#y'all are destructive manipulators

[thaleleah]

𝓖𝓸𝓭𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼 (𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓞𝓷𝓮)

Pairing: Billy The Kid x Fem!Nun!Reader

Warnings: ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Dark!Billy, Virgin!Reader, Oral (female receiving), Fingering, P in V, Corruption Kink, Creampie, Possessive Behavior, Masturbation, Wet Dreams/Sex Dreams, Seduction, Emotional Manipulation, Religion and Religious Beliefs, Explicit talk of gunshot wounds, blood, and the bullet's removal (kinda? Idk if it's explicit explicit, but its a little more than just mentioned), Mention of physical abuse/child abuse (not from Billy), Childhood Trauma, Mention of alcoholism, Moral/Religious conflict within one's self, My bad Spanish, Nun breaking her vows, Probably too quick of a healing process to be fucking someone but I'm not a doctor so 🤷🏻‍♀️, Using the word "drawers" instead of "panties" which is kinda cringe to me but I wanted to be somewhat accurate

Word Count: 9.6K

A/N: Billy's passed out for most of this but I hope y'all like it anyway. Please know I'm posting this and then running away. Okay, byeeeeeeeeee

Summary: When Billy stumbles into your clinic, hurt and in desperate need of care and refuge, you don't hesitate to help him. Perhaps this is God's will. Perhaps He has brought him into your life to help heal the parts of him that the cruelness of the world has soiled and broken. You are a healer by trade, both of the physical body and of faith. If this is to be God's mission for you, then it shall be done. How could you have possibly known that the young man who begged for help that fateful night would turn out to be the devil himself?

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Translations:

Por Dios - Oh my God

Que Dios te bendiga - May God bless you

Qué sorpresa! - What a surprise!

Y él no quería que su mamá lo supiera. Así enterró la carne en el jardín - And he didn't want his mom to know. So he buried the meat in the garden

Pero el perro la desenterró y ella se descubrió de todos modos. Tuvo que lavar platos él solo por dos meses - But the dog dug it up and she found out anyway. He had to wash the dishes by himself for two months

Ese niño - That kid/child

Parece que era un buen amigo - Seems like he was a good friend

Sí, él era - Yes, he was

De nada - You're welcome

Gracias, Hermana - Thanks, Sister

They say the devil can take on many forms.

He is a demon figure - with the face of a goat, horns, hooves, and a blade pointed tail.

He is a great dragon - large and terrifying, destructive and formidable in the power he holds.

He is a roaring lion - hungry and fierce as he stalks God’s children, waiting for them to fall into his trap before he attacks them like prey.

But the devil was once God’s favorite angel, amazingly beautiful and wise. The angel of light, God’s morning star - a traitor now, a trickster . . . evil.

The Lord teaches love for all, compassion and understanding despite another’s upbringing or current situation. All humans are God’s children, all made in His perfect image, brothers and sisters in unity under His loving and eternal care. You are thankful to know this, grateful that you can feel His presence coursing through your veins despite the horror that you’ve come to face daily while working at the clinic. His gift to you is your endless drive to help those in need, sitting by the bedsides of the sick and dying, applying a cool rag to their sweaty foreheads, or spoon feeding them soup to give them strength when they are too weak to do it themselves. 

It is a taxing life, and the sorrow you feel when you cannot nurse someone back to health is ever present in your heart, but the Lord is clear in your life’s mission and you will be forever thankful for the lessons you learn in this lifetime. 

He has made you a healer, using you as a vessel for His healing touch for all you come across - regardless of wealth, status, religious affiliation, or criminal record. 

Which is why when he stumbles into the clinic during the late hours of the night, face pale and hand pressing hard to his side where blood is streaming through his fingers despite the pressure, you don’t hesitate to help him. 

You think you should have - should have let him bleed to death on the clinic floor. Would God have abandoned you if you had?

“Sister Maria!” You cry instead, running to the injured man and looping his arm around your shoulders to help him lean against you. “We need fresh towels and water! And sutures! Hurry!”

Sister Maria runs in the room, bedsheets still cradled in her arms from where she had been turning over a recently discharged patient’s room. She gasps at the scene, dropping the linens on the floor as she rushes to the main utility closet. You guide the man to a bed, helping him drop onto the thin mattress with a tortured groan. One of your hands splays over his, helping to maintain pressure on the wound until Sister Maria can bring in the needed supplies. Your other hand lays gently on his sweaty forehead, thumb caressing the straight line of his nose trying to soothe him. 

His baby blue eyes stare up at you through their pained haze. 

“P-please, help,”

The devil can take on many forms and carry many names.

And yet, despite all you’ve heard about who he is and what he’s done, you never once considered Billy the Kid to be one of them. 

Misguided and uncared for - sure, but never evil. 

He’s so young. You can’t even imagine what horrors he must have had to go through to lead him to the path that he’s on now.

Perhaps it’s fate that you’ve been brought together, an opportunity for you to spread the healing power of your Lord’s love and mend not only his body but his bruised heart as well. You’ve seen too many times where hardships have hardened the minds and spirits of others, caging them off from God as they struggle with their wavering faith. 

“Don’t you worry,” You say. “The Lord is here with us. He will see you through.”

Whether he groans from your words or the pain, you’re not sure.

Sister Maria is quick to grab the supplies, dumping them on the side table. She dunks a clean cloth in the water, wringing out the excess, but pauses when she sees his face. 

“Is that— ” 

“Nevermind that!” You hiss, pulling the cloth from her hand. 

You lift his shirt, exposing the injury and the dirt dusted skin framing it. It looks horrible, blood seeping from the laceration in a steady flow and a part of you is thankful that the sight of blood doesn’t make you immediately drop to the floor like your cousin, Paul. He gasps when you touch the cloth to the wound, blood immediately seeping into the white of the cloth and marring the pure color. 

His fingers dig into the fabric of his trousers, gripping it tight as he clenches his teeth against the pain. Your free hand rubs lightly against his forehead, trying to soothe him as best you can while you clean the wound. 

You think it must be God’s mercy that he passes out before you can pull the bullet out. The pain of the forceps digging into his body as you pulled out the thick ball of lead and the shock that would have come with it would have surely dragged him under had blood loss not gotten to him first. It’s better this way - he’s safer cradled in sleep’s loving hold rather than crying and jerking about as you try to save his life. 

Sister Maria holds a small bowl out in front of you with one hand while the other delicately holds his wrist, feeling his pulse between her dainty fingers.

The bullet comes out easy, your forceps finding the lead and guiding it out of the wound’s entrance with ease. It clanks as you drop it into the tiny bowl, and you send up prayers of thanks for allowing such a quick and simple removal. The grace of your Lord has certainly just saved this man’s life.

With quick fingers, you stitch him up, practiced movements securing the wound shut before covering it with a generous dressing of cloth to keep it clean from any dirt and debris. 

His sleep isn’t restful, the pinch in his brow and the way his cheeks twitch in the flickering candlelight of the small room make that clear. Your own brows pinch as you reach a hand out to trace the furrowed skin, smoothing it out with a gentle thumb. You don’t like seeing people suffer, but it’s more often than not that the people you come into contact with while working in the clinic are in pain, or suffering, or at Heaven’s doorstep. You help who you can and pray for the souls of the ones you can’t so they may be guided to God’s kingdom where they can live in an eternal paradise by His side. It always hurts when you can’t heal someone, the feeling of failure is a stark reminder that ultimately it is the Lord who chooses to give us life, and he can choose to take it away just as quickly. 

It feels different this time though, somehow more personal in a way you can’t understand. The young man before you still has his whole life ahead of him, still so much to do and so many lives to touch. The sins that he’s committed thus far can be forgiven, if only he lifts them up to Him and asks for forgiveness. You can feel it, deep in your bones, that you need to save this man. You can’t fail. 

He’s alive, for now. And you can only do your best to make sure he stays that way. 

“He cannot stay here,” Sister Maria says quietly, gathering the red stained water and rags. “They will find him.”

You nod, gathering the small bowl with the bullet remnant and the sutures kit. “We’ll keep him here tonight and move him to the back room in the morning after he’s rested a while,”

“No,” Sister Maria says. “He cannot stay here. Helping an outlaw is punishable by death. They will hang us,”

“God will not abandon us,” You say, firmly. “We are all His children, servants and outlaw alike. He wouldn’t want us to toss him out on the street to die.”

You look over your shoulder towards the sleeping man again. His brow is furrowed again, the sweat on his face glistening in the light. You sigh before turning back to Sister Maria. “Don’t worry, Sister. I’ll think of something,”

The pacifying words seem to offer Sister Maria no comfort, and her worried eyes snap upwards as she looks towards the ceiling, voice cracking as she breathes a pleading, “Por Dios,” up towards the roof. 

The room is silent to her plea.

You don’t leave Billy’s side the entire night, sitting in the chair directly next to the bed, dabbing at his heated face and neck with a damp washcloth and changing his bandage when the first one had soiled through. He wakes a few times during the night, icy blue eyes fluttering open and locking on yours for the briefest second before slipping closed once again, a quiet sigh escaping through his slightly parted lips. 

This is the hardest part - the waiting. Waiting to see if your hard work to heal someone was enough. You keep a close eye on him, looking for signs of pain or illness, keeping an eye on the injury site to try and prevent infection. You flushed it with alcohol during the dressing change, having found an extra bottle hiding in the supply closet while grabbing some fresh cloths. Supplies like alcohol for disinfecting, while needlessly abundant in saloons and brothels, are difficult to acquire for the clinic. You think it's foolish, wasting something that can be used for healing purposes on something as pointless as getting drunk. Your father had been a drunk, drinking away his cares and woes, his only goal was to make it to the bottom of a bottle. 

You wish you would have found it sooner so you could have actually disinfected the entire wound instead of just the outside and stitches, but this is better than nothing, you suppose. The smell as you pour it over his wound makes your stomach turn, reminding you of all the times your father came home reeking of the stuff, belly full of poison and his mind, hazed with drink, still evil enough to find your mother and make her suffer as if she were the reason he deemed himself a failure in life. Billy lets out a pained moan in his sleep, body subconsciously tensing in pain as the alcohol flushes the stitched up skin, but thankfully he doesn’t wake. You don’t want him to be in pain, but there’s a part of you that selfishly thinks he’s sharing your own pain, the memory of your childhood trauma somehow seeping into his brain as you recover his wound. 

You know it’s not true, but you’re thankful he’s there with you anyway. 

When morning arrives, you’re beyond exhausted. 

The night shift always takes more out of you than the day shift and your eyes have been threatening to close since the first rays of the sun started spreading across the dust covered floor of the clinic. 

Sister Ann and Sister Catherine arrive before the sun does, the first rays of it only starting to spill over the New Mexico horizon line when their footsteps echo through the entryway. You lean forward in your seat at the sound of them, glancing over at Billy’s still sleeping frame as Sister Ann’s gentle humming of a nursery song her mother used to sing to her spreads throughout the clinic. Quick footsteps cut through the song, the humming stopping entirely as frantic whispers sound from the entryway. And then three sets of running feet are getting closer to the corner room. 

“Oh, good heavens,” Sister Catherine breathes, eyes locked on the special patient taking up the small bed. 

Sister Ann has a dainty hand clasped against her mouth in shock and Sister Maria nervously wrings her own together from behind them. 

“He was hurt,” You say, immediately defensive of the injured man. “We couldn’t leave him to die. The Lord says–”

“You don’t need to preach to us, Sister y/n,” Sister Catherine interrupts. “It’s the right thing to do. The Lord is on our side.” She’s confident in her words, and it gives you comfort you didn’t know you needed to have your beliefs validated. But she pauses, eyes flickering once again to Billy before they meet yours - the fear in her brown orbs clear as day. “The law, on the other hand, will not be.” 

“We need to move him,” You say.

“To where?” Sister Ann whispers frantically. “The sheriff and his deputies are sure to show up here. They know he’s been shot, it’s only a matter of time.”

“It is a blessing they have not come already,” Sister Maria adds.

They’re right. With Billy injured, they have to know he couldn’t have gotten far. Their only saving grace is that the Sheriff more than likely would have never believed Billy would have come to the clinic for medical attention if on the run from the law. Perhaps holed up in some abandoned alley, bleeding out while propped up against a wall. Or maybe they think he tried riding out of town, desperate to get as far away from the people hunting him as possible before inevitably succumbing to his injuries and falling off his horse in a nearby field. 

You rise from the chair, leaning over the bed slightly to rest a gentle hand on Billy’s forehead. It’s still clammy against your palm and he shivers slightly in his sleep, subconsciously pressing his head a little harder against your hand looking for comfort in his pained state. He needs to get away from here, away from any prying eyes because if he’s found, his life on this Earth is over. He is in no position to run or fight for his life. The road to recovery for him is a long one if he hopes to heal well enough to regain his strength and usual mobility. The only thing he will have to look forward to if discovered before he can is a necklace of rope and a quick fall. 

“Help me get him to the back room,” You say, sternly. In moments of uncertainty and panic, someone needs to be the guiding light. Your fellow Sisters are still as stones in their spots, all in various states of distress as they look at the man who, if discovered under their care, could very well be the catalyst that marks the end of their missions here on Earth. The Lord brought Billy to you - you need to protect him. “He can stay in the alcove until we can figure out where to take him.”

“He cannot stay in the clinic!” Sister Maria exclaims. “They will surely check every room searching for him!”

“Trust me,” You soothe. “Please, Sister. We need to move him before they come or we will all surely pay the price.”

There is a short pause, but to your frantic brain it feels like an eternity before Sister Catherine nods and gently nudges Sister Ann to the opposite side of the bed. 

“Let’s hurry,” She says, reaching to pull away the thin blanket you threw over Billy’s shaking frame at some point during the night. “I fear we don’t have much time left.”

Together, the four of you lift Billy from the bed. It’s a struggle. Even for multiple women to carry a fully grown man, it's a task and a half just to get him from the small patient room to the back area of the clinic. He whines in his sleep, his wound jostling and stitches pulling from the regretfully poor stability you have on his body as you carry him. But, somehow, he doesn’t wake. 

The back room is small, but comparatively large compared to the patient’s rooms. The entire width is the size of two patient rooms combined, but that’s not giving it much grace. It makes you sick sometimes, to see people with money spending it on lavish items, large houses and grand parties just to show off their wealth when there are people in need all around whose lives would change if they only had a fraction of the wealth the ones in good standing do. As it is, the back room of the clinic is despairingly bare - limited backstock of supplies, linens, and food are scattered among the wooden shelves lining the room. If only those wealthy men who think to only fill their pockets would hear the Lord’s call to give to the needy instead. It would make your heart happy to see these shelves filled just once. 

There’s a small alcove in the back of the room that you and the other Sisters use when times prove most trying. On the days when things are difficult, emotions are too much for you to handle alone or a patient isn’t doing well and there’s nothing you can do other than wait and pray for their recovery, you visit the alcove. It's been adorned with simple yet revenant items, a small yet beautiful cross nailed to the center of the wall, a small ceramic dish holding a wooden beaded rosary placed on the floor below it, resting on a pleasantly fluffed up pillow - ready to help guide their prayer. 

Resting against the side wall of the alcove is a folded up cot. It’s not uncommon that one of the Sisters might have to sleep at the clinic during their off shift. More often than not, they are able to return to their lodgings to sleep and reenergize for their next shift. But there are times when too many people are injured, too many of the townspeople have fallen ill to whatever flu or illness that’s crossing through the town and all hands are needed here. The foldable cot is their home away from home, and while it might not be the most comfortable, you are thankful the Lord was able to provide it lest you be made to sleep on the floor behind the extra blankets neatly folded on the shelves. 

You all adjust your grips on the young man allowing for Sister Maria to release her hold and pull back the thick blanket shielding the entrance to the alcove. You grunt under the presence of the additional weight, the awkward grip you all have on him unhelpful in the way his limp body bears down on you all. Sister Maria is quick in tying back the privacy blanket so that it stays to one side, and works to wrangle open the finicky cot. Once it’s unrolled, you help in depositing Billy down onto the makeshift bed, quickly checking his wound to make sure no stitches accidentally ripped in the journey back here before turning to accept the fresh blanket Sister Ann hands you from the shelf. 

Billy’s brow is furrowed again, breathing a little harsher probably from the pain of being jostled. You lay out the blanket over top of him and pull it up to his chin, your hand reaching out to smooth the wrinkled skin between his eyes again. 

“What do we do now?” Sister Ann asks, and Sister Catherine pulls her hand away from where it was plucking nervously at the skin at the sides of her fingers.

“We wait,” She responds, cradling Sister Ann’s damaged hand delicately between her own. “We won’t be able to move him out of the clinic before the Sheriff arrives. We’ll have to keep him hidden here until then and pray they don’t find him.”

