'n!” he calls, dead-pan and irritated. Then he gets up and moves to leave. “we’ll continue the conversation later, lassie.”

Yet he continues to avoid it until weeks later.

You’ve both had too much grog–which you’ve discovered is apparently a more tolerable version of rum.

Sans has had a rough day, evident by his drinking. You’ve come to be able to pick up on his moods, but he always plays it off when you attempt to pry. Your inhibitions are down enough that innocent joking and flirtatious smiles turn into touches–teasing and light at first, but then bolder, more exploratory.

“careful, lass…” he warns, his voice a low growl. His forehead is against yours, his usual hat now tipped back on your head. You’ve managed to completely unbutton his shirt, and your fingers are gingerly moving along his ribs, feeling over the grooves and ossifications from countless partially-healed fractures.

“What? Am I going to ‘awaken the kraken’?” you tease with a smirk, and you catch him off-guard enough that he makes a strangled choking sound before he starts chuckling.

“ok, that was a good one. yer jus’ full o’ surprises, ain'tcha?” His eyelight is much brighter than usual, his socket half-lidded as he hums when you hook your fingers around his sternum and start rubbing along the underside. “ye'know, ye got too many buttons still in-place. let ol’ sans take care o’ that.”

“What a gentleman,” you continue to tease as he reaches out with both hands and abruptly tugs your shirt apart. The buttons pop off, jettisoning through the water. It’s his shirt you’re wearing (his slacks, too), so you don’t mind the fact that he just ruined it. If anything, you find it to be a turn-on.

“aye, but i prefer the term ‘swashbuckler.’ in this case, i’m ‘bout to swash yer buckle aside.”

*continue reading on Ao3

[officialcbkw-blog]

          ' ARRRGH YE GOD DAMNED BILGE           RATS ! ! ! GET YE ASSES OVER           HERE OR I'LL SEND YE STRAIGHT           TO DAVEY JONES' LOCKER FOR GOOD ! ! ! '

          It's the SCREAMING that jolts you out of bed ------ but you don't exactly run just yet. You stay in bed for just a few minutes ( maybe five or ten ? ) until you hear the dreaded chime of the Toreador March ring throughout the pizzeria; the very same melody that played right before Hakuno Kishinami was found dead ( an unfortunate act of heroism gone wrong ! ). Something wasn't right ------ someone was MISSING.

          ' HOW DARE YE TEST ME, YE           SCOURGE ! ! ! I SAID GET YE           NO GOOD SWABBIE ASSES           TO THE BACKSTAGE RIGHT           NOW ! ! ! '

          Oh okay, the warden was serious & you had the sinking feeling that if you didn't move, you'd only make things worse.  You move from your bed & begin run ( or rather ------- drag yourself there if you're one of the UNFORTUNATE ONES that got springlocked. ) to the backstage. The sight of the feared Captain at the stage stops you in your tracks & you can only shudder as his yellow hues stab right through your soul. A growl escapes his breath as he quite literally SNATCHES the microphone from Freddy's hand; ranting & raving more & more.

          ' YE FUCKING SCOUNDRELS           THINK YER SO BRAVE ? YE           REALLY THINK YE CAN GET           AWAY WITH SABOTAGING            THE SUITS ? ! YE BE THE MOST           MISERABLE EXCUSE OF A CREW           I EVER HAD TO DEAL WITH ! IF I           EVER FIND OUT WHO DID THIS,           THEY'LL BE WISHING THE CIRCUS           WENCH EXECUTED THEM ! '

          Strangely, Circus Baby isn't speaking at all. In fact, there's a look of FRIGHT on her face that you've never seen before as she stands below the stage. It's not until Foxy takes an exaggerated breath that she dares to speak.

          ' Captain, do you not think you should           calm down ? It is nothing more than the           suits ------ '

          ' AYE, SHUT UP, YE WENCH ! '

          Mechanical parts twitch from within the clown; the equivalent of a startled jump from her being before she frowns & walks off. You can't help but wonder what THAT was all about. Circus Baby & Foxy had a somewhat rocky relationship but they could at least run the place together ! Not to mention, Circus Baby's never showed fear before ! So why ------ ?

          Right, you should go look into the backstage. Slowly you turn your head to the open door.

          The first thing you see is a golden suit; SIMILAR to the ones that were unveiled during the motive reveal ------ a sight that all of the springlock victims would have feared. The suit appeared to be dismantled though ------ or rather PARTIALLY as one of its arms had been taken from its body. That suit was the least of your concerns though as you look down.

CONTENT WARNING

❥ Blood ❥ Gore

          It seems like someone had actually obeyed the fox the first time. There was TINYDACHI, staring directly at a literal demon's CORPSE. On the checkerboard floor now stained red was LILLITH; collapsed into a heap. A once flawless frame was now BROKEN; marred with a vast amount of wounds upon her chest that painted the floor red. Even her hands hadn't been spared as loosened bandages wrapped themselves around her palm. The expression on her face however ------ it contrasted the last victim so vastly. She looked more SHOCKED & ANGERED than anything else. 

          ------ But of course, no one would be happy with being stabbed THAT MANY times.

          Hadn't enough people DIED in this room though ? Hadn't enough people been TORTURED in this room ? It seemed like who had taken this woman's life didn't think that was the case. Who could have murdered this woman in such a brutal manner ? !

                              ► SAVE HER ?

                                                            YOU CAN’T.

INVESTIGATION START !

Fazbear File #2

VICTIM: Lillith ( @angelusxreprobi )

LOCATION: Backstage

TIME OF DEATH: 6:45 AM

TIME OF DISCOVERY: 7:21 AM

Body discoverers

Sammy Lawrence ( @hellfirefoolish )

Warden Foxy ( @officialcbkw / @suitstuffing )

Tinydachi ( @pocketjester )

GOOGLE DOC

Updates !

Lillith ( @angelusxreprobi ) has been found dead.

The springlocking has ceased. Apparently, the suits are broken.

Jobs have been halted & will not be resumed until the end of Trial #2

Sammy Lawrence's ( @hellfirefoolish ) & Bonnie Glade's ( @blckstrbbt ) black markets will not be in service until the next chapter. Room Service is still open.