#mtl siren au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thatwritingho · 10 months ago

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The Dragon Gate

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Violence Summary: A chance encounter with The Murmaider's First Mate, Pickles the Pirate, lands siren-in-disguise Olive Axworthy a sweet new gig as doctor for the notorious crew lead by Captain Nathan Explosion. Chemistry brews between First Mate and the newest crew member, and Olive struggles with her developing emotions as a being without a heart. Can she learn to love - and to want to love - even if it means the pain of growing a heart, and it's eventual breaking? Part of @m3gahet 's Siren AU! A collaborative project between many creators, who will be listed as I include their OCs!

READ ON AO3 HERE!

With a satisfied sigh, the redhead plopped back onto the lumpy mattress, arms crossed behind his head as a large grin curled his lips sideways, his body melting into the bed. Next to him, a girl with tan skin lay panting, her head swimming with dark curls fanned around her, basking in the best orgasm she had received in years.

Hell, maybe in her entire life.

She had certainly never expected this, admittedly, very pretty, drunken pirate to fuck like that when he had propositioned her at the tavern the previous night. Hopefully, he wasn't too drunk already this morning, or his human body too tired, and they could have a-

“Ya want another round?”

“Yes,” she breathed, with a bit too much enthusiasm. His lips curled into a smug grin as she cleared her throat, a cute little flush dusting her cheekbones.

“Heh. Thought ya might.”

With that, he rolled on top of her, the metal of his rings and necklaces cool on her heated skin as smirking lips pressed to hers again and again, fingertips roaming to work her back up. Though, just as his lips met her skin and began to travel south, a thump sounded from above. The couple blinked at each other, brows furrowed, but before the redhead rose to investigate, a cloaked figure swung into the window.

“Fuck!” The pair both shouted, eyes shooting to each other briefly as the redhead rolled off. The girl snatched both her swords from the ground and tossed him one, his cutlass too far out of reach.

“Stay back!” Once more, they spoke in unison, blinking at each other strangely as they drew their blades.

The redhead raised a pierced brow, “Why would I stay back, darlin’?”

He appreciated the thought, really, but it was entirely unnecessary. Especially considering—

“They're here for me,” they stated simultaneously, gazes instantly returning to one another, tones incredulous as they questioned in tandem, “You?”

A lunge from the enemy cut their debate short, the girl parrying to deflect. The redhead assessed his borrowed sword, an unfamiliar design, the weight strange in his hand.

Is only one edge sharpened?

With a well timed, harsh kick to her ribs, the enemy slammed the girl into the wall. With her breath knocked out of her, she landed with a growl that tingled up her partner's spine, the sound low and deep and threatening. As she recuperated, the redhead jumped in, matching blow for blow with the attacker, the steel of their swords clashing. This opponent — likely a bounty hunter — was good, and the redhead found himself struggling to familiarize himself with the new weapon.

Focusing on their swords, he failed to notice the enemy sneak a dagger from a hidden holster. A sharp, stinging pain bloomed, and green eyes shot down to the blade implanted in his abdomen. Stumbling back with gritted teeth, he gladly allowed the now enraged girl to take over, plopping onto the bed with a wince as he observed her swiftly overpower the man with strong, vicious blows, disarming him with another growl. Blood sprayed across her bare skin with a slice to his jugular.

A practiced flick of her sword rid the drops from her steel, and she carelessly stepped over the corpse in favor of rummaging through her bag. Clenching his jaw, the redhead removed the dagger with a grunt and a curse. Both brows raised as the girl returned, kneeling before him with a damp cloth and threaded needle in hand.

“Oh. Uh… thanks, sweetheart, but ya don't hafta-”

“Hush. Just let me do it.”

Nodding, he removed his hand from the wound, wincing as she wiped it clean with a soft, gentle touch. Liquor burned down his throat as he chugged to numb the pain, drinking in the look of concentration on her blood splattered face as she began to sew him up.

Holy hell.

“I don't think anything important was punctured,” Dark eyes flashed up to meet his before returning to her work, her voice factual, yet still soft and calming, “How do you feel? Can you breathe alright?”