The thought of the Sheriff and his men finding Billy here makes your stomach churn. The undeniable fate that waits for you if he’s discovered is one that you’re willing to sacrifice. He’s come here for help, God has brought him here to you for your healing and protection and you can’t fail Him just because your humanity makes you fearful of your end. It’s supposed to be a beautiful thing - death. The moment when your soul on this Earth fulfills its mission here and your granted eternal life at the side of God in the Kingdom of Heaven. It’s what you’ve wanted your whole life, a life of peace and serenity that seems so out of reach here on the soil. Fear will not keep you from looking forward to it. But you’re not done here yet, you have many years left of helping others and spreading His love to those in need. This is not your end. But if it is, it’s worth the sacrifice to try to save Billy. 

You’ll hang with him, if need be. 

Your fellow Sisters though . . . the thought of them hanging for your own choice, regardless of if you think it was the right thing to do, makes you sick. Your decisions are your own, and they shouldn’t suffer for your choices. 

Billy’s forehead unwrinkles under your gentle fingers, and you can feel your heart break as you look down at him. He’s so young still, a young man just at the beginning of his life. He has so many fine years ahead of him. He’s handsome, fit and strong - he would make a fine husband for some lucky lady, a dutiful father for his children. He’s not as evil as they say. You’ve learned to trust your instincts when it comes to people. Sometimes the most misunderstood people are the kindest, and you can’t help but think Billy is the most misunderstood of all. You can’t sense a single whisper of badness in him. 

You stand up and pull the privacy blanket back in front of the alcove, hiding Billy from sight in the safety of God’s makeshift altar. Together, you and the other Sisters make your way out of the back room. A few rooms down a sickly man is coughing up a storm, and from how hard and continuous his coughs are, you know his throat is raw. Sister Ann shoots the rest of you a worried look, but turns to grab a water carafe off of a side table before rushing down the hall towards the coughing man and away from the current situation. 

“You can head back, Sister Maria,” You say, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “Get some rest. It’s going to be a long day and we’re going to need you for the night shift.”

You can tell she’s torn, both wanting to stay and help in any way she can but seeming to know that there’s nothing she can do. All there is to do is wait. After a few moments, she nods, her own hand coming up to rest on top of yours. “Que Dios te bendiga,”

You watch as she makes her way towards the front, pushing open the wooden door before jerking to a halt. “Sheriff Garrett! Qué sorpresa!”

Her words sent a spark of panic through you. It’s so soon! You knew it was coming, but it’s still so incredibly soon. You had hoped for at least a while longer to try to gather your thoughts and think of a plan of where you can take Billy, but it feels like time moves slowly as the Sheriff and two of his deputies step into the clinic.

“Sister,” Garrett responds, respectfully tipping his hat. 

Even through your panic, you still feel a twinge of irritation. A gentleman would take off his hat, but you suppose it’s better than the two men standing behind him who do nothing but trail their eyes around the clinic's entrance suspiciously (and with a clear bout of judgment).

You know for a fact these men with gold lined pockets have never given so much as a dime to the clinic. 

Sister Maria turns back to look at you and Sister Catherine, desperation clear in her eyes and you're glad that none of the men are looking at her anymore or you think her obvious distress might have given you all away.

“Have a good rest, Sister,” You say, urging Sister Maria away. Thankfully, she listens, nodding to you and then Garrett before scurrying out the door. 

“How can we help you, Sheriff?” Sister Catherine asks. 

Garrett takes a few leisurely steps along the entryway, observing the interior of the clinic with the aura of a man who thinks he can see everything. You suspect he sees nothing at all. 

“I apologize for the interruption, Sisters. I know you’re hard at work," He says. “But we’re looking for an outlaw on the run.” He pauses, looking over at the two of you with pointed eyes. At your silence, he continues. “William H. Bonney, otherwise known as Billy the Kid,”

“Oh, dear,” Sister Catherine gasps. 

You feign concern also, bringing your fingers to your mouth as a sign of shock. Garrett nods in agreement at your supposed horror. 

“As you no doubt know he is a very dangerous, very unlawful, man,”

“So we’ve heard,” Sister Catherine says, nodding solemnly. “Is that what brings you in today?”

“Yes,” He says. “There was an altercation last night between him and I. I was able to shoot him so he is very hurt, but he got away before I could arrest him or finish the job.”

“Kinda stupid to come to a clinic when you’re a wanted outlaw, Pat,” One of the men behind Garrett grumbles. “We’re wasting our time here.”

You can’t help but agree, despite that being exactly what Billy did. But maybe that’s what makes it smart. You're hopeful that Garrett will listen to his friend, will assume that Billy couldn’t possibly be here and leave the clinic without investigating it. 

The small spark of hope dies as Garrett laughs without mirth. “The Kid’s not stupid. But we’re covering all our bases,” 

“Helloooooo,” A voice calls from another room opposite the patient still occasionally coughing up a lung. “Can someone please pay attention to the sick people around here? Hellooooooooooo?”

Sister Catherine smiles tightly. “Mr. Taylor,” She says by way of explanation. “A rather problematic patient here. He’s a good man, just impatient.”

Sister Ann’s voice can still be heard attempting to soothe her own charge, so Sister Catherine has no choice but to tend to Mr. Taylor. When she disappears from sight, you turn back to Garrett, trying your best to deter suspicion. 

“I can assure you, Sheriff, that we haven’t seen any sign of Mr. Bonney around here,” The lie leaves your lips far too easily for it to feel like the sin that it is.

Garrett nods, and you can tell he believes you, but puts his hands on his hips all the same, one hand pushing aside his coat to rest freely on the hilt of his gun. “Mind if we have a look around?”  

You force a smile on your face. “Not at all. As long as you don’t bother any of the patients. They need their rest,”

“Certainly,”

You lead him around the clinic allowing him and the deputies to search the rooms for their missing outlaw. When they get to Billy’s old room, the room they just vacated not minutes before the Sheriff arrived, you tell them that a patient was recently discharged and that you hadn’t had the time to turn over the room yet. 

“Why is there blood on ‘em?” One of the deputies asks, nodding to the blood stains still covering the stark white of the sheets. 

“A cooking accident,” You reply. “An incorrect knife hold can sometimes do that,”

Another lie. You feel this one a little more than the first. 

Eventually their search comes to the back room. You can’t keep them out, that would be too suspicious, so you allow them to walk through the half filled shelves. It's more than clear that there’s no place to hide anyone here other than the alcove and you're naively hoping they won’t even realize it’s there. 

It’s a large blanket hanging on the wall. Of course, they’re going to notice it. 

And, sure enough, one of the deputy’s eyes cut to the blanket. He heads towards it with a gruff “What’s behind here?” but you intercept him, rushing over to stand between him and the alcove.

The Sheriff and his deputies have their eyes on you now, each one closing in closer to you and the alcove, much too close for comfort.

“Sister,” Garrett says, voice stern with authority. “What’s behind the blanket?”

“It’s our place of prayer here,” You say, voice calm despite your nervousness. “Our altar.” You can’t mess up now. If you show any sign that you’re being untruthful, both you and Billy as well as your fellow Sisters out front will be on a one way trip to the courthouse. You’ll all die hanging from its top banister. “When healing doesn’t seem to be enough, it helps to have a place dedicated to God to call upon his everlasting power to perform miracles.”

Garrett nods. “Mind if we take a look?”

“Yes, actually. I do,” Your quick denial clearly catches him off guard, his eyebrows raising towards his hat. “Just as God bids us to modesty with our clothing, we must also show privacy and modesty in our places of worship. They’re sacred spaces. Surely you understand that, Sheriff,” 

The words feel like poison on your tongue. Using worship and prayer to cover up a lie is the catalyst that makes bile feel like it's rising in your throat. It’s not a lie, you have to remind yourself. It is a makeshift altar, you do use it as a place of worship and prayer. Just . . . not right at this moment. 

The reality of the situation is catching up with you, and you hide your slightly shaking hands by folding them together in front of you. You haven’t lied in years. You lied a lot as a child, a necessity of living with a father who’s anger could strike at a moment’s notice. You resented having to do it back then, forced to sin for the sake of trying to keep peace in the home. It’s much like the situation you find yourself in now, having to lie to try and protect another person. To protect yourself. 

When you found refuge at the convent all those years ago, you were told you would never have to be untruthful ever again.

“God is granting you freedom from your woes,” You were told, and you remember how light those words had made you feel. “Thank him for His good graces with your undying loyalty and strive to always be who He guides you to be.”

You hadn’t lied since, no matter how tough things seemed. Sickly patients lying on their deathbed, scared and begging you for any kind of reassurance that it wasn’t the end for them. You wouldn’t give them false hope. Instead, you would tell them to turn their worries to the Lord, clasping their hands in yours and praying with them.

“Your soul is strong, bright and ever-present,” You would tell them. Sometimes you would let them hold your rosary so they can find comfort in it. “The body is a temple, and we do our best in our life to care for it. You’ve done that. If it weakens now, it is because God is calling your soul back to Him.”

The guilt is clawing at your chest, but you force it back as best as you can as you meet Garrett’s eyes. “I ask that you don’t force us to desecrate that,” 

Garrett just stares at you, an unreadable expression on his face. One deputy just looks between you and Garrett, uncertain with how to proceed in the face of defying authority, and the other deputy that sneered at the thought of Billy even coming to the clinic scoffs at your words. 

“Listen, lady, the law–”

“John, enough,” Garrett interrupts, voice shockingly hard as his eyes cut to his deputy. “She’s a Sister and you’ll show her respect.”

You feel a quick spark of satisfaction at the way the deputy’s confident, power hungry facade dies under the Sheriff's ridicule. He mumbles a quick apology to which you accept with a nod despite how insincere it sounds. 

Garrett nods his head towards the door, silently gesturing for the other two to head towards the exit before he tips his hat at you directly, thanking you for your time and apologizing for any inconvenience their visit may have caused. 

You want to tell him it was no inconvenience at all, but you’ve already sinned enough today and you can’t bear the thought of intentionally adding to the tally without justified need. Instead you settle on curving your lips into a convincing smile, thanking the men in return for their brevity and understanding and wishing them a good rest of their day as you usher them out of the back room and towards the front entrance.

Every single muscle in your body relaxes once they are completely out of the clinic, relief washing over you as you whisper out a quick prayer of thanks to God for allowing everyone to get out of the overwhelmingly dangerous situation unscathed - at least for now. 

Sister Ann and Sister Catherine peek out of their respective rooms when they hear the front door swing shut, their wide eyes mimicking the relief you know is shown in your own. 

“I can’t believe they didn’t find him,” Sister Ann admits, and it pains your heart to see tears begin to well up in her eyes. “I thought this was truly the end for all of us.” 

You have her in your arms in an instant, cradling her small frame against your chest as she begins to cry in earnest. For as scary as it’s been for you so far, you can’t imagine what she’s been going through. Sister Ann and Sister Catherine have only known about Billy for less than no time at all. And yet, despite the short period of time between finding out about Billy, getting him into the alcove, and the entrance and departure of the Sheriff - you’re sure it probably felt like an eternity to her. 

“Hush now, Sister,” You whisper, running a soothing hand along her back. “You’re safe, I promise.”

Sister Catherine places one of her hands on Sister Ann’s back as well, but she’s looking at you when she speaks. “He still can’t stay here,”

You know that. You know. You got lucky that the Sheriff didn’t find Billy this time, but who's to say that he won’t come back when he’s unable to find his missing outlaw anywhere else? Covering all his bases, that’s what he said. He’ll come back again when he sees that his other ‘bases’ have turned up nothing but dead ends. 

Your older brother, Joe, has a cabin just outside of town. It’s a hidden place, specifically built for peace. No visitors. He lives alone, no wife or children to keep him company and he prefers it that way. 

“If I’m alone, I can’t turn into him,” 

You're positive he wouldn’t. Your brother is far from being anything like your father, but the task of trying to prove that to him seems to be out of your skillset. He tells you he’s happy with his life, that he’s chosen the path he feels he needs to be on just as you have. Who are you to pass judgment?

Joe likes the solitude, that much is certain. But he also has an adventurous spirit which guides him on lengthy trips from town to town, exploring all the world has to offer while never having to be tied to one place. He’s away now according to the last letter he sent you, planning to stay in Chihuahua, Mexico for a while and that he’s not sure yet when he’s going to be back. 

“It’s dangerous,” Sister Catherine pushes, taking your silence as reluctance.

“I know,” You say. “I know. I think . . . I think I have an idea.”

The cabin will be empty. Joe isn’t due back for the immediate future, and even if he does return earlier than you suspect he will, you and Billy won’t be in danger. Joe can be trusted. He’ll help you, if need be. You can’t imagine that the Sheriff would ever know about it. It’s secluded - far off of any of the usual paths. It’s safe there. The perfect place to hide the wanted outlaw for a while. He can rest there, heal up uninterrupted for a few weeks until he can safely move around on his own two feet again. 

Sister Catherine listens openly to the idea, but her face is pinched in displeasure. 

“We don’t have much of a choice,” She says, reluctantly. “It seems like the best place for him to disappear to until he’s healed.”

You can hear the underlying pause in her agreement loud and clear. “But?”

“The clinic cannot spare two of us. We would lose half of our staff and it is too much for one person to handle alone per shift,”

“I wouldn’t ask any of you to come with us,” You say. No, for as much as you believe God sent Billy into your life for a reason, this was your mission to bear. You’ve already put your fellow Sisters through enough.

“You want to go alone?” Sister Ann sniffles, raising her head up from your chest.

“You need to think about this,” Sister Catherine says, sternly. “You shouldn’t be alone with him. He is a child of God, yes. But he is also an outlaw and a man. Sometimes, one of those is worse than the other.”

They’re being protective. The more rational part of you is grateful for their concern, and you think that if the positions were switched and one of them were in your position instead, you would react the same way. But a part of you is bitter. They’ve heard the stories. You know exactly how cruel men can be and you know exactly what they’re capable of. It’s a risk you’re taking, but you feel called to take it anyway. Billy needs your help, and God would never put anything in your path that you can’t handle.

“The Lord will protect me,” Despite the truthfulness of your words, you can see how they do little to reassure them. Your next words are better. “The Lord will help me protect myself.”

Sister Ann looks at Sister Catherine, once again bringing her hands together to pick at the reddened skin at the edge of her nail. Sister Catherine sighs, and the back of her hand reaches up to tap her forehead as if feeling the temperature or wiping away sweat. 

“Alright,” She relents. “How do we get him to your brother’s cabin?”

“I don’t know,” You admit. “We need a wagon. Or a large wheelbarrow that we can put him in and attach it to a horse. I haven’t ridden a horse in a long time, but I’m sure I can manage.”

“Where are we supposed to get that?” Sister Ann’s tone borders on exasperated. 

As if answering your unspoken prayer, the door to the clinic opens once more, this time revealing a bright faced Samuel Anderson, carrying a crate full of fresh supplies. And behind him, lit up by the sunlight like a bright blessing, is his wagon.

Sam Anderson is the son of local store owner, Edward Anderson, the clinic's top provider for basic supplies that are not strictly medical. While medicine shipments and more specialty items are donated from suppliers farther away, and frankly much less frequent than necessary, Mr. Anderson and Sam never fail to come through with plenty of food for you to make soups and nutritious meals for your patients. On occasion, you even have enough to give away to the families who are stacked together in a small two bedroom on the edge of town. With eight children total between two families, you're honestly not sure how they manage - but you do your best to help when you can. 

Seeing Sam walk through the front door is like a beacon of light from Heaven is shining down on him. He’s smiling already, the crate of food handled carefully between his hands as he lets out a cheery, “Good morning, Sisters”. But as soon as he sees your faces, more specifically when he sees the tear tracks still visible on Sister Ann’s cheeks, he’s placing down the crate and across the clinic’s entrance in a second. 

“What’s going on?” He asks. His hands automatically reach out towards Sister Ann’s face as if to cup it, but he stops himself. Instead he just looks at her worriedly, his concerned gaze leaving her face for only a moment to glance at you and Sister Catherine before they’re back on her, voice low and gentle. “What’s wrong?” 

It’s no secret that Sam harbors some romantic feelings towards Sister Ann. There are days when you feel sorry for him - a young man, good and kind and generous, who you have no doubt would make a fine husband to any lucky woman is in love with one of the four women in the entire county who are incapable of returning his affection. But it’s moments like this when it’s easy to see God’s presence in other people. Sam is as respectful and kind as they come. He accepts his feelings can never be reciprocated and in turn uses his undying love and loyalty to Sister Ann by helping you all at the clinic with anything he can. 

Somehow, he doesn’t expect anything in return, never stares at Sister Ann with an ounce of lust in his eyes, and it warms your heart to see the godly quality that’s usually so absent in men so prevalent in him. 

“Something’s happened,” Sister Ann tells him, her voice still wobbly with emotion. 

“What?”

“Sam,” You say, calling his attention back to you. “I know I have no place to ask this and I won’t fault you if you decline, but– I’m asking.”

“Tell me,” He insists, pulling his hat from his head and holding it to his chest, and God bless how the sincerity in his voice bleeds into his words. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” 

So you tell him everything. Sam listens with wide eyes, shooting panicked glances at Sister Catherine and Sister Ann when you tell him about the Sheriff’s visit, and he’s genuinely sorrowful when your voice gets caught in your throat as you tell him that you had to tell some lies to get him to leave without discovering Billy. He’s nodding already when you mention your brother’s cabin.

“I’ll take you there,” He offers before you can even ask the question. “My wagon is always at your disposal.”

“It’s dangerous. If we’re caught, you would hang with us,” 

Sam lets out a breath, unconsciously glancing over at Sister Ann again. “If the four most wonderful and religiously minded people in town hang for trying to do the right thing, then this isn’t a town or even a world that I want to live in anymore. Please let me take you. It would be my honor,”

A small smile graces your lips as you reach out and gently cup his cheek in thanks. For as many men pull and grind on your nerves with their endless greed and manipulation tactics, Sam is a breath of fresh air - a truly God-fearing man with a good heart.

He’s another person that you’re putting at risk, another life in danger because of the choice you’ve made. You try not to think yourself too selfish. Surely the fact that Billy has turned up in your life is God’s plan, and He does not put obstacles in your way that you cannot overcome. 

He tells you that he’ll come back tomorrow. He has a delivery that’s expected in a town over and if he’s going to make it there and back before nightfall, he needs to leave before the sun comes up. 

“I’ll stop here first,” He says. “We can load him into the back of the wagon while most people are sleeping and make the trip to your brother’s before I head on my way.”

“Thank you, Sam. Honestly,”

“My pleasure,” He nods his head at you, replacing his hat and tipping it kindly towards Sister Catherine and Sister Ann. “Until tomorrow, Sisters,”

The door swings shut behind him as he leaves and you let out a deep breath, hands smoothing over the dark veil covering your head just to feel a bit more grounded before you pick up the crate of food Sam brought. Billy needs to eat something. You're not quite sure how long it's been since his last meal, but even if he ate a minute before bursting through the clinic’s doors in the early morning, he would surely still be hungry and in need of sustenance by now. His body is weak and it needs nourishment to heal. 

Billy’s still sleeping when you peek around the privacy blanket. His head is turned to the side and buried in his pillow as much as he can get it, mouth hanging open as he breathes. Your hand itches to reach out and touch him again, to smooth against his forehead or cup his cheek, maybe place your fingers under his chin to help close his mouth in hopes of him breathing through his nose instead so his mouth doesn’t dry out. 

You’re not sure where this desire is coming from. You’re as affectionate with your patients as any nurse should be - kind and supportive, offering comfort when needed, but not overly so that it can be considered inappropriate. You’re all brothers and sisters, children of God - yes. But there are still social norms that must be considered. 

It feels different with Billy for some reason. 

“I’m going to get you to safety,” You whisper. You’re unsure about if he can hear you in his sleep or not, but you feel the need to tell him anyway. “I promise.”

You fall asleep at some point during the night, slumped against the wall next to the alcove’s entrance. 

You don’t remember falling asleep. You remember feeling tired, exhausted by the stress of the day’s events, and how your eyelids were threatening to close permanently more and more with each blink. The soup you had made still sat out in the small kitchen, and you had wanted to stay close to Billy so that whenever he awoke, you would be there ready to help feed him.

Instead, you wake to the sound of Sister Maria giggling to your left and a low, unfamiliar but still soft voice speaking in Spanish to her.

“Y él no quería que su mamá lo supiera. Así enterró la carne en el jardín,” The voice lets out a small chuckle, the smile on his face evident in his tone despite you not being able to understand most of his words. “Pero el perro la desenterró y ella se descubrió de todos modos. Tuvo que lavar platos él solo por dos meses.”

“Ese niño,” Sister Maria laughs. “Parece que era un buen amigo.”

You can’t see his face, but you can hear how he loses the smile in his voice. “Sí, él era,”

Pushing yourself to your feet, you step over to where Sister Maria is kneeling in front of Billy’s cot. It’s only now you see the mostly finished bowl of soup in her hands. Billy’s sitting up slightly, back propped up against his pillows enough to allow him to sit up a bit straighter but not enough to pull too much on his stitches.

At seeing your movement, his eyes snap to your approaching frame, big blue orbs staring up at you and you can’t help the relief you feel at seeing them.

“You’re awake,” You breathe, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Thank the Lord,”

His lips twitch a bit in what looks like a suppressed smile. “Kinda sounds like I should be thankin' you,” He says, and you notice how prominent the shift in his accent is as he seamlessly switches from Spanish to English. “Sister Maria says that you’re the only reason I’m alive right now.”

You shake your head, humbly. “Oh, no. Sister Maria and I work together as a team. I couldn’t have done it without her aid,”

“You show no fear,” Sister Maria insists. “Where I hesitate, you show mercy and strength. It is because of you that we are all alive now.”

“See?” Billy says with a blinding grin, and you can’t help but notice how handsome he is while no longer at death’s door. “My angel,”

You feel your face heat up at the endearment. An angel. Surely the comparison shouldn’t fluster you like it does. You’ve thought of your fellow nuns as the embodiment of angels before, angelic beings put into human bodies by the grace of God to spread His word. You know that’s not exactly true, that you’re just using your belief of what God’s angels would be like and seeing those beings in your fellow Sisters just like Billy is doing with you now, but you’ve never once thought yourself to be comparable to such a holy being and the compliment makes you flush.

You run a hand across your face, feeling the warmth under your palm, and clear your throat. “Oh, well, thank you,”

Sister Maria stands, taking the nearly finished bowl of soup with her. “He has eaten plenty and I changed his covering as soon as he woke up. You will want to change it again when you get to the cabin.”

“That’s great. Thank you,”

“De nada. I’ll go check on the patients and keep an eye out for Sam,”

She nods to you and Billy before she turns to leave, a small smile pulling at her lips when Billy rasps out a soft, “Gracias, Hermana,”

When she’s gone, you take her place in front of Billy, kneeling at his side and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better thanks to you,” He responds, wide eyes trained on yours, a smirk playing at his lips as he continues. “Don’t feel much like I’m dyin’ anymore,”

A small laugh escapes you at his morbid joke. “Well, I’d say that’s a very good thing then,”

“Sister Maria said the Sheriff came lookin’ for me,” 

“He did,” You confirm. “The Lord kept us all safe though and has given us an opportunity to get you to safety.”

Billy’s eyebrow raises skeptically. “Sounds like it was more your doin' than the Lord’s,”

You try to not let the slight against God rattle you. You had sensed this was coming anyway. William H. Bonney a.k.a Billy the Kid is an outlaw afterall, and no outlaw becomes an outlaw while still maintaining a positive relationship with the Heavenly Father. He’s gone through many hardships no doubt, and has more than likely deemed his bad luck in life as God’s personal vendetta against him.

“The Lord speaks through all of us, if only we have an open heart to hear him.” You tell him.  “Fear can make His words harder to hear, and I’m thankful that He was able to guide my mind and heart enough through the fear for us to get to safety.”

“Hm,” Billy hums, and you can tell how much he doesn’t believe your words. He doesn’t argue though. “And where exactly is this safe place you’re gonna take me?”

“My brother has a cabin just outside of town. It’s well secluded and unknown to most. We’ll be safe there until you’re healed enough to go on your own.”

Billy’s eyes drop to your hand still resting on his shoulder, thick dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks before his bright blue eyes are locked on yours again. “You gonna be takin’ care of me, Sister?”

“Of course, I will,” You reply. “We shall see you well again, Billy. I promise.”

His own arm crosses his chest so his hand can rest on your own, his eyes wide and so earnest as he whispers a quiet, “Thank you,”

It’s only about an hour longer before Sam arrives. It’s still early morning, the sun still a ways away from coming up behind the horizon line, and town is silent. Sam pulls his wagon up to the back door of the backroom before coming around the front to help push it open from the inside. It’s been so long since it’s been opened. The door was once used for the scheduled delivery of goods for easy access to the storage area, but as years went on and the county and surrounding counties became overrun with greed and poverty, the shipments became less frequent. Now, anything needed just comes through the front door. It’s never too much anyway, so what’s a trip or two to the backroom while carrying a crate. 

Sam slams his body against the door a few times, the wood groaning in protest under his weight before it finally swings open. Billy watches from his place on the cot, his eyes threatening to close but forcing himself to stay awake. You want to tell him to sleep, he needs his rest to help him heal and recover, but you’re too busy checking your bag to make sure you haven't forgotten anything before tossing it in the back of the wagon. You need to leave before the townspeople start to wake up. If someone sees you, if just one person witnesses you smuggling away a wanted outlaw, then all of this would have been for nothing. 

“Sister y/n,” Sam calls, squatting at the head of the cot. He’s got his arms wrapped around Billy’s torso. “Come grab his legs. We’ll do our best not to jostle his wound,”

You come to a kneel at Billy’s legs, placing a comforting hand on his knee. “Do your best to relax, okay? If you tense, you might tear your stitches,”

Billy lets out a harsh breath through his nose, clearly nervous, but he nods anyway, brows furrowed in determination. 

Together you and Sam hoist him up. He gasps, groaning as his wound pulls but you can see how he’s trying to keep his stomach untensed. Getting him into the back of the wagon is not graceful, and you find yourself spewing endless apologies the whole time despite the relatively short journey. 

Sam’s laid out a bed of hay covered by two thick blankets throughout the entire bed of the wagon. Crates of food and other supplies take up half of the bed, but he’s managed to make it so Billy will have enough room to lay comfortably on his designated side. Billy sighs as he’s laid down on it, one of his legs bent at the knee and his palms pressing into the makeshift mattress as he cranes his neck up to look at you. You ball up a spare blanket, tucking it under his head before you push him back down with a gentle hand on his forehead.

“Rest now, Billy,” You tell him, crawling out backwards and helping Sam slide on the rectangular backing on the wagon to secure it shut. “We’ll be there when you wake up,”

His eyes stay locked on you as you circle the wagon towards the front. Sam helps you up onto the spring seat before jogging around the rear and hauling himself into the driver's seat. You smooth out your tunic, looking around the dark street for any suspicious or wandering eyes that might be peeking out from around buildings or through windows. You don’t see any, even as one of the horses whinnies when Sam urges them forward. The clinic is located towards the edge of town, so it only takes a few minutes of nervous eyes and your head on a swivel before the wagon is passing the final few buildings that mark the town’s end of population and you can relax.

You blow out a deep breath, meeting Sam’s equally relieved gaze as he snaps the reins and nudges the horses a little faster. You look over your shoulder to check on Billy and you’re expecting to see him sleeping, no doubt still exhausted from the trauma of taking a bullet. Instead, he’s looking at you, head twisting so he can see your elevated frame from his laid out position. His eyes seem to pierce into yours, so blue and intense as he watches you that it makes your breathing hitch in your throat. 

You’ve never seen eyes so beautiful before. Like endless pools of glistening water. Surely God must have taken much care when crafting them for him. 

You feel your skin prickle under his stare, body straightening in your seat. He doesn’t stop watching you.

“Sleep,” You tell him. “You’re safe, I promise.” And thankfully he listens, eyes trained on your face for just a moment more before closing his eyes. The tingling feeling in your body dissipates with the removed gaze. 

Your gaze turns around the front again, looking out to the vast stretch of land before you as you leave the civilization of town behind.

“Sam,” You start, looking for anything to pass the time and distract from whatever unusualness just happened between you and your charge. “How’s your mother?”

[turtletaubwrites]

Numbers Game ~ Chapter 33

Keep Me Warm

Pairings: Cross Guild Polycule x Shanks x Fem!Reader x ???

Numbers Game Masterlist

Word Count: 10,625

Ao3 Link

Ongoing Series Playlist: Youtube Music Link | Youtube Link

Chapter Tunes: Tainted Love ~ Holy Wars | Hatef--k ~ The Bravery

Summary: You're finding ways to cope, Shanks is finding ways to win, and the truth is finding its way out.

Recap: Emperor Shanks won the first hunt, and the first private date. The Cross Guild learned how you feel about about your red haired suitor, and the swordsman declared his plan to leave.

Author's Note: Hi friends! Just want to say that sharing this story with you means so much to me. I wish I had some Cross Guild backup in my life right now, but having y'all reading my obsession makes me so grateful! I'm trying to get back to interacting, I'm just having a hard time doing anything that's not writing this right now, but all of your words make me so happy, thank you!! 💜🙏🏼✨

Dark Content Warning: It's not the reader, but within this chapter there are references to suicide through engaging in dangerous and destructive behavior. The violent activities are mentioned within canon, but the emotional motivations are added. The situation ends well, but I'll bracket those sections with ~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~ in case that topic is triggering. Please, take care of yourselves, and know that you are not alone! 💜

Alternate POV Symbols:

🌲 ~ Reader | 🐊 ~ Crocodile | 🗡 ~ Mihawk | 🤡 ~ Buggy | 🔴 ~ Shanks | ⏰ ~ Flashbacks for listed POV | ⚫ ~ Scenes depicting Dark Content as listed in Author's Notes

!!! SPOILER WARNING !!! Fic currently contains spoilers for the end of the Wano arc. As we get further into Egghead Arc where our lovely boys are showing up more, there will be more spoilers as time goes on. Sorry y'all, I'm trying to keep most spoilers small details, but Cross Guild is endgame, lol.

Rating/Warnings: Author May Choose to Exclude some Warnings to Avoid Spoilers for Certain Chapters, Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, Use of Y/N, Dark Content, Blood & Violence, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Dissociation, Mental Illness, Grief, Toxic Family, Swearing, Alcohol, Cigars, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Guilt, Drama, Jealousy, Manipulation, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Cross Guild boys are VILLAINS, Pain Kink, Possessive Behavior, Teasing, Threats, Hate Sex, Rough Sex, Relationship Drama, Inappropriate Use of Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit Powers, Shameless Shameless Smut, Uncle Cedrick Has Become His Own Warning, Splinters, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

| masterlist | about me | rules | ao3 |

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

“That’s one creepy ass boat.”

“Excuse me?”

Mihawk couldn’t be annoyed with his clown when that observation had their much taller lover nearly buckling beside him. Those large fingers dug into his shoulder while Crocodile laughed at his expense, his voice even rougher than usual at the early hour.

“Hitsugibune is a fine ship, and has carried me across the Grand Line for years,” Mihawk countered. 

Crocodile took the luggage from his hands to toss onto the one-man vessel. 

“It does have a certain flare,” Crocodile hummed, leaving a quick kiss to his temple. 

“It’s just your aesthetic, though, right,” Buggy shook as he prowled closer. “It’s not a real coffin?”

“Not yet,” Mihawk teased. It earned him an adorable frown that made him laugh, and the movement reminded him of all the delightful things they’d done to him last night. 

“Sure you’re gonna be alright all cooped up in your coffin so soon,” Buggy taunted with a few prods and pokes along the swordsman’s healing chest. 

Moans left those cruel lips, and he tried to back away, but ran into a wall made of muscle and heat, and wrapped in a purple, velvet smoking jacket.

“Promise you’ll be a good boy for me?”

Mihawk almost buckled then, loving the satisfied noise Crocodile made when he reacted to him. The three lovers kissed goodbye, until he was alone again. 

The World’s Greatest Swordsman drifted alone on his one-man boat, and wondered how long it would take for Crocodile to realize that he hadn’t answered his question.

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~ 

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

“King of Diamonds,” Shanks beamed at her, mesmerized by her every move, and getting caught on the gentle sway of her locket while she laid out the trick for him again and again. 

It was Buggy’s trick. Buggy’s locket.

The Emperor of the Sea didn’t realize how much he‘d needed this. Seeing Y/N’s enduring love for their lovely clown gave him a burst of hope that clouded his mind, but he kept up the front.

Maybe playing the villain won’t be so bad.

“I’m afraid you missed this one, Shanks,” she breathed, eyes fluttering a bit as they darted back to her hands. Her movements had to be practiced in front of a crowd like this, but he found himself drawn into her orbit, yet again. 

“That’s alright,” he teased, snatching the card from her. He huffed a laugh as he dropped the Ace of Hearts before taking her hand in his. Y/N’s lips parted in a soft exhale, and he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from them.

“I always win when it counts.”

The sound of bells filled the air.

“Do I count,” she teased, pressing those lips into a subtle, biteable pout for him. 

Hope and greed brought his lips to her skin, just a press against her wrist while he fought the urge to throw her over his shoulder and run. 

“I think she likes you, Chief.”

“What can I say,” Shanks smirked as he plopped down beside his first mate. Y/N’s eyes were following him so clearly on the huge screen that he didn’t need to glance back to check. “I think I might just win this little game.”

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🗡️🔴⏰~~~

“I hear you’re the best there is!”

“That’s correct,” Dracule Mihawk deadpanned. He was only twenty-two years old, but the brightness shining off of the boy that had invaded his corner table made him feel aged and weary. 

Shanks didn’t think his eyes could get any wider. This dangerous, infamous man was so… pretty!

“Run along now.”

“No way,” Shanks laughed, leaning over the table. He froze for a moment under the glare of the strangest eyes he’d ever seen. “Come on, Hawk Eyes, I’m challenging you to a duel!”

The Marine Hunter didn’t spare him another glance, just returned to his book as though Shanks didn’t exist. 

“Come ooon, I bet you’re bored on this little island. I’m only here so my sniper can visit his wife, and they’re not open for company right now. Plus, my first mate already left me for the barmaid so I’m...”

Rambling. Why am I rambling?

Shanks didn't know why he couldn’t let it go, but he had to try. The young captain saw the chance to test himself sitting before him with a beautifully bored look on his face. 

“I wanna fight you.”

“I’m afraid I’m not in the mood for slaughtering children today.”

“I’m eighteen, and my sword is ready, so let’s—“

“Let me see your sword,” Mihawk ordered. He had to stifle a smirk when the redhead obeyed him instantly. 

The saber was longer than was typical for that type, with an extended, green hilt that showed a subtle, but elegant artistry in its craftsmanship. Mihawk was tracing his fingers around the pommel before he remembered that he should have killed the idiot for handing his blade to an enemy. 

“Where did you get this,” he asked instead of stabbing the rookie, letting the young man take the exquisite weapon back. 

“Oh, uh…” Shanks’ cheeks almost matched his hair while he decided what to say. The image of this man laughing him off made sharing the full truth unappealing. “I’ve always had it. My mentor taught me how to use it. So, will you fight me?”

“You’ve piqued my interest. That’s often a fatal mistake, so if you choose to walk away now, I’ll let you go.”

“No one gets away from Red Haired Shanks that easily,” he winked, holding out his hand. 

Mihawk offered his own, and Shanks grinned as they clasped each other’s forearms for a moment. 

“I like your jacket.”

The swordsman narrowed his eyes at the compliment, but followed the young captain out of the tavern, and into the lightly wooded area outside of town. 

He could have sworn he’d seen that ugly, straw hat somewhere before.

~~~⏰🗡️🔴⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

You weren’t supposed to think about him. 

How could you hold up that perfect, doll face in front of all the leeches if they smelled any hint of weakness?

How could you keep yourself from crying when you remembered Buggy’s laugh that made you laugh, his touch that made you his, or his pain that broke your heart? 

Yet you kept surrounding yourself with every tiny piece you had left, a masochistic challenge to spice up this auction for your life. 

And here was the man that had hurt Buggy. The asshole that had left him wounded for decades. You had to convince him to apologize to the man he claimed to love, only for the traitor to abandon him when he needed him most. 

I hope they take care of him…

You didn’t have room for too much hope. Not when you could end up trapped with this viper, especially if Uncle caught a whiff of your disdain. 

He’s staring at my lips like he did that first day. Like I’m just something sweet for him to taste. 

“I always win when it counts.”

The sound of the ending bells felt like applause, and another smiling face filled your mind. Blood had dripped onto that stage like scattered petals, all for you. 

Pouting for the Emperor gave you a thrill of pride over how easy it was to make his eyes flash with heat. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist, and you didn’t have to fake the shivers it caused. 

The red headed pirate sauntered off, but your eyes were drawn to him again and again. 

The prey had its own target now. 

I’d rather die than marry that traitor, but if he traps me…

I’ll fucking kill him.

I’ll kill him for you, Buggy.

 ~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🔴🗡️⏰~~~

“Holy shit,” Shanks panted as he narrowly avoided being cleaved in two by that tiny fucking dagger.

“Ha, already lost your confidence, boy?”

Mihawk hadn’t lied. He hadn’t planned on killing anyone on this boring, little island, but fresh blood on his blade had him losing himself. He’d had a few moments of hope for a real challenge, but the building disappointment was about to quicken his opponent’s death.

“Nope! Just– fuck!”

The red haired youth dodged too late, collapsing to the dirt. He clutched at his side, hardly doing a thing to staunch the blood that was slowly staining the forest floor. 

I can’t die yet. He didn’t even draw his sword… 

“You’re the strongest fighter I’ve met in awhile, yet you’re still such a pitiful creature,” Mihawk scowled, kicking the saber from the rookie’s weak grasp. “And here, I was almost having fun. What a waste of time…”

“W-wait, Hawk Eyes,” Shanks coughed, spreading more blood around. “You’re bored, aren’t you? You like fighting?”

“People can be so perceptive in their final moments,” he drawled. Mihawk brought Kogatana to the boy’s throat, the small blade poised to cease his blubbering.

“You said you almost had f-fun,” Shanks bargained, his eyes wider than ever while beautiful death loomed over him. “I'll make you a deal, alright?”

Golden eyes seemed to sharpen, just as the blade pressed into his neck a bit more.

“Don’t waste any more of my time,” came his vicious, yet waiting voice. 

“I won’t,” Shanks panicked, smiling under that cold glare. “It's too early for me to die, friend. There's so much for me to learn. I promise that if you give me a chance, I'll get stronger! Let me live, and I'll get strong enough to give you a real fun fight, I swear!”

One of the longest moments Shanks had ever experienced dragged on, while the unreadable swordsman above him hardly moved at all, until his head cocked to the side.

“Intriguing,” Mihawk frowned, still holding steel against that young throat. “I suppose I can hold off on killing you for now.”

“You can– ow!”

Mihawk removed the blade that Shanks had leaned into in excitement, and rolled his eyes with instant regret. 

“Don’t challenge me again until you’re ready. I’ll kill you slowly for making me wait.”

“No problem,” Shanks waved to the man’s back. Dracule Mihawk had already left him bleeding in the dirt. “I’ll get you back, Hawk Eyes.”

~~~⏰🔴🗡️⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🐊🤡🐊🤡~~~

It felt so quiet with just the two of them, even with all the hustle and bustle of the guild getting to work.

He’s like a big, scary teddy bear.

“You alright little clown,” Crocodile soothed, rubbing softly between Buggy’s shoulder blades while he had a coughing fit. 

The clown gave a thumbs up, grateful that he hadn’t spoken the thought out loud. 

Mihawk had been gone for hours, and the afternoon was aging fast, but neither of the men on the couch had cared about dressing for the day. That soft smoking jacket made Crocodile’s warm body almost too soothing to lean against, especially while the clown listened to his star do their card trick again and again.

When the coughing stopped, Crocodile’s large hand pulled gently, guiding the clown back into that comfortable position. 

Buggy didn’t fight it. He knew he might be an idiot for getting used to this strange reality where Sir Crocodile cuddled with him, but he needed it right now.

Maybe he needs it too.

~~~🐊🤡🐊🤡~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

I’ll skin him. Boil him alive. 

“You look amazing,” Kat muttered, avoiding your death-filled gaze in the mirror. 

“Tell me,” you growled at the nearest staff, “why the fuck do I need to wear a swimsuit on a first date?”

They’d given you a variety of options, all of which were as red as that stupid hair. You’d chosen the one that came with a tiny bit of cloth to wrap around your hips, so you could at least pretend you were wearing some fucking clothes. 

“I’m so sorry you weren’t given more notice, Miss Sylvad,” she hurried, her empty words already draining your resolve. 

It’s not their fault. It’s his. 

“As you know, the hun– suitors, excuse me,” she coughed nervously, and you saw Kat’s eyes widen over her shoulder while you shoved down the manic laughter in your gut. “The suitors get to choose the themes of the first dates, and the Emperor stated that he enjoys long walks on the beach, so–”

“I can walk fine without–”

“There’s my lovely nieces,” Cedrick beamed, nearly hitting one of the staff with the door when he barged in. “Everyone out, even you, sweetheart.”

Kat stepped back from his touch on her shoulder, but you told her it was fine before her fruitless argument could leave her lips. 

He was going to get what he wanted, so she might as well save the energy, though she scowled at him all the way out the door.

“Nice pick,” he taunted, gesturing at your swimsuit. “I preferred the little, frilly one, but I’m sure the pirate can tear into this one just fine, even one handed.”

Nothing. Give him nothing.

“Did you have something to tell me, Uncle? I have a date to prepare for.”

“Atta girl,” your uncle laughed, lounging in the nearest chair. “Just wanted to check in on who your favorites are.”

“It’s too early to tell,” you reported, fighting to keep your voice even. 

“Well, be sure to keep me posted,” he ordered with a smirk. “Unfortunately there’s already one name that needs to be crossed off the list. I want him to have his little date though, and we should send someone else home before him. The last thing the family needs are accusations of racism if we boot the only Fishman first. Inclusivity bullshit is always a fucking headache.”

“Why…” 

Fukaboshi was overwhelming. He was two stories tall, and you couldn’t imagine leaving your whole world behind, or how any of that would even work.

Yet, he’d seemed truly kind. The prince had almost put himself, and his people, in danger with his earnest questions about your captivity. 

He’d come to this land of leeches looking for allies, but only cruelty lived here. Only gluttonous, selfish, hateful—

“Who would you like to send home first,” Uncle Cedrick asked, snapping you out of your thoughts. “I’ll be rigging tomorrow's game so the Fishman should win the next date, then we can send him off with no worries. So who’s your least favorite?”

“I really don’t know, Uncle. I haven’t spent enough time with them to be sure.”

A little movement around his eyes, a little smirk. You weren’t going to fall for it. 

“Let’s remedy that, dear niece,” he declared as he moved toward you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. He turned you toward the mirror, and his reflection was frightening. 

He was gleeful.

“I have put quite a bit of berry on your red haired date becoming the next King of the Pirates. Make sure you treat him like royalty tonight.” He left you there to wince while he called over his shoulder. “I know how much you enjoyed whoring for those pirates, Y/N. Now you could be their little whore queen!”

~~~

You were carted around like royalty in your uncle’s obnoxious carriage, already feeling the cool, gentle breeze through the wood paneling as you neared one of the only sandy beaches on the small island. The rest of the coastlines were rimmed with craggy cliffs at the edge of forests, and perching on those rocks was your preferred way to enjoy the ocean. 

Not shivering in a swimsuit at dusk, with sand already creeping up your legs.

“Wow, you look…”

All the staff scurried to the little trailers nearby, leaving you face to face with him while he scanned over your mostly bare skin. 

Shanks looked right at home on the beach. 

He’d managed to find a dark green version of his hardly-buttoned shirts that looked unfairly good against his skin, but his loose fitting pants were still covered in a headache inducing pattern. They were gathered below the knees, presumably to make his long walks on the beach in those lame sandals that much easier. 

And his cape. How could you forget the cape? 

He was still gawking at you while you tried not to fume at how fucking stunning he looked in his stupid clothes. 

“Why are you dressed like this?”

“You don’t like it, Emperor,” you pouted, playing pretend with a wobble of hurt in your voice. “I heard you wanted a beach date.”

“I like it very much,” he purred, bringing a gasp to your lips when he was suddenly inches from you. He trailed his fingers down your neck and chest, following the chain of your locket until he smiled. “I just don’t want my little bunny getting cold tonight.”

Shivering under the weight of his warm cape, you thanked the charming villain while he led you to a little table by the fire. Staff rushed up to serve you, but Shanks snagged the open bottle, and waved them off while you tried not to let your mouth water at the platter of hors d’oeuvres between you. 

He poured the sake, but said nothing while you toasted. Just stared at you, his little half-smile growing deeper when you accepted a bite of food from his hand.

At least you didn’t have to worry about your food with Shanks tasting everything along with you. No one would dare spike the Emperor’s drink.

I might. If I have to.

You faded in and out of daydreaming his murder, and nearly forgetting. 

Shanks was the perfect predator, luring in his prey with such playful joy and power. He was pure light, drawing in the moths until they burned to a crisp in his cruel, selfish flames. 

You knew this, yet there were moments when he made you truly laugh, and you clutched at your locket, silently vowing again and again that you would destroy this man. 

If he didn’t kill you while you made him pay, then his crew surely would. It was a last resort. 

You didn’t want to die, and it felt nice knowing that.

Yet if the only options you had left were being owned by this monster, or dying while you took him down, then you’d get him drunk and happy on your honeymoon, and gut him like a pig. 

Until then though…

“You feeling alright, gorgeous,” your prey checked in, guiding you to a trailer to wash up. The staff disappeared again, scattering like cockroaches, but the illusion of privacy never fooled you. 

“I feel good.” Your hum made his eyes glint for you, and he pulled you down the shore, away from the staff, and their snail-covered equipment. 

“Wanna dip your toes in,” Shanks ginned, wrapping his arm around your waist. It felt like he wouldn’t give you a choice either way. His strong fingers curled around your hip, teasing along the edge of your swimsuit, and your body ached when you remembered what they could do to you. 

You wanted to forget for a while. You wanted to pretend. 

Might as well enjoy myself before I kill him. 

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

He’d almost forgotten where they were. 

It doesn’t matter. I’ve got her, Buggy. Your shining star.

When she laughed, the Emperor of the Sea forgot everything. 

It was a perfect sound, a beautiful movement of her body, her head thrown back just a bit, as though he’d shocked the laughter out of her. 

She didn’t look like a wounded star tonight. There was fire beneath all of her flirting, and he had to feel it.

Greed crept back into his heart the longer he spent by her side, and he couldn’t help but reach for her, pulling her toward the gentle sea. 

He wanted her. He wanted all of them. 

Shanks wanted everything, and that sweet, little pout of hers seemed to promise it. 

“It’s too cold,” Y/N shivered, avoiding the soft waves that lapped along the shore.

“I’ll keep you warm.”

She snorted, clamping a hand over her lips when he cocked a brow at her. His lovely date dipped her toes in, then took off up the beach, her laughter filling every bit of his mind until he joined in, chasing after her.

“How are you going to— oh,” she panted, gasping when she turned to find him so close. 

“Bunny,” he laughed as she tripped on his cloak trying to run backwards. He caught her just in time to fall with her, bracing with his elbow to keep his full weight from pressing her beneath him.

Shanks forgot. 

That shining star was still gasping as she laid on his cloak, a perfect blanket spread out to watch the night sky she must have fallen from. The soft tint of the night made her skin seem unreal, intoxicating. 

He had to touch her.

She touched him first.

Y/N’s hands wrapped around his shoulders, fingers curling into his hair when she pulled him in for a kiss. He couldn’t hold in a low growl that grew when she drank it hungrily from his lips. 

Nothing else existed when she pulled him closer, tugging at his shirt to tease her nails along his back. She moaned so sweetly around his tongue when he grinded himself against her, barely any cloth to keep them apart. 

He almost forgot.

“Mmm… Hey, bunny,” Shanks purred, his eyes heavy lidded to match the lovely ones beneath him. “Are you sure—“

“Aren’t you going to keep me warm?”

Y/N was pouting, teasing, begging, her fingers still trailing over his skin.

Everything about her was giving heat. 

Everything was perfect. 

Everything except for a flash in her eyes that plunged Shanks’ heart into the icy depths of the ocean at his back. 

“Is something wrong,” beautiful death asked softly, her mask so exquisitely crafted. 

“No, not at all,” Shanks cleared his throat, pushing himself away. “I just… It would be a shame to have my first time with such a beauty in front of an audience.” 

The sound of bells saved him.

She tilted her head back, sighing when she saw the vehicles approaching. 

“Bunny, I—“

“Thank you for the lovely date, Emperor. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He helped her up, brushing the sand from her skin while he tried to figure out what to say. 

He didn’t think fast enough, and soon the staff had swarmed her, wrapping her in a fluffy robe before whisking her away.

The red haired pirate declined a ride back to the estate, waving the people, and their watching snails away. 

It was a long walk. 

There would never be enough distance for Shanks to cross to get away from the sickness that had seeped into his bones, into his every organ. 

Y/N’s empty eyes had branded guilt onto his heart before, and he couldn’t stand his arrogance. He thought he’d already made it all better, that his greedy heart was going to take everything it wanted. 

I wanted to own her, just like the leeches.

Tonight, Y/N’s eyes hadn’t been empty, but she was so good at hiding.

Or I just saw what I wanted to see. Until she…

What Shanks had seen in that flash, in that glimpse beneath her mask, was evil. It was frightening, sick, manic.

It was hate. 

I did that. I filled that lovely girl’s heart with hatred. 

The walk wasn’t long enough to shake off his self loathing, but Shanks knew what he needed if he was going to make things right. 

He needed one more chance. 

One more private date. 

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

“Look, I’ll taste it,” your mother sighed before taking a drink from the steaming mug she kept brandishing at you. “Now please, drink it, sweetie. You look…”

“I look like death,” you drawled, wishing the coffee would cool down so you could chug it. 

“Not at all, Miss Sylvad, you just need some brightening up! We’ll take good care of you,” chirped your mom’s favorite makeup artist. You couldn’t remember his name this early in the morning, but you were fighting not to throw the hot coffee at him so he’d stop being so fucking cheerful. 

You hadn’t been able to fall asleep last night. 

The scent of him had lingered around you, even after you’d tried to scrub him off of you in the shower. 

The whole night had replayed in your mind, making you dizzy with guilt over every moment when you relaxed, when you forgot.

Then it would cycle through again, rage building until you chewed your tongue to keep from snarling to the empty air around you. 

But your body…

Frustration nearly clawed itself out of you, and you’d had to hold your breath to fight the screams and tears it would have left in its wake. You’d been so fucking close to having something to turn your brain off for a minute, even if it was him.

All of your attempts to take care of that need on your own left you defeated, your guilty hunger twisting every image you tried to cling to.

You couldn’t imagine his fingers without picturing the gloved ones you missed so much. 

Couldn’t picture Shanks fucking you without remembering him making love to Buggy. You were trapped in silence on the edge of that bed again, but there was no one to rescue you this time. 

Last night, you’d fallen apart. It had to be it. You couldn’t afford these emotions. 

You’d bitten your pillow to stifle the wracking sobs while your mind tore you down, forcing you to mourn more than just Buggy. 

It felt like you were choking on their names, all the men you’d left behind. 

If loneliness alone could kill, you would have died there in that luxurious bed, aching to be smothered in the heat of bodies you’d never feel again.

Shanks was torturing you. His very presence was a reminder of the daydream you had fooled yourself into thinking you could keep. 

“Are you alright, Miss Sylvad?”

“What? Oh, I’m… I’m fine.”

The sound of tears in your voice was enough to drag you back. 

You let yourself fall away. 

Empty.

Empty’s good.

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

Benn literally kicked his ass out of bed this morning, ripping the expensive bedding off of his captain while he scolded him out of the dream world. 

“Quit complaining,” his first mate commanded him, rolling his eyes at the pathetic groans. “You’ve got a beautiful girl to win, Chief. You can sleep when she’s yours.”

Shanks’ morning mind was still soaked in last night's attempt to drown it in sake, so he couldn’t tell if he’d thanked or cussed out the older man for his help. Regardless, the red haired pirate was dressed for breakfast, luckily remembering his appointment.

After the first dates, the suitors got to have breakfast with the Sylvads. 

Maybe I’ll get a moment alone with her.

“There’s our favorite Emperor,” Cedrick called through the door, gesturing for Shanks to join them. “Make yourself at home!”

“Home” was strangely sterile, more of a conference room than a dining area. Cedrick sat at the head of the table, offering the empty seat beside him, opposite Y/N, and her practiced smile. 

I can do this. I can convince her I’m on her side.

I have to.

“I thought this was gonna be a family breakfast. You’ve got a little sister out there, don’t you, gorgeous?”

“I—“

“Don’t worry, Shanks,” Cedrick waved off the question. “There will be plenty of time for family get-togethers. Since you joined our game at the last minute, I figured we should have a little business talk before you get back to all the pleasure.”

Shanks almost shoved his fork through the man’s throat. 

The taunting glance he’d given his niece at the last word tested Shanks’ self control, and he couldn’t believe how calm she seemed. 

“Of course. I understand it’s not just love we’re fighting for.”

“Not love. Family,” Cedrick vowed. He emphasized his words with a firm grip on Shanks’ shoulder, and the pirate had to hold his breath to keep from shaking him off.

How does she do this all day?

“Whoever marries my dear niece will be family, and Sylvads take care of their own. I know there’s a lot we could do for each other.”

“It’s an honor to be considered,” Shanks toasted them both, aching to see anything real behind her polite mask. 

“You know, Shanks, it’s a real shame you went to the wrong brother all those years ago,” Cedrick mused, shifting his tone just enough to suck all the air from the room. “You might have been King of the Pirates by now if you’d asked me instead.”

“What do you mean?”

Shanks mumbled those loathsome words while the ground disappeared beneath him. The question in her eyes sparked his panic, but it was too late. 

“Please, Arbo loved to brag about drinking with Roger’s apprentice. I could never understand how he let a little girl spook him out of the deal of a lifetime.”

“What are you talking about?”

Her eyes were wide when she asked, but Y/N wasn’t looking at either of them. She was slipping further and further away with every word her uncle spewed, and Shanks had no idea how to stop it. 

“You know the family stories, niece, and you’re smart enough to figure out which ones are true,” he chided. 

Cedrick would have lost his hand when he tapped the tip of her nose, but Shanks was frozen. 

“Your daddy turned down the chance to help the Pirate King’s apprentice build the next ship to conquer the Grand Line. Arbo could have made history, but he decided not to because his ‘widdle numbers girl’ cried about some gods damned tree.”

…

“Wha-what?”

She was so good at hiding, so it felt like his soul cracked when her voice did. Horror and shame filled the Emperor of the Sea when a daughter’s grief shone in those beautiful eyes. 

“It had to be fifteen, nearly twenty years ago now, wasn’t it?”

He sounded fucking jolly while he ripped both of their hearts out. 

“Yeah, I think so,” Shanks coughed, caving when the man gripped his shoulder a bit harder. 

“Well, I don’t have the same qualms as my dear brother, so I might be willing to butcher an Adam Tree. Only for family, of course.”

Unshed tears were balanced in her eyes, and she seemed to be turning herself into a statue before she’d let them fall. 

There had been time to tell her. Shanks’ mind flew through a list of excuses for why he hadn’t, why it wasn’t a good time, how she’d been going through too much to tell her a story about her dead father. Yet this whirlwind of a woman had cleared away his old disguises, so he could no longer believe his own lies. 

I didn’t even think about telling her. All I cared about was getting what I wanted.

I’m no hero.

“I was wondering if that’s why you joined the game,” Cedrick smirked. He squeezed Shanks’ shoulder one last time before releasing him, but the relief was lost when the next words spilled from that evil mouth. 

Shanks watched every bit of movement on her face now. He watched his selfishness curdle around her, poisoning any slim chance he still had to gain her trust. 

“All the players are going for the One Piece, so Red Haired Shanks is back to get his miracle ship,” Cedrick taunted, his eyes glued on his niece. “And now he can finally teach the little brat that cost him his boat a lesson. I wonder if my sentimental brother would have chopped down that tree if he knew his favorite daughter would have to spread her—“

“What about you?”

“Excuse me,” Cedrick turned toward the growl, his brows raised a bit. 

He’s not nearly fucking scared enough.

Shanks paused too long, but the second the asshole started to tilt back toward her, the pirate started talking. He had no idea what to say, but he knew he had to keep that piece of shit from looking at her again. 

“Families help each other out,” Shanks flirted, feeling like he was swallowing venom with every moment he smiled at this monster. “So, what about you? How could I help out my new family, if I were so lucky?”

“I have a few ideas,” Cedrick purred as he leaned back in his chair. His eyes were relaxed, and slow while they scanned over him, as though he had all the time in the world to make an Emperor of the Sea wait on his every word. “I think that’s enough business for today, though. Let’s get back to pleasure.”

Cedrick Sylvad forced them to toast at that, and Shanks couldn’t understand how his niece had kept all of those tears from falling. Y/N’s cheeks were dry, and she smiled at him when their glasses touched. It was a perfect smile, welcoming, alluring, and sweet. 

It was a death trap. 

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🗡️🔴⏰~~~

~~~

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

Every time Shanks walked into a tavern, he knew he might meet his death. Would it be with his weight in alcohol, or with the slim hope for a golden eyed grim reaper tucked into a corner booth?

Shanks had gotten stronger before, but since a few stupid words had taken all the joy from his life last year, he couldn’t focus on anything else.

Beautiful death sounded pretty good, but all he kept finding was booze. 

Until tonight.

“Hey, Hawk Eyes.”

“Hmm? Here to interrupt my lunch,” Mihawk noted, boredom radiating from him. “How delightful.”

The new Warlord of the Sea could feel the difference in power in his former opponent. He could see the muscles born of years of holding a sword in the redhead’s forearms while he carried two heaping mugs, invading his table again after four years. 

Mihawk could see the dim light of this sticky tavern glinting off of that lovely sword.

“I prefer wine,” he drawled, returning his gaze to his book while he tried to catch the man’s heartbeat over the noise. He’d have to get closer for that, but it was an unnecessary risk.

That sword deserved a true fight. 

“More for me then,” Shanks shrugged, gulping down one of the beers while his enemy sighed.

“If you’re not serious about challenging me, then kindly leave me to my reading.”

Shanks reached for the hand that held the book, but it withdrew so fast, danger in those golden eyes now as they narrowed on him. 

“There’s the monster I remember," Shanks raised his mug, drinking in the sight before him. 

Dracule Mihawk pulled his feet down from the table, and set his book aside, never taking his eyes off the pirate. Adjusting his jacket looked like an instinctual habit, the maroon fabric and floral patterns seeming out of place on a killer’s skin. 

“Do you shave your sideburns all pointy like that, or–”

“Are you suicidal, rookie?”

“What do you care,” Shanks scoffed. He couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want to. “You’ve been looking forward to killing me, haven’t you? And I don’t see any blood on that big sword of yours, so you must be bored here.”

Mihawk wanted to stay bored, but this pretty pirate, and his ugly hat were getting on his nerves. 

“I’m sure one of the local drunkards could grant your death wish in a back alley brawl. I don’t need to dirty my blade on weak blood like yours.”

Oh, but he wanted to. 

And the red haired captain could see it. Just the slightest curve of those cruel lips, a faint intake of breath when he stretched his arms above his head, that dangerous gaze caught on every mark of training on his body. 

Shanks was fucking high on it, and he wasn’t going to let it end so soon.

“I’m here to challenge you, Hawk Eye Mihawk,” he smirked, finally free of thoughts as thrills shot through him. “I’m here to end you.” 

“You’re here to try.”

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

~~~

~~~⏰🗡️🔴⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

It’s okay. You’re okay.

Soothing words were bad.

Not real. It’s all pretend. 

Uncle Cedrick was talking again, lording over the lunch that had been laid out along the beach today. 

The beach where you’d begged him to touch you last night. 

Not real. 

Nothing matters. 

Fake is fine.

Not real. Can’t feel. 

“Come now, niece, don’t keep the hunters waiting!”

He handed you bit of cloth, and you had no idea what the fuck to do with it. Reality reformed around you, and you found your suitors lined up on the sand, watching your every movement. 

You held up the flag and dropped it down, grateful that you’d guessed right when most of the men started running toward the waves. 

“Good afternoon, Y/N,” came a deep, deep voice that almost pulled you free. 

“Hi, uh… Hello, Katakuri,” you shook beneath his gaze.

Oh yeah. Maybe this gentle giant will crush me to death tonight. That might make things easier.

“I was hoping that since it’s our night tonight, I might be able to sit with you today?”

“There’s no rule against it,” your uncle shrugged, snagging his drink to raise it toward the crimson haired man above. “Don’t ignore your other suitors though, niece. They’re putting in a lot of work to win you today.”

The portable screen that had been set up between some of the larger vehicles caught your eye. It showed Giberson lounging with a cocktail, sticking his pasty toes in the sand while he waved at the younger men running past.

Thankfully, the cam snails shifted their focus to your other suitors, their powerful bodies gleaming while most of them tore their shirts off before diving into the waves.

It was hard to enjoy the view with that glaring, red hair always hogging the screen. 

I bet he’s a fan favorite, that fucking—“

“Do you like sweets, Y/N?”

“I’m sorry,” you choked, head twisting to meet those stunning eyes. 

“I’ve noticed that you don’t seem to like the food they’ve been serving here, and since I was hoping to make something with you during our date tonight, I want to be sure you’ll enjoy it.”

Katakuri was shielding his eyes from the sun to look down at you, and you felt a stupid bit of guilt for ignoring this seemingly sweet man that came here to own you. 

“I love sweets, I’ve just been so nervous,” came another lie that was true. “It’s hard to eat when I’m nervous, but if you promise to share with me, then I can’t wait to—”

“Well, Emperor, that’s not quite what we were looking for,” Uncle Cedrick teased as he followed Shanks back to your table. 

“I found what I was looking for,” he rasped, going to a knee beside you. Your image on the screen held you prisoner, just as he planned to do.

Shanks’ title had never suited him so well. The Emperor of the Sea was drenched, his red hair gone dark, clinging to his face and neck. Drops of the ocean fell from the ends to pour down his body in hypnotizing lines. His chest was almost always bare, but the way his skin glowed under all that salt and sun turned his body into a work of art, something to gaze upon and enjoy, and you fucking hated him for it. 

Monsters should look as ugly as their souls. 

“I realized I didn’t bring you a gift last night, and I had to make it right.”

You heard the sand shifting as Katakuri moved closer, but Shanks held your gaze. 

Those soft, brown eyes held nothing but lies. 

“A beautiful shell for a beautiful girl,” he breathed, wincing slightly when your uncle joked for the crowd, lamenting how “lovey dovey” things might get if all the hunters tried to spoil you. 

You had to accept his gift.

It was a large conch shell, and it was beautiful, with spirals and spikes laid out in gentle colors. 

“Listen to it, Y/N. Can you hear the ocean?”

“I… Yeah, I can,” you nodded, holding the shell up to your ear. Distant music filled your mind, and you shoved the memories down. Luckily, a trail of dripping suitors was headed toward you, and you were grateful for any excuse to stop looking at him. 

You were so fucking close to smashing that spiky shell into his face.

“The deep, blue sea loves its creatures so much that it sends its ears along with them.”

“Uh, thank you? I–“

“And the winner of today’s hunt is Prince Fukaboshi!”

Shanks had no choice but to move when Uncle Cedrick grabbed your elbow to guide you to another small stage, riding it into the air beside you. 

The merman prince looked like the God of the Sea. 

His spotted tail made giant patterns in the sand as he floated toward you, shaking out his light blue hair before you came close to his glinting smile. His teeth.

Shark. He’s like a shark.

“For you, Miss Sylvad. I hope that whatever this treasure is brings you as much pleasure as your company brings me.”

So very carefully, Fukaboshi’s massive fingers placed an ornate wooden chest on the platform in front of you, and a look from your uncle sent you to your knees to open it up.

Salt water and seaweed poured out, sending chills over your skin before you reached inside. The treasure was hard to identify in the soggy container, but soon you held it up for everyone to see. 

Everyone could see you while you stared at the intricate ship in a bottle, your dad’s signature redwood still painted on one of the sails. 

“Thank you for finding this for me, Prince Fukaboshi,” you praised, teetering on the edge of tears again. “I… I haven’t seen it in a long time.”

You hadn’t seen one of his little ships since you’d smashed a few of them to pieces ten years ago. The rest had been hidden away before the spoiled heiress could destroy them all during another tantrum. 

More of dad’s perfect creations that he’d lovingly stuffed into a pretty cage.

The world swerved, and by some miracle, your shaky hands placed the bottle back into the chest, closing the lid with a soft thud.

“Are you feeling well, niece,” Unce Cedrick crooned as he laid his hand on your back, painting the picture of a loving family.

“Yes, uncle, thank you,” came your soft, gracious voice. Your Sylvad smile was the only armor you had against the onslaught of eyes.

“I feel perfect.” 

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🗡️🔴⏰~~~

~~~

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

It was the perfect fight. The perfect dance.

“Where was this fire back then, Red Hair? This rage?”

“You trying to distract me, Hawk Eyes?”

Shanks pressed all of his weight against that powerful blade, their swords scraping against each other like deadly instruments. Mihawk had that huge weapon tilted down for an attack he couldn’t finish, and the younger pirate laughed as he caged him in against a tree. 

“There’s no need,” Mihawk growled, his body singing with the first true challenge he’d faced in years. “You’re still an overconfident, little boy.”

“Well, this— gods damn it, really,” Shanks groaned, unable to rub the pain off of his face with all of his strength holding his sword against the other. “Aren’t you a fucking swordsman? Head butts don’t seem that honorable.”

“A true fighter knows when to be flexible,” Mihawk taunted, finally slipping from Shanks’ hold. 

Perfect. 

Any of his previous opponents would have been sliced in half by his quick recovery, Yoru gliding through the air like a bird of prey.

Yet this man parried the attack with hardly a second to shift after Mihawk’s escape. 

And he was smiling. 

“I told you we’d be having fun.”

“That’s what you’ve been training for all this time, Red Hair? You’re willing to die for a bit of fun?”

“Aren’t you?”

Their taunts grew breathier as the clash of blades went on, but soon they both carried feral grins, laughing at every near miss. They didn’t notice all the trees they knocked down, or the creatures of the forest that fled into the golden glow of the coming sunset.

This perfect dance had lasted for hours, but it could have been seconds or days to them. 

The dancers lost themselves in the sounds of bodies and blades, in the strength and will of their beautiful enemy, and in the sweat, blood, and dirt that only made them seem more like beasts, hungry for more. 

Until the end. 

“Do it.”

Mihawk couldn’t believe it. 

He’d slipped. Hours and hours of sweat and blood dripping through his fingers made him slip just enough for his enemy to slip through.

I should have wrapped the handle better. 

The swordsman huffed a laugh at his own arrogance. He hadn’t had to worry about sweating through that fabric in years. 

“Laughing in the face of death, huh,” Shanks asked, holding Gryphon to the Warlord’s throat. He’d pinned the man down, his weight pressing his enemy into the rough ground. 

“I’m waiting for death, Red Hair,” he sneered, stretching his neck to give the man a clearer target. “Get on with it.”

“Now why would I wanna do that,” Shanks rasped. The chaos in those pretty eyes was hypnotizing. 

Shame and fury almost broke the man loose, but all he could do was seethe while blood started to trickle down his throat from his movements. 

“If you don’t finish this I’ll—“

“Make a deal with me,” Shanks purred, leaning close to breathe his bargain over those snarling lips. “I want you to live, and get stronger, so we can have even more fun next time.”

“If you don’t end this now, I will kill you sl—“

“Slowly, right? Sounds like fun to me.”

He freed the monster, collapsing onto the ground beside him to laugh, and wince with the pain of their dance.

This feels good.

“Tomorrow. You die tomorrow, Red Hair.”

The Warlord felt pathetic spitting the threat from his back, but he tilted his head to find that shiny, bloody smile again. 

“Tomorrow it is,” Shanks agreed, before diving into even more dangerous distractions. “What about tonight, Hawk Eyes? You got any plans?”

“You are truly magnificent, you suicidal fool,” Mihawk laughed, a lovely sound from those cruel lips. The redhead wouldn’t stop beaming at him, and something in him snapped. 

Mihawk couldn’t stop laughing, even through the soreness, even when his ridiculous enemy joined in. 

“What do you say, swordsman, wanna go grab a beer?”

“I prefer wine.”

“Whatever you want, loser—mmnf.”

“I will kill you tomorrow,” Mihawk sneered, rolling to hold Kogatana to that pretty throat.

“Let’s go celebrate your victory then,” Shanks winked, his jaw shifting in playful challenge. “Do you prefer red or— It’s red, isn’t it?”

“So perceptive in your final moments,” Mihawk drawled after too long a pause, but he helped his enemy off the ground. 

He walked beside the man that could have killed him. That should have killed him. 

This isn’t safe. 

Mihawk tried to listen to his instincts, every muscle in his body screaming for him to take down the smiling threat at his side. 

Yet all he could do was follow that red, unable to look at anything else. 

~~~

“What are you doing,” Mihawk growled, shrugging off Shanks’ touch when they entered the tavern.

“Don’t you wanna clean your pretty clothes first,” he teased, before nodding his head toward the hallway he’d tried to pull his enemy down. “My room’s this way, and it’s got a nice bathroom we can use. We look pretty fucked up, Hawk Eyes.”

Shanks leaned in again, his lip scraping through his teeth just a bit. Just enough.

Fuck being safe. 

“Getting cleaned up is going to take awhile,” Mihawk gave in, returning that heated stare. “How many bottles can you carry?”

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

~~~

~~~⏰🗡️🔴⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🐊🤡🐊🤡~~~

Shanks had finally figured it out, but the weight of nausea wouldn’t leave. Buggy knew she’d wanted him, he knew that breathing, but listening to Shanks touch her when he didn’t know how she felt was… 

“You need to get some sleep, little clown. Do you… Did you wanna sleep somewhere else?”

Crocodile tried to sound light, as though he’d be fine with an empty bed knowing that his clown would be whimpering in his sleep like he had every night since she left. There was a growing awkwardness in the air since that private date started, and he didn’t know how to quash it, or if he had any right to.

“No, I don't,” Buggy admitted. That scarred face seemed so careful, as though the man were holding still so he wouldn’t spook him. With a sigh, Buggy knew it was probably true. He let himself be swallowed by that comfortable, deadly warmth again. 

Holding him close, Crocodile fell through his own mind.

At some point, he had lost sight of his goals. The greed of how to reach them made him lose the vision, and ultimately lose it all. How many other things should he have protected instead of destroyed? How could he ever balance the scales with those he wanted to keep?

“Hey, boss,” Buggy cleared his throat, lips twitching nervously when he turned to look at that frightening face, unreadable as stone. The tension in his body was pretty readable though, and it didn’t seem like either of them would be falling asleep anytime soon.

“I know it’s late, but do you, uh… wanna call him?”

~~~🤡🐊🤡🐊~~~

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🗡️🔴⏰~~~

~~~

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

They set their swords down. 

Mihawk had almost walked away, but Shanks tossed his sword out of reach first before backing into the bathroom with a crooked grin, and an open bottle of wine in each hand. 

“You comin’?”

The Warlord followed, not knowing if he could see the other man as anything but an enemy, even for a night. 

The bottle of red helped. 

“Here, let me help you with that.”

“It’s fine, I’ve— fu-uck!”

An absurdly large splinter had pierced into Mihawk’s lower back sometime during the fight, and although the two men had been staring at each other while they showered, they hadn’t touched until Shanks saw him struggling with that invasive bit of wood. 

“This little thing hurt that bad, huh,” Shanks teased as he tossed the splinter, reaching for the first aid supplies the bartender had shoved at them when they walked in dripping with blood. 

He soaked a swab in alcohol, and pressed it to the small wound before the swordsman could dodge him, and the desperate noise he let out made Shanks’ jaw drop. 

Mihawk turned away, grabbing a towel to tie down his body's reaction before leaving the redhead in the bathroom with his mouth still hanging wide. 

“I’ve got some extra pants you can—“

“I’m not wearing your ugly pants. They look like an old lady’s couch.”

Shanks snorted, admiring the sulking Warlord that was cleaning his already clean blade. 

“No pants then. I can live with that.”

“Is this what you wanted all along, Red Hair? I would have have fucked you on the tavern table if you’d just asked nicely.”

Shanks had left his towel in the bathroom, and his body’s reaction to those words was on full display while he leaned against the doorframe. 

“I don’t think losers get to be on top, Hawk Eyes.”

Rage was back. 

“And I don’t think I can wait until tomorrow to kill you.”

“Come on, friend,” Shanks dared, taking another swig while the hissing monster held that tiny blade to his throat again. “Let’s have some more fun.”

Who moved first? Neither could tell, but however it started, nothing in the world could stop them now. 

That kiss between rivals sparked another dance that would last for hours. 

Another fight that left them snarling and breathless, throwing taunts back and forth while they tore each other apart. 

Another battle of strength and will to see which man would fall to the other. 

“You truly believe you can take me,” Mihawk laughed, shoving his opponent against the wall hard enough for the wood to groan, and the dust to shake loose from the shelves beside them. 

“I believe you want me to,” the redhead taunted. It felt so good to be lost. “You keep hunting for someone who can. I bet you’re just dying to get fucked into the ground, aren’t you? Want me to hurt you?”

He fisted into that soft, black hair, yanking the man’s head back. That pathetic moan was music to his ears, and his cock was dripping with the need to shove it into the swordsman already. 

“And what about you,” Mihawk growled. He grabbed onto Shanks’ pulsing cock, and laughed when his knees nearly buckled. “You’re so obsessed with fighting me, trying so hard to fuck me. Willing to die for some fun? I’ve never met such a desperate whore.”

And they were kissing again, with Mihawk laughing into Shanks’ mouth while his cruel fingers made his enemy whine.

“Gods, if you’re gonna be such a sore loser, I guess you can take the win,” caved the redhead, breathless and aching to let this man clear his mind for as long as he could. He stumbled over to his bag, and tossed his rival a bottle of lube.

“Knew this was what you wanted,” Mihawk purred, already fisting the cool liquid over his swollen cock before bringing the bottle to his opponent’s waiting body. “You even came prepared.”

“Never know who you might run into at a— ooh, f-fuck. Mm, you’re so good at that.”

Mihawk smirked while his fingers tore so many noises from this gorgeous man, adding and stretching while he taunted him.

“I’ve never fucked someone I planned to kill the next day,” he threatened. That tiny smirk on the redhead’s lips was a challenge, and he needed to make this smug, little pirate beg.

Gods, he’s so pretty. He—

Shanks’ eyes rolled back, whatever he’d planned to say disappearing when the swordsman pierced him. Rough, angry, owning. Exactly what he needed.

“Hawk Eye— Hawk. Fuuck, you feel so fucking good, baby.”

“This it, huh,” he snarled, shoving Shanks’ thigh toward him with one hand, and grabbing that whining throat with the other. “Are you a little toy made just for me? Following me around until I sink my blade in you?”

Oh, those golden eyes. Shanks could have died right then, letting this man have him, but he didn’t want it to end. Didn’t want him to leave. 

And he just couldn’t help himself.

Mihawk had never made that sound before. He had his prey beneath him, flushed and desperate, those soft, brown eyes almost broken. 

Then there was pain.

He didn’t know what was happening until he saw that fucking smirk, but it was too late.

Shanks had found that little wound on his back, and dug his nails in. 

He looked so fucking smug before he followed his lover, arching his back while he came across his chest and stomach. It didn’t stop him from making Mihawk twitch and moan with sharp pleasure from the pain he kept twisting into his skin. 

They both whimpered and gasped while Mihawk kept fucking his come even deeper. Shanks’ nails in his skin were the strings of a marionette, controlling him, owning him.

It felt unreal.

The Warlord wanted to be angry, wanted to punish the grinning lover he still pierced, but he couldn’t think. 

Just a little while. A little while longer without thinking, until the enemies were taunting and teasing again, another round of showers to clean a different kind of mess away.

It felt…

It wasn’t safe.

“Where ya going, loser?”

Shanks’ high dropped fast, almost as fast as Mihawk climbed back into his fancy clothes. 

He didn’t want it to end.

“Sleep well, rookie. Tomorrow’s your last day.”

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

~~~

~~~⏰🗡️🔴⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

“Can’t sleep without me, clown?”

“No, shithead,” Buggy sneered, and Crocodile’s deep laughter poured through the transponder snail until Mihawk felt an almost smile touch his lips. “You’re an agent now, and we’d like an update.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” he teased, though he felt heavier with every breath. “This very late night update is that I’m floating on the sea.”

“Where did you end up heading first,” Crocodile interrupted Buggy’s grumbles, and his lovely voice sent guilt coursing through Mihawk’s veins.

“With these conditions, I should make it to Majiatsuka by this time tomorrow.”

“That’s the, uh,” Buggy groaned in thought, with the sound of rustling paper accompanying his noises. 

“That’s one of the island kingdoms around Dress Rosa, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Buggy answered Crocodile’s question, while Mihawk stared into nothing. “It’s right here, but that’s– You’re not gonna check out Whole Cake first? And Germa’s creepy boats are parked to the east. Which suitor lives–”

“Mihawk.”

He couldn’t speak.

“What’s wrong,” Buggy asked, quiet after Crocodile’s rage. 

Until he found his own. 

“Are you fucking STUPID? We don’t have a plan! I can’t believe you, you BATSHIT CRAZY fucking asshole. I’m gonna–”

“Explain,” Crocodile ordered, that dangerous purr ending Buggy’s rant. “Why are you going to the estate?”

“I’m going near the estate,” the swordsman cleared his throat, grateful that there was just enough room on his boat to pace. “I’m sorry I wasn’t truthful, but I didn’t quite lie. I’ll still try to gather intel to thin the crowd, bloodlessly if possible.”

“You do realize the sheer amount of manpower between you, right? The fucking surveillance?” Crocodile’s voice was edged with that dangerous disappointment, that waiting rage. “Hells, he probably already knows where you are with how much the Marines–”

“I can’t take it! I can’t take another fucking second of this!”

Nothing but the wind in the sails. 

Nothing but his ragged breathing, and his heart that was too fucking loud.

“Mihawk,” Buggy asked softly. True softness for the man that had tortured him, tormented him, taken and used his lover like a fucking whore. Mihawk couldn’t understand the forgiveness he’d been given.

He didn’t need it anymore.

“I’ll try, I will, I swear,” the swordsman vowed, not sure if he was telling the truth. “But I need her!”

“Little prince–”

“I don’t want to force her. I don't ever want to force her again. I want to respect her wishes, and wait until we know what she needs, what she wants… but I don’t want that. Not really.”

Mihawk gave a hateful laugh, nearly choking on his self loathing, but his rage would stop spilling out.

“I want to go in there, and grab her, and slaughter everyone on that island! I want to kill everyone that’s ever fucking looked at her! I want–”

“Hey, crybaby, you think I don’t fucking want that,” Buggy fumed, death in his voice.

“That’s why I’m doing this,” Mihawk slumped, not knowing when the tears began. “You deserve her. I’ll try not to go in there unless there’s no other way, but I need to be close.”

“What are you talking about,” Crocodile breathed. 

There wasn’t enough room on this boat to have these emotions, and Mihawk had to clench his fists to keep from tearing it to pieces.

“I need her, but I’d rather she hate me than… I’ll be the monster, so you don’t have to. I think I can live with her hate if I know she’s with you. With someone she loves.”

Nothing but the waves. 

“The security is still fucking vicious,” Crocodile rasped, anger draining from his voice. “And with the suitors’ people, and Sylvad’s pet Marines… That’s a lot of armies to fight.”

“I’ll be fine, and she already hates Shanks, so he can do whatever he has to,” Mihawk sighed as visions of violence soothed him. “The two of us should be able to tear the place asunder. The Cross Guild will need to relocate if it comes to that though. Probably disband, and go into hiding. You can take her somewhere. You can take care of her.”

“Shut the fuck up, you’re not doing this! She wouldn’t want—“

“Buggy, I’ll try to wait,” Mihawk pleaded, surprised that he still wanted permission. “Please, let me be the last resort. Call me if something happens, and I’ll bring her back to you. I’ll be the monster. Let me… please.”

The swordsman could hear his silent clown, those desperate breaths echoing through the night air.

That silence dragged on too long, and he couldn’t get her broken laughter out of his mind. Her uncle’s threats that Buggy had scrawled and crumpled in his rage and despair. The wound she had dealt him when she left. How perfectly cold her eyes had been. 

Until she wouldn’t meet his gaze. 

“I think she was telling the truth,” Buggy whispered, hardly breaking the silence. “She wanted to go, even though... I don’t think she’ll forgive you.” 

“I know. She shouldn’t.”

“Are you trying to be selfish, or selfless, little prince? Because either way, you’re fucking doing it wrong.”

The swordsman let out his own broken laughter, ducking into the small cabin to find a bottle of red. 

“Listen to me, bright eyes,” his business partner urged. “If you need to be out there, then do it, but don’t do this.”

“Don’t drink and sail,” Mihawk asked, popping the cork to pour the fine wine down his throat. 

He didn’t want to taste it. To observe the colors. He didn't want to notice the hint of plums, or the lack of his little bloodhound that he had wanted to taste the world with. 

“No, don’t be a fucking idiot,” Crocodile sighed. “Don’t act like you’ve already lost her. You don’t know what you’ll be able to do yet, or how she’s gonna feel. Our sweet girl is fierce.”

“Of course she is,” Buggy agreed, a steady faith in his voice that Mihawk envied. 

He had changed too late.

“Don’t throw your heart away because you don’t think you deserve it.” 

His scarred lover had touched the truth too close, as though the grief in those words wasn’t just for him. 

“You’re not gonna find a way if you think you’ve already lost, so if you’re gonna do this, then quit fucking around. Find out what our girl wants. Get her back. Convince her to stay.”

“But—“

“And you’re gonna work with us,” Buggy cut in, sounding brighter, his rage shifted back to annoyance. “We’re getting my star back, and I’m not gonna let you take all the credit, asshole.”

The World’s Greatest Swordsman was drifting alone on his one-man boat again. 

Not so alone. 

“You’ll call me if…”

“If we need a monster, you’ll be the first one I’ll call,” his clown promised, bringing a wave of sick relief at the thought. “But this whole sacrificing yourself for our happiness shit is fucking lame. Can you try not to be so dramatic?”

Silence. Nothing but the water. 

Nothing until the laughter started. Warm, deep laughter at their tearful swordsman, and their dramatic clown that joined in with a snort before they all forgot what they were laughing about. 

“I’m sorry I lied, daddy,” Mihawk breathed, suddenly cold at the thought of sleeping. 

“You’ll get your punishment. Just fly back home, little bird.”

“And stop being such a dumbass, please,” Buggy groaned, sounding squished as though a massive arm had curled around him. 

“No promises,” Mihawk laughed, “but I will try… Thank you.”

The Cross Guild said their slow goodnights, leaving the swordsman on that quiet sea.

He drifted alone on his one-man boat, but this time he floated between his distant lovers, knowing that he had always been right. Love isn’t safe. 

Fuck being safe. 

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

Likes, comments, and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you!!

Author's Note: So I went a little wild here. Writing Mishanks' backstory felt like utter self indulgence, so I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did! I love all of our fucked up boys so very much 😭 Who's ready to make some sweets with Katakuri though? 🍩😏

Fic Updates & Extras:

Special thanks to the commenter who referred to Shanks' pants as "grandma couch patterned" a few months ago, it has lived in my brain rent free. I can't find the comment on tumblr or Ao3, but you have my eternal gratitude for making me snort every time I see him and his stupid fucking pants now 😅🙏🏼

I've included a timeline below with OP Canon and Numbers Game events in case y'all would like to see where all the flashbacks line up. I left out any events that gave away the Reader's age for those that don't want to see that, but I'll make a separate post with more details for those that do.

You have no idea how much I reduced this timeline, lol. My actual timeline is full of a ton of canon details since I plan to reuse it for other fics, and I of course left out the Numbers Game spoilers. I only brought this version up to six years before the current time because I'm still cleaning up the rest of my notes, but I'm happy to share more later if you're interested.

I apologize that I don't have the timeline in text format yet. I will be adding that soon since images aren't accessible for everyone. Please let me know if you'd like that so that my adhd brain doesn't forget!!

The vast majority of the canon details were compiled by the sweet, glorious, super heroes at the One Piece Wiki, and The Library of Ohara. I would be lost without them!!!! 🙌😭🙏🏼

I'm basing the Numbers Game geography off of This Map by xads181 on Reddit. It is absolutely stunning, holy wowzers! 😍

Do you know how little fucking time it takes to get between most of these islands? I thought my timeline was going too fast, but Oda really just had them speedrun their adventure while we take 25+ years to watch it. I love him so much 😅💜

Numbers Game Abbreviated Timeline ~ 6-52ish years ago:

I made this timeline using Miro if you're interested. It's got a free or paid version, and it's been helping me so much. (I completely ignore the AI (🤢) and collaborative features, but the mindmapping and such is just so good!) Writing this long of a fic with so much to keep track of was wild in my messy, poorly titled google docs list 😅

Tag List: @shewrites02 | @caniseethefourthsword | @hey-august | @chaoticqueen33 | @destinationmars | @novakitten0901 | @h0n3y-l3m0n05 | @dorky-birdie | @szired | @pinejayy | @laws-wife-things | @jadeddangel | @gingernut1314 | @urlocaltwink | @blue-rae18 | @bontensbabygirl | @bbnbhm | @0-sparkling-lace-0 | @ihearthazuki | @mikisspeak | @djloveyou3000 | @mercymccann | @horse-and-writer97

Part 34

Operation Olive Branch has compiled a working spreadsheet of ways to help families fleeing from the genocide in Palestine. If you enjoyed this fic, and are able, please click the link to find a list of GoFundMe's, as well as other ways to help.

| masterlist | about me | rules | ao3 |

[sincerelyverena]

⟡⁺ VAYA CON DIOS

. . . OLIVER QUICK X GN!READER ‘in a world so fake, i say your name praying. you are my angel and my saint.’ @ajs-222 @michael-loves-chickens @surazim @soocore

in whichꕀ

✦ ﹒oliver and you form an unlikely bond over his hatred for the cattons and your thirst for revenge. but when you dance with the devil, you're bound to fall. for satan himself or something far more sinister...

tagsꕀ

✦ ﹒implied sex ﹐major character death ﹐strangling (non-sexual) (sorry yall) ﹐ drowning

inspired by the pure energy of hot, smothering justice and betrayal kali uchis vaya con dios radiates. enjoy, my lovelies! also felix is so babygirl, y'all just don't like him in this.. ;]

Oliver Quick was your saving grace.

You were more willing to admit he was your soulmate. Oliver Quick. Meek, unsocial, glasses-wearing Oliver Quick. He took you by the hand — and the heart — guiding you into Oxford's inner circle. A place for you to unravel your sabotage and a root for Oliver to plant his destruction in. A place for your ascendancy to seep through the cracks and weave between the breaks.

More specifically, Felix Catton. The college's golden boy, the beloved playboy of Oxford, and why you were so dedicated to fitting in in the first place.

Felix Catton and the entire Catton name were the root of all your problems. They took every opportunity you could've been offered in their palms, tearing it to shreds, and pummelling it into dust. Without even realising it, they had sabotaged everything you could've known.

The limelight of one of the downtown bars you all had travelled to flickers upon Felix, the neon glow outlined every discreet detail he bore proudly on his face. The captured appeal in every crook and dent, to the extent that any flaw he may have possessed is gone and buried before anyone could've noticed.

Felix Catton had the school population wrapped around the slimness of his fingers. Hell, even the once hardened aquamarine of Oliver's eyes softened ever so slightly with every passing grin of Felix's mouth. Every clasp of his back. Every manipulative lie that he’d utter with a smirk pasted on his face. Every sickly-sweet word that sweetly left his lips.

But not you. Even after four rounds of whiskey martinis, you felt like the only sober person in the room. You knew Felix and his family for what he was. 

Selfish, all-wanting, all-ruining rascals.

Your own family once had close-knit ties with the Cattons. Years before your mother was even impregnated. Your grandmother had whispered tales of summers at Saltburn as if it was a fairytale. Endless courtyards, wide, luxurious estate grounds. Wild parties. Even wilder sex. At a young age, you had grown a thirst for experiencing anything that remotely came close to the experiences bored into you time and time again. You needed to quench your cravings, but nothing came near.

Things may have been different if the Cattons sunk your parent's business. For good.

Even the most naive garnered a sense and even an adoration for gossip and rumours as soon as they'd step onto Saltburn grounds, reputation was adorned upon a gold-plated pedestal. The root of striking words and poison-tainted oaths is Lady Elspeth. A wheat-blonde-haired bitch that brought your family so much misery.

A couple of words that escaped the snake's mouth destroyed generations of work. A whole family business deteriorated into the dust, and she didn’t even bat an eye.

This series of unfortunate events resulted in your mother passing you onto your grandparents, fabulously wealthy (but not as wealthy) and luxurious in their own right. 

They raised you under their family name. Esmeray.

This granted you easy access into the prestigious inner circles of Oxford, invited by Felix Catton himself. He had noticed you a few scarce times prior, typically on Oliver’s arm, Ollie, who took it upon himself to sneak you into various VIP parties for the cause. Any remotely attractive person is enough to catch Felix's eye, and lucky for you, you were drop-dead stunning.

That's why you weren't the least surprised when he extended an invitation to stay the summer at Saltburn. The next step is avenging the Marzena family name. For good this time.

Saltburn couldn’t have ever compared to the fairytales whispered in your ear during your childhood days. Those tales did it no justice compared to how stunning and profound the estate truly is.

The molten sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon, and flecks of pure gold ascended throughout the gradually darkening sky. Pure summer drifted through the air, sending a warmth of contentment to settle in the pit of your belly. But your job here wasn't done. It was far from done.

The warmth in your belly reverberated through your shoulder as a firm hand clasped upon the brink of your silhouette.

"We're going to be late for dinner, sweetheart." Oliver's slow words reached your ears, his thumb gently tracing circles into the shining glimpse of skin that wasn't enwreathed by the inky, silk fabric you wore for the Catton’s strict dress codes.

Even though Oliver's hands were glacially cold — practically comparable to ice — the molten glow of his touch rolled throughout your frame pleasingly. This causes your lips to unfurl into a not-so-concealed smile. His words could engrave themselves into your mind, and he knew it as fact. "Come along now."

You tore your eyes away from the purely otherworldly scenery available at your will. In the minute or so that Oliver managed to garner from you, the radiant golden brinks of daytime were gradually drowned out by the raven shadows of nightfall.

"I think I’m in shock." The words escaped your lips with a half-suppressed laugh that reverberated lightly from your chest. Your mind raced to piece together the proper syllables necessary to describe the unfiltered beauty of Saltburn. “This is all so…”

"...unreal?"

Oliver finished your sentence for you in a matter of seconds, as if he plucked it out of your fluttered head. His hand shifted, arm rolled over the base of both of your bare, garmentless shoulders. Draped. Practically protectively he wordlessly guided you towards the door of your temporary suite. Temporary. For now, at least.

"Mmm… something like that." You quipped in turn, deciding with promptness to sink into the mere gentleness of his touch. The work of his hands alone arrowed straight to the pump of your heart and occasionally the heat of your core. These newly established sentiments that you’ve garnered for Oliver Quick had brought you a whirlwind of devotion to successfully come to fruition.

It wasn't an unacknowledged fact between the two of you that a spark had conquered itself, gradually. Every touch. Each glance. Every word that two of you had come to share. Oliver's intensity, his willingness to take you into his hands and never release you. And your revering homage, your tendency to treat him as if he were a god. 

The Catton's were the most oblivious. Oblivious to their guest’s steadily swelling obsession. For each other and the downfall of their own, the destruction that played as a constant in their heads.

In order to play the part, you and Oliver separated from each other in front of the rest of the household to confide in both your constant alliance and devotion. You found sociability and acceptance in Farleigh and Venetia. Stingy, ego-brimming relatives to the Catton name. Oliver confided in Felix and even Elspeth, that as much as you disliked that fact. Alas, you weren't a stranger to the occasional lingering glance. The crinkle of Oliver's midwinter blue eyes, the tug of his sensually plump lips into a gradual, subtle smirk that occupied a lump in your throat. You drove him crazy the same. Or so you thought.

In the quietest hours of Saltburn, you found yourself curled up against Oliver’s silhouette. His godly arms inched around the frame of your torso, pulling you towards his strapping — and occasionally bare — chest. You often found yourself with your head buried in the crook of his neck. Inhaling the fragrances of honeydew and tangerine, the scent that virtually dripped off of Oliver’s altar of a body. A newfound pinkness tainted your cheeks.

"We live in a cruel world, don't we, darling?" Oliver proceeded to fill the silence one sleepless night with his deliberate drawls. His wide palms combed through your scalp absentmindedly. You could feel his warm breaths misting your ear every other second.

"We're living proof of that, Oliver." You gently reminded him.

"They sit on their golden thrones," Oliver raved onwards, irritation hung on every word. You didn't have to advert your eyes upward to know that his chiselled jaw was clenched, the muscles in his neck flexed accordingly. "While I had to grow up with an ignorant weasel for a father and a pill-popper for a mother."

You propped yourself up on your elbow, the pillow under your head sunk under the weight as you essentially crawled towards him. Captured his lips with your own, the taste of spearmint toothpaste meddled within your tongue as he proceeded to tangle into you. The kiss alone was fiery, frantic as Oliver poured his past and present into the serene bubble the two of you had formed, together.

"That'll all be behind us soon." You reassured him with each brush of your lips.

"Very soon, my love. They'll be the ones on their knees begging for our mercy."

Those meaning-filled kisses transitioned shortly into something more, the noises of willing gasps and the frantic rustle of garments echoed throughout the suite. In the head-whirling cloudiness of lust, you weren’t to notice the boy who stands with his ear pressed against the other side of the door. Lips thinned. Eyebrows drawn together.

Felix had heard everything he needed to know.

The racketing denouncing of the door caused your head to snap toward the cause. You’ve spent your morning in solitude, with a cup of steaming tea and a handful of your thoughts. Yet the peace you’ve marinated in over the past few hours dissipated as you witnessed Oliver stand there with promptness, hand still pressed deeply against the door handle. The silence drew throughout your suite, disturbed the slow, heavy grunts that reverberated from him.

Something was wrong,

Oliver sucked in a sharp breath.

"We're leaving after the house party tonight." He announced at last.

Your teacup almost slipped from your palms. Your breath quickened, fumbling to set the object aside before you made a start towards Oliver. And the man — who seemed more like a boy at the moment — inclined his toned arms around the sleight of your waist, clutching for dear life. He held you close. Chest to chest. Heart to heart. You felt each puff of breath escape and fill him, emptying him and deeming him whole. Your arms secured around his shoulders, triceps tucked behind his neck.

"24 hours is more than enough." You deemed.

"You think?"

"I believe."

As you spoke, you felt the muscles that once rippled rigidly against your hands loosen the slightest. Your digits traced absentminded patterns into the hem of his shirt.

“You’re tense.” You pointed out, falling back momentarily in the process. Your eyebrows drew together as you took in the strained look blatantly playing on his face. With the amount of stress filling his ocean-remanent eyes, he had looked to have aged a decade.

Oliver's hands braced towards your jaw, long digits framing your face as he leant in. He peppered a feather-weight kiss to the top of your head. You couldn't have missed his shaky inhales grazing the cuff of your ear as he inched forward.

“I have a plan.”

That's how you and Oliver found yourselves occupying the brink of your unmade bed, the cup of half-drunken tea still allocated in your hands and a look of fierce determination glowering in his unwavering gaze.

Wordlessly, Oliver lapsed a singular, broad hand in the vicinity of his dark dress pants, fingers gliding beneath the denim material. Your breath is lodged in the centre of your throat at the very sight. Your thoughts began to drift, internally perplexing if his grand plan was to fuck his griefs out on you. That was until he retrieved a ziplock bag from his briefs, cocaine weighing the plastic down.

"Oliver Quick. You are a fucking genius." You whistled at the glimpse of the thin, pale powder. Oliver's intentions were as clear as day and the motions for revenge were just as evident.

The pressure and strain that pulsated behind Oliver’s eyes softened with every syllable that escaped your lips. His gaze never left yours, deliciously prominent. A somewhat startled squeal echoed throughout the bedroom suite as Oliver hauled you up using the agency of your hips. Your legs sprawl on both flanks of his thighs as he reposed you across the sleight of his lap.

"C'mere 'n say it to my face then, princess."

The house party that arose thereafter that evening was open to all extravagant guests who were deemed worthy enough to be invited personally by the Cattons. You were bursting at the seams with scorching adrenaline at the thought of all of these unsuspecting capitalists, oblivious of what was about to transpire.

You and Oliver remained on contrasting sides of the estate, a fact that brought a sense of yearning. And you yearned for nothing more than to blow the night with the man you deemed to be your beloved. Alas, the two of you weren't established. And you both had a murder to fulfil.

One day.

"Shh..."

Oliver's voice was hushed, his whispers interlinked with a domineering raspiness as the two of you venture away from the club scene of heroin, alcohol and the prominent hue of arousal and cigarette smoke. You spied Felix, his celestial silhouette still visible from a fair distance away. He's accompanied by one of the well-heeled invitees, one of his idolizers who had spent the majority of the night garnering his undivided attention.

You crushed your drug stick underneath the heel of your footwear as you proceeded to wander behind the individuals ahead. They advanced towards the vast bridge that adorned one of the numerous rivers the estate occupied. Which acted as a hook-up spot for most, obvious by the number of condoms and cigarettes scattered upon the planks.

You gave a wordless prayer for the estate maids for their grounds inspection at dawn. But you knew God couldn't help neither you nor Oliver now for what you were about to accomplish.

It was childishly easy. Snag one of the champagne bottles from the downstairs kitchens and instil half of the ziplock bag's contents into the beige substance. Shook it until it was dissolved. Oliver seized it by his side.

By the time the couple approached the bridge, Felix already propped his midnight flings up on the fencing, palms grappling behind their thighs to keep them fixed in place. Their calves squeezed around the roundness of his hips, digits fumbled urgently to undo the leather clasps of his belt.

Within a minute or two, a strangled moan rang throughout the otherwise hushed air as Felix buried his head into the crook of their neck.

Anticipation pounded through you with each step you made. The heart of the Cattons. Soon to be executed under the guise of revenge. And what a bloody revenge it would be. Oliver's vacant hand intertwined with your own for a beat of a second, a rapid squeeze capable of sending any possible doubt into destruction. Replaced by a flutter of warmth that uncoiled in your chest.

Felix had taken notice of you both hastily, balls deep in his oblivious affair – who was spluttering and whimpering around his shoulder. The chorus of smacking flesh subsided, the strike of Felix’s hips diminishing as the man stared at his former friends with a bewildered expression.

"The hell are you doing here?" Felix demanded, grunting a half-hearted apology to his now flustered entanglement as his palms clung to their waist, pulling out with a fluent jerk of his hips. He was in every respect flaccid now, no doubt.

Oliver wasn’t phased in the slightest. "We need to talk, Felix."

“What the hell?”

The individual who once occupied the bridge had already recomposed themselves, looking daggers up at the colossal man that towered over them. Felix scarcely spared them a glance. They seethe at his lack of response, before steamrolling past you to rejoin the commotion back at the estate.

Rendering them alone.

"There's nothing to talk about," Felix contended. He broke his gaze as he heeled momentarily to adjust himself. Sloppily. There’s a shakiness in his hands.

In your eyes, he's the remnant of a fallen angel. Shadowed eyebags dominated the space beneath Felix’s whisky-glittering eyes, his wolfish-like face wiltering, hollow cheeks thinned out excessively to be presumed normal. You acknowledged it was a fact that everyone else's value of him wouldn't budge. Not even a dent. Not even in the grave.

Oliver thrust the sabotaged bottle against Felix's Herculean chest with a forceful arm, prompting him to grab hold. Your pulse rang in between your ears. You wished you could’ve engraved this moment in time into your mind.

"You're right." You reasoned. Your words seemed foreign to your ears as if it were someone else that was speaking. You could only pray that the ecstatic nervousness that jolted throughout you wasn't manifesting outwardly.

Oliver’s fingers laced within your own. The sweat that prickled along the curve of his palm signalled to you wordlessly that he was experiencing the same, intense elation that grappled at your abdomen and twisted. "We'll see you back at Oxford, yeah?"

Felix scrutinizes the somewhat empty champagne bottle in his palms (courtesy of you pouring it out an hour prior). His words falter and for a moment you begin to ponder if his perception of you two was corrupted for good. Nevertheless, Felix fixated immensely towards your linked hands.

"Yeah. I'll see you back at Oxford."

As you and Oliver diverged from Felix, you could hear the droughty gulps of the spiked substance. It was apparent to you that you'd never see Felix again after this moment. The reassurance of that fact, set in stone, brought about a flutter of relief to overtake the apprehension you once esteemed.

A slow, deliberate smile crept onto your lips.

As predicted, the entire Catton household fell apart after Felix was found. He collapsed on the wooden tiling of the bridge, sprawled out with a mouthful of his puke pooled around his ever-paling silhouette.

It was obvious he suspected. He trusted them anyway and attempted to save himself in the process.

Even though you both were invited to the funeral a couple of days after the fact, the rock-tossing (an off-putting tradition in the Catton family) was regarded as family only.

You sat, only an hour later, bare feet dangling off of the edge of the bridge as Oliver attempted to retrieve each rock from the drafts of the flowing river current.

"Don't fall in and drown, Ollie!" You exclaimed, playfulness irking your tone as you grinned down at him. The sight of Oliver, ass-up, in an attempt to grasp the smooth, memorial rock was a sight to witness indeed.

Oliver turned his head and snapped out of his focused determination to flash you a similar smirk. "I'd have to be bound and gagged for that to happen, sweetheart."

His words caused a particular imagery to pollute your thoughts.

Alas, your plans towards the Catton family and their demise were practically writing themselves. Venetia was becoming heavily depressed by the absence of Felix and Farleigh (whom Oliver framed and resulted in him having to exit Saltburn for good).

With a few metal blades smuggled into a porcelain bath and a few encouraging words from Ollie, the woman was found bathing in her crimson remains. Funeral. Rock-tossing. Rock-retrieving.

"Be careful the rock doesn't weigh you down, Ollie!"

You continued to tease him as he soon approached you. Oliver's typically straight, combed-over locks of caramel were drenched. The waterdrops highlighted the olive of his skin, and you wished desperately to kiss all the droplets away.

Oliver took hold of your waist, pulling you in. A droplet of water splashed against the end of your nose, causing a stray laugh to rise out of you.

"If I'm goin' down, you're goin' down with me."

Oliver lowered his head, his water-dripping, plump lips placed a long kiss on the end of your nose. The sudden shake of his wet strands caused water to spray all across your face.

You groaned in protest. You kissed him back anyway.

Laughing felt foreign to you. Especially when you were smuggling a dissolvable pill or two in the alcohol-infested substance of both Sir James and Lady Elspeth's glasses. It lies atop the tables decorating either side of the king-sized bed. They were preoccupied with the purposeful ruckus Oliver was causing downstairs and lurched up from their sleeping quarters to investigate.

Like all the victims before them, it was elementary. James and Elspeth evolved into a habit of indulging in a few (or five) drinks before bed. The tendency to stress drink evergrowing with the funerals and departures that lined up before them. Before their own.

Oliver slid the build of his toned arms around you, sensing his biceps straining straight into your waist. You watched as the drugged solution dissolved into nothingness while he watched you. A singular reached upwards towards your mouth which was pulled back into a grin. He bore a cool palm over your lips.

"If you keep laughin' like that, you're gonna give us away." His voice rumbled into the curve of your ear. The assertive husk of Oliver’s tone was enough to cause you to fall silent, only the ghost of a smile flickering upon your lips.

Elspeth dreaded the idea of the lovers ever considering their departure from Saltburn. James desired the absence even more. You both decided to make it easier for them.

A choked cry echoed out, barely five minutes later.

Oliver towered over the end of the bed. He never wanted it to transpire this way, but Elspeth refused to bloody die off. Your lover's fists decorated the weak column of her throat like a collar, harsh palms proceeding to crush down against skin and bone without a sleight of hesitance.

"Sweetheart, look away." He evoked.

You couldn't.

Elspeth gawked up at Oliver with wrinkled eyes. Once brimming with adoration. Now dull with despair, her calloused hands went as far as to claw against the relentlessness of his hands. Elspeth's air supply grows limited, a strangled outburst that escapes her at this realisation.

It didn't take long for her to stop fighting, and collapse against the paled corpse of her husband. You peppered lightweight kisses along the gaping nail marks dressing the skin atop Oliver’s hands. Oliver's blood was left smeared across the frame of your lips. Like he was your sacrifice. Like you were a god.

He looked at you like such.

Disposing of the bodies was even simpler. As you laboured to wipe the bedsheets clean of any possible evidence, Oliver tossed the carcasses into the wide, sprawling woods a mile or two away from the estate. The wild animals are bound to eat away at the rot infecting the pale, cold meat.

From scum, you came. Now scum you become.

The Catton Family Players music box is anchored to a table, presented in the middle of the foyer. Four smooth rocks perched on top. Even though there wasn't a funeral explicitly necessary in this case, it grew to be a game. You and Oliver took turns tossing the engraved rock into the rivers before plunging after them.

In no time at all, whatever garments you possessed were cast aside. You were shoulders-down submerged in the pummelling waters, each movement rippling the moana-blue waves.

Oliver bore his arms around you, encompassing your waist to keep you afloat so you would be able to soak in the scenery ahead of you. Submerged in the serenity of nature. With only the limelight of the sun sinking below the horizon to keep you two company.

You trusted him not to drop you. Of course, you trusted him.

Why wouldn't you trust him when he gave you everything you had ever wanted? His lips pressed warmly against the curve of your forehead. You were both skin to skin, but it didn't feel enough to you. He could’ve been inside you (in whatever way that struck the imagination). And it’d never be enough.

"What's happenin' in your pretty little mind, sugar?" Oliver hummed, his articulation was in the form of a mere whisper. Yet, the rumble of his words solicited you with so much warmth you had to take a second to respond.

"You." His eyebrows raised at the simplicity of your words. "How lucky we are."

The familiar warmth of that chuckle you love so much leaves his chest in a glowing reverberation. "We are a lucky pair, aren't we, darlin'?"

You would've never guessed for revenge and lust to be written on the same page. But through vengeance, and the motions of murder, you had gained your other half.

You had never felt happier. Never felt more whole.

And you loved him. You loved him so immensely. Nobody could have ever doubted that fact in the first place.

That's why you were the most bewildered when you stirred from rest, aroused into waking. You had foreseen residing in Oliver's arms, in the master suite the two of you now occupied. You were in Oliver's arms, yes. But not in the way you hoped for.

That's exactly how you got to this point in time.

You strain and challenge the thick ropes constricting the frame of your ankles and wrists, alerting Oliver to your consciousness. You incline your head over the brink of your bare shoulder, catching a glimpse of nothing but fields surrounding the two of you.

A river draws closer and closer in the distance.

You attempt to will yourself to speak, but your lips are harshly taped shut. Oliver doesn't need to receive your words of interrogation anyway, as he proceeds to speak.

"You were always a feisty one." He comments loosely, voice casual as if you weren't bound and gagged in between his defined biceps. His bare feet hit against the ground beneath him, muffled by the field's natural grass dressing,

"What a shame it had to be this way."

As the river grows nearer and nearer in your line of view, you spy something bland and metal perched on the rocks beside the streaming current. It's rougher today. A contrast in comparison to the passive waves you and Oliver bathed in the few days prior.

Your eyes rounden in realisation.

Fully aware of the restraints diminishing your speech, you attempt to grill the man above you on why the hell he possesses a weight. No properly audible sound manages to slip out.

A dry snigger escapes Oliver. "It would've been too obvious, my dear. I mean, we're the last ones standing." He falters in step, the waves of the river's current join the throbbing of your heart, roaring between your ears. Oliver inclines downwards, fingertips as gentle and purposeful as ever as they tease the edge of the tape. "What a tragedy it'd be for my lover to be taken away from me as well."

Tears prickle at the edge of your eyes.

The tape rips away from your lips, strangling a cry from deep within your throat at the throbbing pain that overbears you. Oliver tosses the tape aside without a second thought, the pad of his thumb rubbing easing circles into the somewhat swollen attributes of your mouth. "Shh..." 

"Oliver, this isn't fucking funny."

"I know it isn't, sweetheart."

The man you thought you loved lowers his head and meets a feathery kiss against your lips. Once. Twice. Thrice. He leans upwards, and an indescribable emotion flutters in the whirling aquamarine of his eyes. "But it has to be done."

Oliver's broadened palm takes hold of your mouth harshly, sinking his slender digits into the flush of your cheeks. A sharp distinction to the flutter of his lips seconds prior. You howl your protests into his fingers, writhing in his overpowering arms as he works to lock the weight onto the rope decorating your ankle. Your howls turn into sobs that wrack your chest with each breath, the colour promptly draining from your face. Oliver stands right at the edge of the rocks lining the river, decorating the roaring waters below.

Molten tears ride down your cheeks. Your voice rasps. "Ollie?"

"Yes, princess?" He still garners the ability to serenade you with the sweet tinges of his words, as if you weren't on the way to your inevitable death.

"Venetia was right about you. You're fucking sick in the head."

There isn’t a trace of aggravation that crosses Oliver’s face. His unruly eyebrows raise for a moment, overcome by amusement as he scrutinizes you darkly.

"Now, now. Let's not forget who was by my side the entire time."

He's right. You know he's right. You glare up at him with a twisted combination of loathing and horror at the enlightenment. You took down every one of the Cattons by his side. He took you under his wing and assisted you in getting your way against the people you've despised for the majority of your life. This was your way of repaying him.

"I'll see you in hell, bastard."

These are the very last words you manage to seethe before your bound silhouette is freed from Oliver's bone-chilling palms. Before your entire physique sinks into the freezing waters, swallowing your entire body whole as the weight anchoring your leg propels you further downwards.

Your last breaths escape you in a gust of bubbles, rising desperately to the top as you reach the bottom of the makeshift hell you were tossed into.

The last thing you see is a rock with your name on it.

—Pues mírame a los ojos, dime si ves el vacío que deja amor perdido— "LOOK ME IN THE EYES, TELL ME IF YOU SEE THE VOID THAT LOST LOVE LEFT BEHIND"

WORD COUNT: 4K MASTERLIST

[lilys0evil0twin]

Yandere Shiva nsfw headcanons please.

Purple Sukuna crossed with Avdol's stand? Here ya go luv, feast upon this you sister wife<3

Shiva isn't much of a yandere, well he has his circle of loved ones, fucked ones and then the innermost circle of his own loving harem

Bro already has three wives so when Shiva came home and shared his newfound love interest, no one protested

Now after all the formalities were done and you became his official partner, that's when the true fun started

(yes he waited till you're his wife/husband, even tho he jumped over the whole dating part, u were a married soul within 2 days after meeting him)

Now um, Shiva has four arms and he'll use all and I mean all their potential

He'll knead your soft spots, rub your waist, affectionately stroke your leg and hold you by the back of your neck while kissing you

Let me tell you this man is a total romantic, all that crazy fight starved god of destruction thing? ya gone and turned into goofy cute lover

Shiva's yandere type isn't your average controlling, jealous owner, no Shiva is manipulative, talkative

You don't wanna fuck for the Nth time this morning? Oh love you just think you don't, let him sugarcoat it for you, this was after all just your idea

As previously stated, this boy is inexhaustible you or any of your co-wives has ever seen him panting after sex so you put a plan together

Boy oh boy that was the best present Shiva ever got

If it comes to releasing, he doesn't care if it's inside or outside, he mainly goes with the flow and what feel right at the given moment

But if he had to chose he'd say your lower back, he loves seeing your exhausted form lying on the silky mattress, hair wet from sweat sticking to your neck with his cum slowly running down your spine

God he loves it, and if you don't.... He'll talk you out of any of your opinions

Bonus<3

Not only he but his wives love you a lil too much

Parvati loves everything about you, from your hair to your taste, oh and don't even get me started on how she loves when you go down on her, she'll shiver at the thought/memory for the rest of the week

Kali loves how soft you are, she'd sleep on your chest and thighs for all eternity if she could, and yes she's in love with your tits, ass and thighs, let her massage you and she may or may not come after hearing your tired groans

Durga on the other hand loves to see you on your knees or being submissive in general, and to see you being manhandled by y'all's husband? Hm mh mh finger-licking-good

PS, she loves to leave lipstick stains on you so let her have her fun

[bibibbon]

MHA chapter 419 rant

What the actual hell is this chapter ?!?!?!? What is going on horikoshi?!?!??

So suprise AFO IS BACK👎👎👎 seriously what the hell I knew he was gonna come back but he is so boring and I hate him as a villain like wdym you only pulling up with a plan that failed multiple times cos you have thing for your brother like!?!? The doctor and the hero comission could of been better villains. My point still stands AFO being the main bad guy even though this mf was killed and injured by everyone is lame and stupid 😭. Like can AFO just disappear out of existence already like?!?! Also I really doubt that dfo is true considering this guy just loves to act like a season 1 bakugo and call Izuku useless every breathing moment he gets. Also at this point afo out here using shigaraki like a wet human suit thing and that's it

Shigaraki is dead?!?!!!? Vile. Y'all telling me that shigaraki is basically dead this guy basically killed himself after a little fight (it wasn't little that's a hyperbole it was huge he deserves better than this disservice) sigh so shigaraki died with all his memories and the truth of his own origin which is completely sad and wow the amount of retconning for this is insane. Wdym to tell me that AFO needed someone emotionally weak to take advantage of so he chose kotaro, befriended the guy and manipulated him into having Tenko and then used Tenko as his little thing to make the perfect vessel!?!???!? DAM SHIGARAKI IAM SORRRY HORI DID YOU LIKE THIS

Izuku lost two arms and is getting the worst end of the stick as always. As an izuku Stan this isn't it for me like what are you telling me that HE LOST TWO ARMS AND THEN PEOPLE DO COME BUT I AINT SEEING NONE TRYNA HELP THIS GUY. ALSO IZUKU IS NOW ARMLESS AND QUIRKLESS WHATS GOOD ON HERE??!?????!?!? Also looks like izuku out here being the only one who doesn't actually get a full heart to heart with their villain at least ochako and toga were treated better and got that little sob scene where they called eachothers names out and what not but izuku and shigaraki gotta be sentenced to pure suffering for no reason 🤦‍♀️. Also the whole page is Hella and I mean Hella creepy and off like wth is this it's too gory (I know that's not valid criticism but this is my opinion) Izuku out here being the only one who can't be a proper hero like the guy couldn't even stand up to AFO unlike bk this is just mountains and mountains of disrespect and disservice . SOMEONE CHECK UP ON POOR INKO AND IZUKU

The quirks the backstory the things?!?!. So basically overhaul had the oh quirk or whoever the guy in the picture manga panel thingy which looks like OVERHAUL. This guy had an op quirk like he had the power of destruction and reconstruction but then afo takes that away and then has the doctor somehow somehow genetically modify it ( istg i still dont know how that works or how he could do that) and then TOOK SHIGARAKIS OG QUIRK WHICH (what was his og quirk we arent ever told) and then proceedes to set this child who wanted to be a hero for pure failure. Also what is going on with AFO and kotaros relationship and why does the description of kotaro being mentally/emotionally weak heavily remind me of inko midoriya. Also the RETCON LIKE OH AFO IS LIKE HAVE A KID FOR ME OR SOME BS AND HE HAS A KID AND THEN KOTARO APPARENTLY FULLY LOVES HIS FAMILY HOWEVER IT LOOKS LIKE KOTARO LOVES AFO More THAN HIS FAMILY

Eraserhead making a comeback and finally apologising (or not). I mean at least Eraserhead is back and apologising to his student for failing to be a teacher to him which ok cool cliffhanger I guess. Also where is mic I don't think I can take it if mic is secretly off screened especially cos Eraserhead is crying why is the guy crying like is he crying for izuku which dam as he should your student is dying but he was legit shouting left and right for bakugo 🤷‍♀️. Also Eraserhead has a lot of apologies for izuku considering how he treated the poor dude. ALSO DOES THIS MEAN OBORO IS BACK TO THE PLOT SOMEHOW ( I love oboro) but how does this work how did it happen how did he break free Iam so confused did much due for oboro or something.

Sato, ojirou and sero out here coming in clutch. but none y'all running to see if izuku ain't gonna die from blood loss or something. Cool entry I guess everyone can take a good fight with AFO but Izuku because hori doesn't like izuku and izuku just sucks!!!. I get it 1A is too big so hori out here needing to give everyone their little moments but like?!?! This just makes afo seem so weak it first went from only all might being the one to even fouch and defeat afo and now its everyone thats not the ofa users which great (sarcasm if you couldn't tell). ALSO THIS MOMENT DONT WORK BECAUSE IZUKU LACKS DEVELOPMENT AND SO DOES 1A and their whole dynamic?!?!?!!!!!???!

I Have ALREADY SEEN THE SHIGARAKI MIGHT COMEBEACK COS AFO CAN HEAR HIS ECHO BUT I DONT WANT HIM BACK AND IF HE DOES HE SHOULD DIE WITH IZUKU COS I GENUINELY GIVE UP

In conclusion, I hope both izuku and shigaraki die and izuku to be remembered as the greatest hero and that's it honestly!!

[marigoldenblooms]

Unica Semper Avis - Chapter 2

Pairing: Cleric!Wanda x Fem!AvianShifter!Reader x MonsterHunter!Natasha

Prompt: Ever since you’ve come of age, you’ve never been able to stop yourself from transforming into a monster. Whenever the sky would dim with a New Moon, you’d ravage the world with a fury unknown by many. Such is the bane existence of your species. This time, however - something was different. Now, you need help. On the feeble doorstep of the so-called ