#The beads like water droplets! The ripple patterns at the edges!

[completeoveranalysis]

[1]

And if you look to your left you will see Chapter 74!

Where maybe the REAL cryptid was the Yuuko we met along the way.

[seashaper]

Perform.

> Madison Rook paces on the beach, leaving parallel lines of bare footprints in the sand alongside the edges of the surf's reach, as their gathered audience comes down to the water from the beach house and settles in. They're not *nervous*, of course, just buzzing with anticipation, it's been, for them, after that simulation, a long time since they've shown off to friends, and a long time since they've had friends to show off to. Calling on the power of the endless body of water in front of them is a rush to the tiefling in the first place, but they always love an audience.

Adjusting their cloak, reaching back past their large, curving horns to fix their ponytail, Rook makes sure they look the part before a tattooed hand disappears under their cloak, drawing out their long, spiraling silver wand with a small blue sphere on the hilt. They fiddle with the beads tied to the silk strip wrapped around the handle while their finned tail swishes behind them the others finish chatting, taking a final moment to go over their plan in their head again; they have to do this perfectly, to get a good grade in impressing their friends, which is normal to want and possible to achieve.

After a dramatic pause once attention is on them, Madison Rook holds out their wand stiffly in front of them, and with only a thought it expands into a similarly designed staff, intricate silver and violet engravings in the grip and a spherical sea-blue crystal set at the top. This version of their casting focus intensifies their magic; they'll need the precision of its handheld form a little later.

Twisting the base of the staff in the sand, Rook mutters their first incantation, free hand performing a quick and highly practiced movement. A point in the waves several feet out from the group indents, rippling outward in rings and causing the waves in an area to slow and smooth down into a wide, tranquil circle interrupting the tides.

The end of the staff is swirled in the sand, a similar spiral growing in speed in the center of the space. They lift the sphere towards the space and raise it up, drawing with it the vortex, pulled up in its spiral from the water to form a thickening waterspout that rises over their collective heads, another muttered spell causing it to intensify, spread in odd directions and stretch in shape as the direction of its flow defies physics in favor of the caster's practiced command. When the water's violence reaches its peak, it slows for barely a moment, then bursts outward and down in a heavy fall of seawater. From where the water had been forcibly flowing, when released from its structural hold, it spreads into a set of spread wings, a towering horned head, and a spray of mist at the group from its stage out in the water.

Long before this visual is even completely formed Rook is casting another spell, moving their staff in a broad stroke up the deluge of a dragon, which stills before the droplets can fall. The staff shifts into a wand mid-motion and the tiefling's purple hands twitch in intricate and intentional manipulation of the energy here, the tip of their wand drawn through the air like a paintbrush in each direction that the water reaches to freeze the entire artistic shape on its sturdy stand of spiraled ice. They look to their audience with their hands on their hips, smirking proudly.

“But there's more, naturally.”

Their staff, once more, waves over the sculpture, which is suddenly smothered by the darkest black there could be. Wings of shadow still spread, the points of darkness where its eyes would be glow red for a few seconds, before the entire dragon disappears, base and all, leaving a smooth circle of water again.

”Now that's out of the way for now, I've got something else cool.���

Another cast, and a large white sphere of cold energy, shedding mist onto the water, appears in the air over the circle. Wand in their grip, one hand gestures patterns that are drawn through the water like their hand passed through it physically, while the wand points to the sphere and draws from it a beam of freezing cold to trace right behind the movement of the water, capturing lines and shapes that float still on the surface, almost like a laser printer of instantaneous ice. It's fascinating to watch, but when it seems finished, Rook still has more.

”This obviously isn't a great angle to see what I made, so-” The circle of water rises up from the back into a towering wave, the ice still positioned carefully along its face into a detailed recreation of the back of a Duel Monster's card, rendered in shapes of frozen seawater.

“I can make tons of beautiful stuff but you guys will really enjoy this next experience, it's 1 of my favorites.” The wave collapses, the ice floating adrift, and as Rook gestures everyone forward, the surf retreats in a path out into the sea, parting before them and their staff as the heavy-clad but barefoot tiefling leads the group out through the water without touching a drop. “You don't have to get wet yet, but you have to see this before people start doing other stuff and miss out.”

Soon they're fully under the water, a large dome above and around the group holding back the sea like a solid pane of glass over a ring of dry sand, though the unseen ocean is right there to reach into if so desired. It's a great view, and surprisingly comfortable, Rook seems to have no issue maintaining the dome until people want to head back to shore.

When they reach the shore, the frozen droplet dragon will be waiting for them on the shore, now proper black ice with glowing red eyes. They can never show off too much for Mokuba specifically. The sorcerer will gladly teleport him up onto its head, and make a fun little ice slide to help him get safely back down.

The statue will be either melted or shadowed back away, and once it's gone Rook will act for a moment like that's the last of it, before starting to step backwards into the water proper. They grow gills and webbed fingers, but before either properly take shape they're already a humanoid shape of darkened water melting into the sea. The still water starts to churn and arcs of liquid start to jump from the surface like living things, some sinking back in and rising in strangely shaped waves, some never splashing down, instead spiraling like threads through the air, around each other, woven through by more fast-moving water in some recognizable shapes and some abstract. It's an extremely precise display Rook can only pull off by being a large part of it, knowing exactly where every drop is at all time while they control the sea with both their magic and their body. It's also definitely overkill, but they have no reason to *not* to show it off.

When that show's over they rise back out of the water and take shape, makeup just as perfect as beforehand. With 1 last wave of their staff, a shining silver dragon, this version more real and properly moving, rises from the water behind them, looks over the group, and brings its tail around to slam down on the water in front of it. A massive splash threatens to soak the group but with a breath of frozen energy from the dragon and a flash of the crystal sphere it shimmers and disperses into softly drifting snow, powdering over them in the middle of August. The conjured dragon makes direct eye contact with Seto Kaiba and snorts cold steam glittering with magic, before bowing regally alongside Madison Rook, as they end their show of power and precision; for Kaiba's sake, instead of vanishing as a conjure would, the  dismisses it. To retain the wonder. They're quite satisfied with the impression their magic must have made, and their pride spreads a broad grin on their face, and violet sparks around their finally still hands before the video ends. They're finally done showing off.

[etruatcaelum]

“Schematics,” she echoes. “No, I–”

Twice now, he’s mentioned Polendina. Salem can’t fairly blame him for imagining some correspondence between what she intends to do and that man’s creation, but—even so, she experiences a prickle of indignation.

“Polendina meddled with forces beyond his comprehension,” she says with a touch of acid, her lips flattening. “I encountered his… progeny, briefly, in Atlas, and I’ve dismantled the machine they kept under Beacon–” a sneer; and then, more calmly, “The soul is the pattern writ beneath the skin of the world, repeating itself in all living things: in the grimm, in faunus, in mankind, in the plants and the animals, in fire and water, earth and sky… It is inviolable and indivisible.”

She hums thinly. “When we speak of souls, we are describing an abstraction; each mortal soul is a mere branch of the soul, thrust into the formless uncertainty of this world to… become. The self—our individuality—arises through the interaction between what is and what is not. On those who enter the same river, ever different waters flow. These ripples, this resonance is what creates identity. Your… rival,” Salem drawls, “sundered himself, and, because the soul cannot be divided, the fractured piece was created anew, as a new plant from a cutting.”

If the Polendina girl hadn’t come so perilously near to ending Cinder’s life, Salem would have felt moved to sympathy. Her aura, bounded by machinery engineered to constrain and control it, had grown crooked; she can well imagine how the girl must struggle to wield it in any way her makers didn’t anticipate. She knows what it feels like to hold aura within a form unsuitable for the practice of auralerie; that constant sensation of a barrier, as of water seeping through porous rock where it should ebb and flow like the tides.

Pity, of course, hadn’t stayed her hand.

Frowning, Salem sets those thoughts aside and continues, “But aura is… it runs through the soul; it does not emanate from the self. It isn’t– how do you define it, these days, as the radiant energy emitted by living souls?—it is not that. It is life, the primordial living waters of creation just as this—” she lifts a hand, palm upturned, to draw forth a bead of living atrum. “—is pure destruction.”

The writhing droplet rips itself apart with a flare of razor-edged shadow, and a black moth crawls out of its inky cocoon, opens its wings, and darts into the air.

“Hunger,” Salem murmurs, “change. When the Brothers ruled over the last world, these waters flowed from the sacred pools in their domains; the wellsprings of Light and Darkness. No one had aura, then.”

Her hand clenches into a fist as she lowers it to her side, exhaling sharply.

“To make me immortal,” she says, stripped of all inflection, “they threw me into the fountain of life to drown. It felt like—I’d swallowed the sun.” Bitterly, “That was to be my lesson: even knowing the gods had forbidden that men should be healed from death, I asked, and so they gave… damming up the living waters within my soul, where none could partake of it while I lived. Millions died of plague, in the years that followed. Whole civilizations withered.”

If she hadn’t wasted half a century with drowning, Salem reflects bleakly as she descends the last turn of the stair and the crystalline veins woven through the cavern’s walls illuminate with a pale reddish glow, she might have repented. Begged the gods to rend her soul and release the waters that the world might be healed.

She’s glad, despite everything, that she did not.

“…Later,” she says, voice scraping over eons folded into that one word, “when I drowned myself in the pool of grimm, that dam fell at last. I believe that is how Remnant’s people came to be; a- a great flood of life—grimm and faunus.” Her head cants toward Arthur as she adds generously, “Humans too, in time.”

Where had she been going with this?

Oh, yes:

“The point,” Salem says, her tone very dry, “is that aura flows freely where it will, but it flows from me. I… I presume Tyrian told you of our journey here, through my… place.”

She quickens her steps, as if to outpace the flicker of unsettling exposure she feels, always, whenever she speaks of her semblance in all but the vaguest contours.

The laboratory is a labyrinth of little pools: natural sumps as well as pools of atrum and brine carved by her own hands, tangled pathways crawling between them without regard for human convenience; here and there disrupted by archipelagos of workbenches and shelves sculpted into the ancient rock, some laden with glassware, others with bone and furs, still others reserved for her cultivation of fungi reluctant to grow in the light. It’s silent, with the horde retired into the deeper caverns for Arthur’s sake.

Threading her way toward the island where she keeps her charts, Salem says quietly, “Most semblances thrust the self outward, casting us beyond the perceptual bounds of our isolation from the world; the grimm have no semblances, not for lack of a soul, but because grimm don’t… hn. Grimm know.” She clicks her tongue, dissatisfied. “But I was human, and I’ve not lost my sight, so in this I am… as ever, unusual. Mine came to me at a time when I—I told you I was alone, for… so long. Nothing was left of me. My semblance reaches inward through that confusion to remake me.”

She glances over her shoulder with a wan smile.

“Were I to enter your mind, my body would stay here and you would feel my presence inside your head. I’m–” Salem clears her throat delicately. “—told it feels rather like congestion of the sinuses. But if I brought you into mine, both you and I would leave this plane to enter it bodily. That is how I travel; it’s the same in principle as what the children did with the staff.” Her voice warms. “Clever. But–”

As they reach the stone table, Salem sweeps briskly around it to leaf through the leather cases lining the shelf cut into its flank.

“—what I propose to do with Ozma is not to host them in my body; it is to… well. Let me… rephrase. Disembodiment is death. The soul is aura’s pathway, but it is the body in which aura is contained. Sever body from soul, and aura will evaporate. The soul parches. That is not unpredictable. If Ozma evades me after being untethered from Oscar’s body, they will die.”

She takes a deep breath. She doesn’t—wish to think about Ozma dying.

“…the maidens are sustained by magic,” she sighs. “I am more than sustained by infinite aura, although–” a flicker of humor. “—if you’d ever like to see the auraleric readings you’ll get if my body is destroyed, you need only ask. Ozma, however, dies. Their reincarnations draw power from the light that shines at the threshold between life and death; I’d wager their haste in returning this time is the cause for Oscar’s unusual longevity. Regardless–”

Finding the map she’s been looking for, Salem slides it free and spreads it across the table with little ceremony.

“—what is unpredictable is how this operation might alter their ability to return. I would guess the likeliest outcome to be the restoration of a natural cycle of life and rebirth, but I– I don’t… want them to… forget me.” It feels hideously selfish to say it out loud; her shoulders hunch, and Salem gazes stone-faced down at the map for a long moment before she mutters, “So I intend to intercept them. My mind, my—place– the natural laws which govern its reality are whatever I decide. If I make up my mind that a bodiless soul can live in that place, then it is so. If I will it that they can draw upon my aura to recreate their body just as would I, then… it is so. My schematic, such as it is, is to put the matter into their hands.”

He's glad for her glance down the stairs, because he is unable to disguise the briefest twitch of his lips into a smirk. Truly, Arthur Watts would love to test the theory of what will happen to the power of the Fall Maiden when Cinder dies, but he knows better than to say that out loud.

(...Out loud to Salem, at least. Tyrian will get a kick out of it for sure, and might even relish the idea of planning a murder during pillow-talk. But - well. There's far more pressing things to attend to than that, in the moment.)

"Are you saying you're going to use your body as their new host until you can make them a new one out of your own soul?" he asks, half-stunned, and then- "I can't believe I'm saying this, but Polendina used his own Aura to create his little passion project's soul, so I suppose there's...precedent."

Infuriating precedent, but precedent nonetheless.

"Although of course, that's because the war machine didn't have a soul. Ozma already has one of those..."

And no need to mention again how Watts could easily make a better robot than Polendina had. During Watts's time back in Atlas, he'd found weaknesses in Penny's system that would make hacking a breeze- if he were to make Ozma's body, he would be careful to make those backdoors only accessible to himself, lest Salem's plan fail and they need to...

Shut Ozma back down.

But then again, that was all assuming Salem wasn't just going to make Ozma some Grimm body, whether with her own soul or - however she did it, in the atrum pools. However she'd fashioned Cinder's arm.

"Whatever you do: if it will be so unpredictable, you'll need contingency plans. Although of course, you're already good at making those. If the soul is forcibly removed from its host, it might leap into any host it can find, it might dissipate entirely, it might just latch back onto the boy, it might revert to a Maidenesque transfer and go to the last person either Ozma or Oscar thought of...Not that I'm an expert on souls, but I can only hope your - extraction method - can be used again if Ozma decides to take matters into their own hands rather than follow your schematics."

[qvill-s]

oo o I recently got discharged from hospital & seeing your prompts open is the icing on the cake!! may I request the "you'll always be safe with me" from the soft sentence starters with dorothea? thank you so much for everything you do 💖💝💞

NOTES: i’m so sorry i got this in so late, but i hope you’re doing better nonnie !!!

there’s some nightmares about typical wartime stuff going on in this one, but i tried not to make it too descriptive. nevertheless, please tread carefully bbs

dorothea + “you’ll always be safe with me” right under the cut !!!

You wake with a jolt, jerking upwards off of the bed, covered in sweat, chest heaving, fists clenched into the sheets. The dredges of your nightmare linger around the edges of your vision, the dead and those you’ve killed flitting in and out in pale, faceless shapes with hands that extend ever further, reaching, reaching reaching—

Vaguely, you register the feeling of a hand around the crook of your elbow and you flinch in alarm. Immediately, the hand retracts, slinking backwards, and you crane a cautious eye over your shoulder to find its source. When you find only Dorothea pushing herself off of the bed, the worried green of her eyes trained on you all the while, you let out the shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding.

She rises slowly, moving to sit next to you, and her voice is nothing more than a whisper when she asks, “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you bite out against your breathlessness. “I’m fine.”

There’s a moment of silence—her touch hovers over your shoulder—before you lift up your corner of the blankets, saying, “I’m going to go get a drink.

“Let me get it for you,” she says, insists, her hand finding itself back into the crook of your elbow. You find the strength to stop yourself from flinching, but she seems to feel your hesitation just as keenly, because she accompanies her next word with a squeeze to your elbow. “Please.”

“Okay,” you say, but you wish for anything but, and the word leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.

She flashes you a small smile in response, earnest, eager, drained off all the drowsiness she may have housed, as she gets out of bed. When she leaves the room, peeking back in long enough to tell you, “I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere, okay?” it feels as though the universe had gotten the tiniest bit darker. The shadows, you note, grow long without her by your side.

In the furthest corner of the room, on the side hidden from the light of the moon, you think you see something move. You blink and blink and blink, and you feel as though it shifts its position every time you do so, inching ever closer to where you sit huddled among the sheets of your bed. Eventually, you snap your eyes closed and bury your face in your hands—if you can’t see it it doesn’t exist if you can’t see it it doesn’t exist—counting the seconds until Dorothea returns.

It’s a little pathetic, honestly, that you should still keep seeing the monsters of the war from five years ago, that you should be haunted by the faces of the friends you’ve killed when everyone around you has so clearly moved on and made something better of their lives. 

You are the only one stuck in the past, in that same battlefield, in that same moment, over and over and over again. You are the only one stuck on your blade to his neck, the defiant look in his eye before—

( ”Surrender,” you tell him, plead, because you remember him as one of your dearest friends during your Academy days. You remember sneaking out of the dormitories to haunt the empty halls of Garreg Mach in the dead of night, of squeezing into alcoves and hallway closets to avoid the guards. You remember how he encouraged you to talk to the girl who was now the love of your life, who mesmerized you with the curl of her dark hair as it laid upon her shoulder and the bright green of her eyes that belied a sharpness she kept well hidden, and who mesmerizes you still.

Your blade presses closer to his neck in a weak attempt to coax him to speak. His face twists into a grimace when a sliver of skin opens up and beads red, adorning his neck in a set of blood-red pearls that gleam in the haze of dusk and the battlefield.

His brown eyes narrow into a glare as he says, “Never.” )

Dorothea announces her presence with a soft call of your name. When you lift your head from your hands, you find her standing by your side, cradling your cup in the palm of her hands. She hands it over to you—chamomile, you realize, when you inhale its earthy, floral aroma and feel some of the tension leave your shoulders—with a kiss to the skin above your brow and a gentle hand smoothing itself across your shoulder.

As she settles herself beside you, an idle hand tracing nonsensical patterns on the knees hidden under the thick fabric of the blankets, you realize you don’t deserve her. You don’t deserve her kindness, the gentleness of her touch, the simple, wordless way she tells you to take as long as you need.

“I’m here if you need me,” she says, a careful, open-ended statement that tells you you’re free to speak of what had frightened you if you so wished. And you wish, 

( ”There’s still time,” you say, desperate to find another way, to spare him, to fight with him at your side once more. Your voice softens, “I don’t want to kill my best friend.” )

you wish, 

( ”Our friendship died when you chose to be on the wrong side,” he snarls, a primal sound broken up by his hacking coughs as he fights against the arrow in his thigh and the gash in his stomach. He meets your eyes in a blaze, the brown of his eyes melting into a fiery bronze as he tells you, “I will never join your cause.” )

but there’s a fist closed tightly around your neck, a lump in your throat that makes it hard to speak.

At your lack of response, she affixes you with a gaze that’s both piercing and gentle and coaxing all at once. In a tone so soft and so gentle that you are wholly unworthy of receiving, she asks you, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Both contemplatively and definitively, you decide that she is much too good to be burdened with your childish troubles and regrets. “I’m fine.”

She holds your gaze. After a beat of silence, she closes her eyes, head falling towards her chest as she lets out a sigh that sounds much heavier than her body can hold. The hand on your knee travels up your body, a phantom touch tracing a trail across your skin as it hovers over to the free hand on your lap, followed by eyes that do not—will not?—meet your own. “I wish you’d rely on me more.”

Her quiet confession hangs heavy in the air, and the lump in your throat grows larger, the hand around your neck tighter. You say the only thing you can think of saying, choking out a pathetic little “I’m sorry” as you stare at the hand that covers yours. 

Her fingers are delicate, pale and long, and they fit perfectly in the spaces between your own. You turn your hand over and press your palm to hers, weaving your fingers through her own until her hand is caught tightly in your grip.

How do you tell her that she deserves better? 

How do you tell her that she deserves someone stronger, someone resolute and unwavering in their actions? 

How do you tell her that she deserves someone who doesn’t grapple with the past, with the things you’ve done and the things you didn’t do, the actions and the inactions of the war that killed so many?

How do you tell her these things and still convince her to stay?

Your cup is now empty, drunken down to the last drops, to the bitterness of the tea leaves that managed to soak through, and you wait with bated breath for a sign, for the words of your heart that you can’t seem to place.

“I still think about it, you know,” she tells you, a quiet murmur breaking through your thoughts like a ripple on calm waters. “The war. I’ve… I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. I think we all have. But back then, it was so easy to forget that those people had a family, that they had someone waiting for them back home. Now that the war’s over…” She sighs. “It’s a little harder to put aside.”

“Even after all these years?” You inquire softly, surprised to hear that Dorothea—brave, self-assured Dorothea—felt the same way.

She nods, a solemn bob of her head, as she says, “Even after all these years.”

( You think, briefly, of sparing his life, of pretending to kill him and move on to a more faceless enemy. You look over your shoulder to see if anyone is watching, and catch the eye of your professor. There’s a glint of understanding in your professor’s eye, and you watch their mouth form a grim line as they, in response, solemnly, damnably, shakes their head.

With a heavy heart and your breath locked in your lungs, you swing of your blade. You close your eyes when you hear the sound of flesh ripping and choked, watery gurgles, pretending that it is a stranger. You pretend that you’ve never had meals or took tea with him. You pretend that you’ve never heard the sound of his laugh, or seen the mischievous glint in his eye. You pretend that the hours and hours and countless hours you’ve spent by his side have never happened. You pretend that he is a stranger, and that he always has been. )

“Me too,” you say, a choked confession ripping its way out of the confines of your throat as the tears you held back start to drip down your cheeks. With her free hand, Dorothea lifts your chin up from your chest and brushes the first droplets of your tears with the pad of her thumb. When the stream grows and she can no longer keep up with its current, she wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer as you bury your head into the shoulder of her nightgown.

For the first time since the war, you cry. You cry for the people who lived, for those who will have to carry on with their lives with the loss of a loved one weighing heavy on their hearts. You cry for Dorothea, for loving you so deeply and so tenderly in all the ways you didn’t deserve, for the sadness you never knew she still carried. You cry for the people you’ve killed, for the soldiers you didn’t know and the ones you did. Most of all, you cry for your friend, for your inability to spare him, and for the blood-red pearls that were the last gift you will ever give him. 

Sometime between then and now, the two of you find yourselves back under the sheets, with only the occasional hitched breath as a remnant to your tears.

In a sudden burst of bravery—or perhaps it was your drowsiness speaking—you ask, “You’ll stay with me, won’t you, Dorothea?”

She gives you a watery smile as she presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Until we’re old and grey, my love.” 

She wraps her arms tighter around you, and you return the favor, kissing the notch between her collarbones as you bury your face into her neck. She sighs, a soft, sweet sound, smoothing a hand down your back once, twice. “I’ll keep you safe until then.”

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

Here’s a special something for all of you, a sneak preview below the cut of the first chapter of the Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest AU that’s going up on AO3 tomorrow.

Enjoy...

The Beating Heart in the Dead Man’s Chest                                          Chapter I

The large palm trees that lined the coast were bent by the turbulent winds that blew through the port. The sky was dark as heavy clouds passed over the bay, the heavens pouring over the land. The animals and livestock were huddled beneath whatever shelter they could find, their fur soaked by the downpour as they nuzzled up to each other. Even the stray dog that wondered about town had found a place to hide in the shadows of the alleys.

The townspeople had closed their shutters and retreated inside.

All except for one man who sat among the falling rain.

He wore a bright white suit, the jacket made of a thick fabric that had a detailed silver vine-like pattern sewn into it. The collar of his jacket, tabs of his shirt collar and the rounded knot of his silk white tie were all bedazzled with heavy silver beads and glistening crystals. He wore a white vest that was fitted to his slender waist and sat nicely atop of the multiple layers of fabric. His suit was soaked through and sullied by the puddles of mud that pooled around him.

Each droplet of rain struck the delicate china cups with a tinkling melody and filled the wine glasses that adorned the tables.

Chairs had been blown over or half-heartedly tossed about in a desperate attempt to run for cover.

One of the parasols that had sat atop a table had been knocked out of place, bouncing across the courtyard and splashing about in the water.

Stiles sat still at the edge of the courtyard, kneeling before the alter that had been set up for the special day. The mud coated his drenched clothes as soft tears rolled down his cheeks, the glistening droplets concealed his broken heart and washed away the tears. His lips quivered slightly as he drew in shaky breaths and broken sobs.

His eyes were focused on the rippling tide that caressed the horizon but his mind had drifted, leaving him staring into oblivion and unperturbed by the harsh weather.

The loud bustle from inside the manor drew Stiles’ attention to the gathering crowd at the main gate.

A troop of soldiers, dressed in vibrant blue military jackets, pushed open the heavy iron gates and stormed the grounds. Their thick leather boots stirred the mud as they marched forward. In the centre of the crowd, a top a gorgeous white horse was the leader of the troop, a man known for his intimidation, conquering of lands and immoral way of running his army: Lord Gerard Argent.

Stiles rose to his feet, his eyes drawn to a second crowd of soldiers as they burst through the door of the blacksmith’s shop and rushed inside.

Stiles turned and ran inside, sprinting down the fleets of stairs and out into the streets of Beacon Hills.

The soldiers pulled Derek from the shop, heavy iron shackles fastened around his wrists. His suit was soaked and hanging off of his broad shoulders. His face was marred by red splotches that were sure to form dark bruises and his long black hair was a mess: half of his thick locks had broken free of the tie, falling around his face and clinging to his golden flesh.

“Derek!” Stiles cried, running to his side.

Two of the uniformed soldiers grabbed Stiles by his arms and hurled him back.

His feet pedalled in the mud and he collapsed to his knees.

Beside him, Lord Argent dismounted his steed and sauntered forward.

“What’s going on?” Stiles growled, glaring at the man.

Argent didn’t reply. He looked down his nose at the boy and sneered before turning his attention to the approaching figure.

Governor Stilinski raced out of the manor and hurried to his son’s side.

“What is the meaning of this?” the man howled. “Order your men to stand down and release my son and Mister Hale at once.”

The men made no attempt to do as ordered.

“Did you hear me?” Governor Stilinski barked.

“Governor John Stilinski,” Lord Argent greeted with a tone that sounded more condescending than genuine. “I apologise for arriving without invitation.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Stiles.

“Surely this cannot be your son,” Argent continued. “Why, when I last saw him, he barely came up to my knee. My how you have grown, Stiles.”

“Gerard Argent?” Governor Stilinski said, stunned.

“It’s Lord Argent now,” the older man corrected.

“Lord or not, you have no reason nor authority to arrest this man nor my son,” John argued.

“I do, in fact,” Gerard said proudly, holding out his hand as his page passed him a leather bound piece of parchment. Gerard unfolded it and passed it to John to read before continuing, “My appointment to the Royal Commission for Antilles Trade and Protection. The Commission charter, grating myself power over the military, government and civilians, and the arrest for one ‘Derek Hale’.”

John frowned at the papers.

“This arrest warrant is for Stiles Stilinski,” he mused.

“Is it?” Gerard asked coyly. “My mistake.” He glanced over his shoulder and nodded towards the boy. “Arrest him.”

The men holding Stiles hurled him to his feet as another two stepped forward and fastened the shackles around his narrow wrists.

Derek thrashed in the grip of the men who held him back while Stiles glared and sneered at the men who approached him.

“On what charges?” Stiles shouted, trying to stay calm.

Argent ignored him as his page passed him a second leather bound piece of parchment. “Ah, here is the warrant for Derek Hale. And I also have another for a Henry Tate. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“What are the charges?” Stiles howled.

“Commodore Tate resigned several months ago. He and his daughter left the port days after and we haven’t seen him since,” Governor Stilinski explained.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, biting into his lip. He lifted one foot and stomped it down on the book of one of the soldiers holding him before quickly following through with an elbow to the gut. The soldier collapsed to the ground, moaning and wheezing as he rolled about in the mud. Stiles span around and swung his arms, slamming the thick iron cuffs of the shackles into the jaw of the second soldier, leaving him in a similar state as his comrade.

Stiles turned to face Lord Argent, his cold glare focused on the man as he stood proud. His shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths and no other soldiers dared to approach him.

He drew in a deep breath and, in a low voice, boldly said, “We are British subjects under the jurisdiction of the King’s Governor of the port of Beacon Hills, and we demand to know the charges that are being laid against us.”

Out the corner of his eye, Stiles could see Derek trying to hide his smirk as he looked at the boy with pride and admiration.

Lord Argent turned to face the boy and replied, “You are charged with aiding and embedding a wanted fugitive, piracy, theft of military property, and conspiring to secure the unlawful release of a convict charged with crimes against the Crown and Empire and for which crimes he was condemned to death. For which, regrettably, the punishment is also death. Do you remember him? A pirate by the name of Peter Hale.”

“Captain,” Stiles corrected. “Captain Peter Hale.”

Lord argent smirked. “I thought you would remember him.”

“And for what it’s worth, he’s ten times the man you are; while you and the military were cowering behind your laws, Captain Peter Hale risked life and limb to save me from the pirates that had kidnapped me,” Stiles pointed out.

“One good deed does not redeem a man of a life time of crimes,” Lord Argent said firmly.

“Is that what you’re going to tell Chris and Kate - your kids - when you see them in Hell?” Stiles asked, raising his brow quizzically.

He could tell it hit a never. Argent’s face twitched as his composure fractured and rage brewed behind his pale eyes.

“Your son tried to kill me,” Stiles hissed.

Lord Argent stepped forward and lowered his voice so only Stiles could hear him as he whispered, “He should have tried harder.”

Argent leant back and nodded to two guards. They seized Stiles and dragged him towards the barracks with Derek in tow.

“Stiles,” his father called after him, but it was too late, the two young men were gone.

  The man sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh. He leant back, hoisting his boots onto the thick oat table. He tugged at his sleeve, covering the pale pink scar in the shape of a ‘P’ on his wrist and reaching for the large map sprawled across his desk.

He mumbled a quiet tune under his breath as he turned the map about, comparing it to the wavering point of his compass.

           Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest,

         Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.

 His eyes darted back and forth as he eyed them sceptically.

           Drink and the devil had done for the rest,

         Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.

 He reached for the nearby bottle of rum on his desk. He pulled the cork free of the nose of the bottle with a loud pop and brought it to his lips.

A single drop ran down the inside of the barrel and fell against his lips.

He pouted and pulled the bottle back, glaring at it as if it had betrayed him.

He sighed, sat upright and rose to his feet. He made his way across his office to the large cabinet in the corner of the room. He unlocked the doors and pulled out a bottle. He uncorked it and brought it to his lips.

There was barely a mouthful of rum left in the bottom of the bottle.

He swallowed it and pulled the bottle back, glaring at it. He growled, pursing his lips and muttering obscenities under his breath as he tossed the bottle aside and picked up another one.

This one had weight to it.

He uncorked it and lifted it to his lips, coughing and spluttering as he spat out mouthfuls of sand. He tipped the bottle upright, watching – mystified – as golden grains of sand poured from the neck of the bottle and cascaded against the palm of his other hand like sand out of an hour glass.

“Time’s running out, Peter,” a voice called form behind him.

Peter dropped the bottle, the glass shattering across the wooden floorboards as he turned to look at the dishevelled figure.

Her once-golden skin was bleached white and deathly pale, standing before him like a ghost. Various sea critters clung to her skin, bulbous barnacles bursting through the skin of her temples, cheeks and forehead, some full and others looking like holes burrowed into her skin. Small pipis blossomed in clusters along her brow. Below her right eye, a vibrant yellow starfish moulded into her cheekbone. Her clothes hung off of her frail limbs like rags, soaking wet and dripping water across the floorboards as she stood by the large bay window of the captain’s quarters.

“You look like Hell,” Peter muttered.

“I’ve been there,” the girl replied.

“Is this a dream?” Peter asked, eyeing his surroundings suspiciously. His eyes fell upon the pile of sand at his feet. “Of course it’s not. If it were, there’s be rum.”

“Bottom shelf, second bottle from the left,” the girl replied, nodding towards the cupboard.

Peter hesitated for a second but picked up the bottle that she had suggested. It was heavy, that was a start. He uncorked it and sniffed at it, smelling the rich burning scent of alcohol. He took a quick swig, tasting it before gulping back mouthfuls.

“You got the Lunar Eclipse back, I see,” the girl continued, stepping forward and wandering about the space.

“Yes,” Peter said proudly. “And I had some help from a common acquaintance of ours: Derek.”

The girl froze, her face falling into a solemn lock as she looked up at him.

“Derek?” she muttered. “He’s alive?”

Peter nodded.

“And he ended up a pirate after all” she said, defeated.

“Given a liberal definition of ‘pirate’, yes: he’s got an unhealthy streak of honestly and a heart bound to another,” Peter muttered.

“Good,” she said boldly. “Maybe he won’t turn out like you.”

Peter turned and staggered back across the cabin and over to the girl’s side. He levelled his cold gaze with her and asked, “Now that we’ve finished with the pleasantries, do you mind telling me to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Deucalion,” the girl muttered.

“Ah,” Peter said as if it explained everything. He turned and marched across his office. He slumped down in his chair again and lifted the bottle to his lips.

“Deucalion sent me as an emissary,” the girl continued.

“No, he sent you as a dog,” Peter corrected with a snarl.

“I chose this life,” the girl argued. “Better this than to be lost to the depths forever.”

“Is there a difference?” Peter asked.

The girl froze and swallowed hard.

“A hundred years under the mast and a peaceful rest,” she mumbled. “I’m not the only one who swore to that agreement.”

She turned her eyes on the man and glared at him.

“You made a deal with him too, Peter. He raised the Eclipse from the depths for you and for thirteen years you’ve been Captain,” she reminded him.

“Technically,” Peter added, shrugging slightly.

“You won’t be able to talk your way out of this one,” the girl warned.

A small crab crept over her shoulder. She picked it up, watching it squirm slightly in her hold before tossing it out the window and into the water. It hit the surface with a quiet plop, quickly followed by the thrashing of predators that tore it apart and devoured it.

The girl returned her cold glare to Peter and continued, “The terms of the deal are the same: one soul bound to the crew and the ship for a lifetime.”

“The Alpha already has a captain, there’s no need for me,” Peter jested, smirking as he took another swig of rum.

“Then it’s Davy Jones’ Locker for you,” the girl countered, her voice low and threatening. “The leviathan will find you and will drag you and the Eclipse down to the depths.”

“Any idea when Deucalion will unleash the beast?” Peter asked.

“I told you, Peter: your time is up.”

Her eyes fell on Peter’s free hand.

He glanced down, watching as a dark blemish bloomed on his skin.

His heart leapt into his throat. He swallowed hard.

“It’s no longer a matter of when it’s coming for you,” the girl continued, her voice growing distant. “It’s a matter of how long until you’re found.”

Peter glanced up.

She was gone.

Peter set down the bottle, looking down at his hand one more time.

It was still there.

The Black Spot.

He leapt to his feet and ran out onto the deck.

“All hands on deck,” he bellowed. “Haul anchor.”

“Peter, what the hell?” Lydia gasped, leaning over the balcony of the higher deck.

“Get us out of here,” he ordered, balling his fist around the Black Spot. “As fast as you can.”

“Heading, Captain?” Lydia asked, irritated.

“Land,” Peter replied.

“What port?”

“I didn’t say port,” Peter shouted back. “I said ‘land. Any land.”

“Man your stations,” Scott ordered before storming over to Peter’s side, following the man’s panicked gaze as he looked out across the undulating water. “For the love of all things merciful, Peter, what’s got you in such a panic?”

“Nothing,” Peter replied, keeping his voice low as he watched the shifting shadows of the night with wide eyes and a racing heart.

Scott eyed him suspiciously.

“It’s a myth,” Peter mumbled under his breath, his lips quivering as his bright eyes scanned the rippling waves. “Only a myth.”

[come-join-themurder]

Obsessive - Part 18

Its nighttime at The Reader’s apartment and (Y/N) is cleaning while Juice takes a shower. (This will be multi parts so check back for my next installment. As always, if you want to be notified of my updates just let me know and I will message you when I post new chapters) **Disclaimer: I do not suffer from OCD so I cannot begin to imagine what it is like. Any and everything that I am writing is what I’ve learned from people I know and the internet as well as asking advice from friends who know more about it than me. If anything is wrong or inaccurate of someone with OCD, please excuse my ignorance, as I said I am asking questions to help with the descriptions but I’m sure I will get something wrong eventually.

Juice Ortiz x Reader

(GIF isn’t mine)

____________________________

You had just finished vacuuming when you remembered that you left the 409 in the bathroom the last time you had cleaned in there. You debated with yourself for a moment over whether you should knock and ask for him to hand it to you, but the incessant nagging voice in your head told you that you couldn’t wait for Juice to finish showering, so you walked into the bedroom, approaching the bathroom door just as he was walking out. He had only put on his underwear, black Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs that were very generously hugging his body, and there were still residual water droplets beading down his chest and stomach that made your stomach tie itself in knots.

You gulped, the nagging voice in your head was long gone, something else was on your mind now.

Unable to break your eyes away long enough to gather your thoughts as he stood there, towel in hand, waiting for you to speak, you opened your mouth to say something but failed, closing it again and just staring back at him. When no words escaped your mouth, he dropped the towel, stepping closer to you and taking your hand in his as he held your eye contact and traced the top of your hand with his thumb. As if he had read your mind, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours slowly and gently, stepping closer so your bodies touched and letting go of your hand so that he could attach his hands to your hips. You hummed against his kiss, wrapping your arms lazily around his neck as he firmly pressed his fingers into the skin just under the hem of your shirt. Fireworks were going off in your head and your entire body was tingling with electricity as he deepened the kiss, capturing your bottom lip in between his lips and tugging it slightly before he kissed you again, this time his tongue darting out to trace your top lip before slipping into your mouth. You let out a small moan as his tongue explored your mouth, your fingers wrapping around the back of his head, the feel of his mohawk contrasting with the bald sides of his scalp against your palm. Slowly he moved his hands down under your butt to lift you, wrapping your legs around his waist and carrying you over to the bed, his already fully developed erection pressed against your core. You broke away from his lips, attaching your mouth instead to his neck, right below his jaw as he leaned down and placed you on the bed, breaking his neck away from your lips and scooting you into the middle of the mattress. Climbing in over top of you and supporting his upper body with his elbows and forearms on either side of your body, he settled down in between your legs, slowly grinding his pelvis into yours as he took his turn kissing and sucking on your neck, right above your collarbone. Every move he made was calculated, careful, almost loving. You grabbed his shoulders, digging your nails in and tossing your head back as he continued to press his lower half against you, heat was radiating from your body and you were soaking wet from all the pent-up sexual frustration you had been harboring. Juice lifted himself so that his hands were holding him up at the end of outstretched arms that were still firmly boxing you in, holding you against the bed with his hips still rubbing against you. He leaned down and captured your lips in a tender kiss before pulling away again, “Do you want this?” he whispered, his eyes searching yours for any signs of doubt, any inkling that you might have regrets. Instead he was met with the most confident expression he had ever seen you wear as you stared back up at him and nodded, “I want you,” you husked and Juice immediately felt his stomach do a backflip, this was really happening.

He reached down to the bottom of your shirt, grabbing it and heaving it up over your body to reveal your naked torso underneath. Sitting back on his knees, he took a moment to admire your body before pressing his mouth against your left breast, kissing and licking your nipple while he palmed the other, then kissing down your stomach to the top of your pants and panties, hooking his fingers in the waistband and pulling them down in one swift motion which made you breathe out a shaky nervous breath, now being completely exposed in front of him. He reached up to grasp your hand, squeezing it and catching your eyes as he pressed his lips against your knee, kissing up your thighs to your hip bone. You let out a small gasp when he moved his lips over your pelvis, followed by a much bigger gasp when he pressed his mouth into your center, his brown eyes gazing over your body while still holding your stare as he moved his lips against your folds. 

Aroused by the sounds you made, he let your hand go, moving both of his palms down your thighs to your knees and pulling them up to spread you open as he dove into you, his tongue tracing patterns throughout your core, circling your clit and alternating between flicks of his tongue and firm sucking. Your hands gripped the sheets below you as Juice’s mouth pushed you closer to climax. He inserted a finger into you, your breathing becoming harsh through your barely parted lips as you moaned at the feel of him between your legs, his digit inside you, moving it in and out while licking and sucking against your center. You lifted your hips up against his mouth, pressing your vagina closer to him and tossing your head back as he pushed you over the edge and you came with a hoarse gasp, collapsing against the mattress and panting in ecstasy.

Juice lifted himself from your center, pulling himself over top of you again and grinning down at you, still writhing with pleasure underneath him. You placed your hands on either side of his face, pulling him down to kiss you, tasting yourself on his lips. Slipping your tongue inside his mouth, you released his face, trailing your hands down his chest and abs, palming his engorged member through his underwear. He groaned against your mouth and pressed forward into your hands as you let out a small chuckle and plunged your hands into the front of his boxers. He jumped a little at the surprise but relaxed as your warm soft hands held him and your fingers wrapped around his shaft, stroking him. He relished in the feeling of you touching him for a moment, but quickly the urge to be inside of you overtook his mind. He leaned away from your grip, ridding himself of his boxer-briefs as his cock sprang forth, glistening with precum. Your eyes widened at the sight, he was huge, and definitely much bigger than you had anticipated. He leaned over to your nightstand and pulled open the drawer, fumbling around before finding what he was searching for and pulling it out, dragging the foil square out of the small box and tossing it aside before turning back to you.

“Hey…” he spoke softly, sensing your sudden anxiety, “...are you ok?”

Swallowing heavily, you met his eyes, “Mhmm,” you nodded nervously and he smiled back to you. “Just relax,” his soothing voice breathed and he pressed his lips to your forehead, tearing the package open and rolling the condom on as he hovered over you.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his calm demeanor making your nerves melt away as you bit your lip and looked up at him, completely at his mercy, “I’m ready,” you answered earnestly, your hands on the sides of his arms as he leaned back down, taking your mouth for his own as he pushed himself inside of you. You gasped against his lips as he filled you up, pushing in slowly and stilling himself inside you, allowing the two of you to savor the moment, your first time together.

He closed his eyes and rotated his hips while inside you, making you toss your head back and squeeze his shoulders tightly. Lowering himself so that your chests were pressed together, he pushed his face into the mattress beside your head as he began to slowly thrust in and out, his warm breath cascading over your ear, holding your body down with his own. You wrapped your arms around him, your hands tracing the muscles in his back that flexed and rippled as his dick moved inside your walls, massaging your g-spot with every thrust. 

He was taking his time, you could feel the emotion in his every movement as you held onto him tightly, your breathing matching his while his hands roamed your sides and your thighs, caressing your skin before he pulled his arms up to tangle his hands in your hair, his mouth attaching to yours again. As he kissed you, he pushed further inside you, burying himself and causing your body to involuntarily jump at the fullness of his entire length being in you. With his hands still tangled in your hair, he pulled your head back a little to expose your neck, licking and sucking on your pulse while he quickened his pace, coaxing a moan from your throat at the feeling of his cock touching all the right places. 

It was as if you were made to fit together. 

His lips left your neck just long enough to kiss up to your ear where he sucked on the skin behind it. “You’re so perfect,” he whispered as he began thrusting a little harder with each stroke, causing you to grip his back even more tightly, your nails digging in slightly while he moved against your body. You closed your eyes as his breath tickled your ear, one of his hands leaving your head to travel down your stomach and to your clit, his thumb now rubbing it up and down while he thrusted into you. 

Your mouth hung open as you tried to gasp but your breathed hitched in your throat at the sensation you felt, your clit stimulated by Juice’s hand while his dick pleasured the rest of you. A knot began to settle into your lower abdomen and you knew Juice was close to pushing you over the edge again, quickly bringing you to orgasm only this time the fullness you felt from his dick made it even more intense. You moaned your release, your walls beginning to convulse around his cock just as he began to breathlessly press his lips against your ear, a growl emanating from his chest as he struggled to speak, “Ohh.. Shit. (Y/N)... I’m about to--” suddenly the muscles in his back tensed under your fingers as he pushed himself all the way deep inside you, the tip of his length hitting the deepest parts of you and pushing past as his dick pulsated and spasmed inside of you. He came with a low moan, immediately followed by a sigh as he collapsed on top of you, his breathing heavy but his body completely relaxed.

Slowly he removed his member from inside of you, the full feeling suddenly gone, leaving you empty but satisfied as he pressed a kiss against your shoulder and stood up, pulling the condom filled with his cum off and walking naked to the bathroom to toss it in the trash. You watched him as you reached for your shirt, pulling it on. He was breathtakingly sexy and just a little sweaty, as he walked back to your bedside, grabbing his boxers from the floor and pulling them on before sitting on the edge of your bed right in front of your thighs as he captured your gaze, holding it while his hand went to rest on your hip, his thumb rubbing small back and forth lines across your skin. 

He smiled at you, “Wanna watch that movie now?” he grinned, earning himself a smile back from you as you grabbed his hand in yours, hauling him down in the bed beside you, “I think I’m over it,” you smiled as he pulled you into his side and you wrapped an arm around him, your head resting on his chest and listening to his heartbeat as the two of you, completely exhausted, drifted off to sleep together once again.