“Breathin’ fine,” Green eyes watched her steady hands weave perfect, tight loops, fascinated, “Dat… dat was somethin’, darlin’. You, uh, always fight like dat?”

A mischievous little grin curled her lips, “Yes.”

“Huh. Naht bad. Ow-” he sucked air through his teeth, wincing as the thread tugged a sensitive bit of flesh.

“Sorry. Need something to bite?”

“Nah, ‘m alright.”

Closing his eyes, he focused on breathing, chugging more liquor while cursing his tolerance.

“If you say so.”

Quick work was made, and soon she was tying off the thread before once more digging in her bag. This time, she returned with soft linen to press to the area, wrapping his torso with a bandage to keep pressure in place.

“All done. Lay down for a while.”

Heeding her advice, the redhead reclined, eyes trained to her as she wet a fresh cloth and began to clean blood from her body in the tarnished mirror.

“...where'd ya learn all dat?”

“All what?”

“The fightin’. The stitches.”

Silence overtook the pair. Just when he thought no response would come, she replied, “Fighting, I learned back home. The medical knowledge I've picked up as I've gone.”

“And, uh,” He shouldn't pry — it was never a good idea to pry into a strange pirate's history — but his curiosity regarding her strange swordss spurred his tongue, “Where's home?”

“Far from here.”

That was the best answer he would get.

Fair enough.

“So… ya got a crew?”

“Not at the moment,” Her eyes were trained on the task at hand, the weight of his gaze on her reflection heavy, “Why?”

“Join mine.”

She snorted, and he couldn't help but grin at the cute sound, the silly way her face scrunched.

“What? You a captain or something?”

“First Mate.”

“Yeah?” Her voice was disbelieving, “For who?”

“The Murmaiders.”

Her hand froze, and a smug grin curled his lips as her eyes found his in the mirror, appraising.

“You're Pickles?”

“One n’ only, love.”

“...you're serious?”

“A'couse. Why would I lie, darlin’?”

The Murmaiders were one of the most notorious pirate crews in the Caribbean. And he wanted her to join? Just like that?

“And you want me to join because…?”

“We need a doctor.”

Big, dark eyes blinked at him, and the redhead could practically see her weighing the pros and cons in her mind, “What's the catch?”

“No catch. We… we've had a few close calls with some injuries lately. I'd rather be safe dan sorry, and ya seem to know what yer doin’,” He shrugged, eyes shooting to her bag, “Got all da supplies with ya and everythin’. Plus, yer a hell of a fighter, and we could always use more of dat. Whaddya say? I'll take ya to meet ‘em dis afternoon?”

“Afternoon? Why not this morning?”

“Well, shit, sweetheart… we never got dat second round,” A bent grin shaped his words as she turned back, face flushed, “How ‘boot ya come wet my beard so I can thank ya fer sewin' me up?”

“...only if you insist.”

“Oh, I do, er…” he shimmied down the bed as she approached, wincing as he tweaked his wound, “What was yer name again, darlin’?”

��Olive. Hold still before you hurt yourself,” She swat his chest, stilling his movements, then tugged sharply on the sheet. Wide green eyes stared in mild alarm as she easily yanked the man into a better position, though his surprise melted into desire as she straddled his shoulders, and calloused hands ran over her thighs.

“Heh. Fancy dat, our names match,” His eyes sparkled up at her as she let loose a few soft giggles, hand covering her mouth, “Well, Olive, aye. I insist.”

Hours later, the pair headed onto the heated midday streets of Port Royal, stopping at a tailor as Olive retrieved an order. Pickles leaned against the sun-warmed stone of the shop outside with his freckled arms crossed, blue bandana shielding his scalp and red dreads from the harsh rays. Puffing lazily at a cigarette dangling from his lips, he entertained himself by blowing smoke rings and watching the wisps curl and dance on the hot breeze. Finally, footsteps approached, and a pierced brow rose as his gaze raked over her once.

Twice.

…and maybe just once more.

By the time green eyes raised to black, she was smirking, though the flush on her cheeks gave her away. Smirk curling his own lips, he licked them, then spoke, voice teasing, “Pink? Wouldn'ta pegged yah fer the type.”

Shrugging, Olive secured her satchel, then shook her hair back, tying those fluffy curls out of her face with a black bandana across her forehead. Mouth drying at the sight, he averted his eyes as they began their trek to the dock.

“I like pink.”

“Ain't it kinda, yanno… bright? Draws alot’a attention.”

They certainly were drawing attention, Olive turning the heads of passersby both immigrant and native, rich and poor, pirate and law abiding citizen alike as they meandered through the busy, bustling streets, a cacophony of voices filling the air. Vendors of fruit and fish loudly boasted their freshest hauls to reel in customers. Crafters showed off their latest masterpieces to all who would spare a passing glance. Jewelers and weavers tempted women to try on just this one item, it was made for you!

Not that he could blame them for looking. The light pink, puff sleeve top was left undone, showing off low-cut, dark plum lace to match her sleeve cuffs. A plum vest embroidered with gold tucked into a black waist corset, below which was tied a bright golden sash. A deep magenta swooped over her hips and down the backs of her legs, laid atop layers of lace skirts in cherry pink and plum. A slit ran the side for movement's sake, allowing glimpses of her tall black boot and flashes of soft, supple skin in the gap between the black lace covering her thigh.

With a knowing look and a curl of those pretty, plush lips now painted a deep, dark mauve, she teased, “Oh? Is that the reason it's drawing attention? The vibrancy of the shade?”

Barking a laugh, Pickles clapped her on the back, jolting her with the unexpected force, and she shot him a much less attractive look. Grinning, he gently squeezed her shoulder, “Ah, okee. I get it. So dat's why ya bought it. Coulda jest said so, darlin’.”

Snorting, she rolled her eyes.

“No. I bought it because it will show less bloodstains.”

Again, a brow rose in her direction.

“So would black.”

“Yeah, well…” she shrugged off his warm hand, “what, do I look bad?”

“Ya already know da answer t’ dat.”

“You could tell me, anyway.”

Green eyes glanced to her, though her gaze was focused ahead. Grinning mischievously, he shook his head, “Nah, ya don't look bad. Yer as pretty as a flower.”

Another snort, though this time through a smile. That was hardly an original compliment, nothing to get so damn giddy with excitement over, but here she was grinning from ear to ear all the same.

“A flower?”

“Yeah!” His own grin widening, Pickles added, “A real prickly flower, yanno, like a rose or a bramble bush, somethin’ dat'd leave my hand bleedin’ if I tried to reach in too far. But, still a flower.”

Smile fading, Olive chewed the inside of her cheek, silence overtaking them. For a moment Pickles worried he offended her, read her completely wrong, assumed too much.

“Well… better keep your hands out of it then, huh?”

Gaze still on her, he shrugged, “Maybe. Heh. But I've never been one t’ shy away from a lil’ danger if d’ere's treasure I want.”

“Yeah?” Her gaze met his, eyes unreadable, “And what's the reward for a bloody hand and a skinful of thorns?”

A little grin curled his lips, green eyes sparkling at her before shooting forward, evading her question, “We're here.”

With narrowed eyes, Olive followed Pickles’ lead as he guided her down the old, wet boards of the docks to The Murdmaider. Breathing in the comfort of the salty, damp sea air, she took in the Jolly Roger for the first time — a black flag, of course, with a white gear shape, the inside of which created a straight-lipped face. The ship itself was a beautifully crafted sloop, despite the wear and tear on the black and red paint, and appeared as if custom built for privateers with a letter of marque before The Murmaider crew acquired it. The figurehead was imposing — a giant siren dangling the severed head of a man by his hair, sword still raised in her other hand.

Huh. Maybe this is the right crew to join, after all.

As they ascended onto the deck, that thought was sharply derailed.

Oh, god.

It was a complete mess!

Everywhere sat barrels of inventory — much of it booze, if the labels could be believed — and around the deck, amongst the clutter of food and intoxicants, milled crew members in various stages of inebriation, all wearing… black hoods? Interesting. That's one way to maintain anonymity from the law, at least.

And prevent sunburn.

Lord. She really hoped the Captain would allow her to do some organizing. For fuck's sake, the barrels of liquor weren’t even alphabetized! She didn't know if she could live like this.

As she fretted, she ignored the way members of the crew stared, more than accustomed to the strange looks thrown her way as an openly female pirate. There weren't many like her, and even fewer like her who would dare to wear a dress onboard.

Luckily, she was confident in her ability to kick all of their asses — dress or not. Maybe she'd even get the chance to prove it.

Pickles glanced back, curious about her reaction, and grinned at her distressed expression.

“Everythin’ alright?”

“Yes, just…” She pulled a face, nose scrunching in distaste, “...unorganized.”

With a laugh, he shook his head, “C'mahn. Let's introduce ya t’ the Captain.”

This time, he kept pace with her, hand landing on the small of her back as the pair approached a group of men.

“Pickles, you’r- oh,” A behemoth of a man stood before them, dressed in all black, his admiral coat accented in gold. Silky, black hair curtained a severe, intimidating expression.

Next to him, a man of fairly tall build with fluffy, curly hair wearing a black shirt and shorts accented with a red vest and sash belt asked, through a sneer, “Who'sch the broad?”

“Moidaface, ams so rude,” A slightly shorter brunette with shiny, straight hair and big, kind blue eyes corrected his crew mate. He wore an open shirt similar to Pickles, in grey, with a red vest and black waist belt.

“Ja. That ams no way to talks to ones such lovely lady,” A tall, extremely beautiful man with flowing blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and an attractive smile dressed in an open, flowy, white puffed sleeve top and skin tight, light grey pants offered her a wink.

But, no, he's not a man — he’s a fellow siren. As was the brunette who spoke before him.

Huh. Interesting.

She kept her expression neutral, not allowing them the satisfaction of eliciting a reaction from her.

“Nate’n, dis is Olive,” Pickles gestured to the tall, imposing figure, “Olive, dis is our Captain, Nate'n Explosion.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Uh. Yeah. You, too,” His gaze cut to Pickles, “Uh, Pickles. We've been over this. You can't just bring women on boa-”

“Nah, it's different. I asked ‘er to join.”

The Captain's green eyes got wide, shooting between the pair, “You what?”

“Yeh. She's our new doctor.”

Expression softening, his gaze stuck to her with renewed interest, “You're a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Are you, uh, any good?”

With a grin, Pickles shifted his shirt, showing off his bandages, “Good enough t’ kill da fucker who stabbed me, den sew me up.”

“Whoah. Yeah, in that case, uh…” the Captain stuck out his massive hand, Olive placing her tiny one in his to shake. “Thanks. You know, for saving my First Mate. Welcome aboard, uh…”

“Olive.”

“Olive. Right. You, uh, got a last name?”

With a smile, she dropped the bomb, “Axworthy.”

Five pairs of eyes widened comically, silence overtaking them. And then-

“As in, ‘Widow of the Waters’ Olive Axworthy!?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, wowee!”

“Pfft. I don't believe it. Where'sch your proof?” the prickly brunette asked, staring her down.

Maintaining his stare with the same little smile, she tugged a necklace from her top, his gaze immediately drawn to her cleavage. Blushing, he swallowed, eyes instead bugging as she withdrew a chain strung with at least a dozen engagement rings.

“S-scho? Could've gotten thosche anywhere.”

“Fine,” With a shrug, she dug in her bag for a moment, retrieving a piece of rolled parchment. Untying it, the paper unfurled to reveal her very own wanted poster. Holding it to her face for comparison, she asked, “Believe me now?”

“Whoah… huh. Well, uh, she got you there, Murderface,” The Captain barely held back his amusement, his words shaped by a soft laugh, “Pickles, show her around!”

The air was crisp, the breeze salty in her lungs as Olive inhaled a deep breath, eyes slipping closed briefly, a longing for the water tugging from the center of her chest. The sun was dipping low, orange rays casting long shadows that reached with outstretched hands, desperate to consume every inch of light they touched, swallowing up every tender molecule that crossed their path.

Never satisfied.

Never satiated.

Always wanting more more more.

Ah, but perhaps she was projecting a bit.

Lips painted a deep mauve curled into a small grin at the thought, only widened further at the sound of footsteps thunking against the creaking boards of the deck. Turning from the view of Port Royal and the scene of consumption and loss, of those greedy shadows and their hands that never ceased, cursed to never grasp what they truly sought, dark eyes were momentarily blinded.

Blinking as her vision adjusted, she took in the man before her, backlit by the setting sun. Pickles was cast into shadow himself, though enough light remained to see that crooked grin and his sparkling eyes. He offered her a tankard filled to the brim with rum, lifting up his own and waiting expectantly.

Furrowing her brows, Olive tilted her head, confused, “What are we toasting to?”

Lips pulling back to show his teeth, Pickles only grinned bigger.

“To our newest crew mate, a'course!”

It took her a moment, but then Olive graced him with a small, coy smile in return, and clinked her tankard with his.

“To your new crew mate!”

Both tipped their tankards back for a long gulp, those pretty green eyes staring her down. Raising a brow, she asked, “Need something?”

“Were ya gonna tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Yanno. Dat yer a siren.”

The accusation froze her, and she fell dead quiet.

“Hey, now, don't do dat. Skwisgaar and Toki both are, too. I know ya noticed.”

Breath returning to her lungs, Olive allowed herself to relax once more, “So you… know about them, too?”

“Yeh.”

“Ah,” with a sigh, she averted her eyes, “It's… not something I can just tell people. Please don't take offense.”

Pickles raised his hand in a placating gesture.

“None taken, darlin’. So, den… what aboot dat other thing?”

“What other thing?”

“Yanno. Ya bein’ da Widow of da Waters.”

Shrugging, she glanced away once more.

“I did tell yo-”

“Yeah, in front a’ everyone else.”

“What, embarrassed?”

“Nah, jest…” he shifted, downing another gulp of rum before continuing, “Were ya gonna, yanno…”

“Was I going to make you my next husband? No. I work fast. If I wanted to marry you, I already would have.”

A pierced brow rose in disbelief.

“Aye? Awful confident, ain't ya?”

Another shrug, this time with a grin, “I have reason to be.”

“Yeh?” His boots thunked loudly as he stepped closer, shadow overtaking her as he loomed over, close enough for her to smell the liquor on his breath. Green eyes burned into hers before moving down, her breath catching as fingertips trailed the exposed skin of her decolletage. With a crooked grin, he tugged at the chain, withdrawing it from her cleavage, and began to count aloud the number of rings from her prior husbands as he inspected each, mentally critiquing the stones and craftsmanship. Some were impressive enough, but...

If he gave her a ring, Pickles would do better than these.

“...thirteen. Heh. Well, damn,” he dropped the necklace, allowing it to bounce back to her chest with a clink of metal and stones, his fingers instead trailing up the column of her throat to tilt her chin, “Guess ya do got reason t’ be confident, huh?”

Those green eyes glowed as if lit from within by a flaming inferno, and Olive found herself drowning in their molten sea. Locating her voice, she managed to ask, “Aren't relationships like this between First Mate and crew normally frowned upon?”

“Yeh, usually. Luckily... I know da captain,” Pickles gave her a wink that left her melting despite herself. The feeling only doubled with his next words, spoken barely above a whisper as his thumb traced her soft bottom lip, “Ya can tell me t’ stop, if ya want. It's okee t’ say no.”

Fully melting, now, dark eyes flit down to his lips, then back to those smoldering eyes. And, with a breathy “Don't stop,” Olive sealed both of their fates.

Thank you so much for reading! I'm super excited for this AU, and have SO much lore planned, y'all don't even know. Much of which will tie back in to Olive's main story, Momento Mori, which you should read if you haven't, though it isn't necessary for this fic! Next time, the crew makes a stop at Serpent's Roost to procure some special supplies, and we meet @sichore 's oc Jimi! Please drop a like and comment to let me know what you think!

#art of pirate Olive is coming VERY soon!#mtl siren au #olive axworthy #pickles the drummer #skwisgaar skwigelf #toki wartooth #nathan explosion #william murderface #relish #metalocalypse #metalocalypse oc #mtl oc

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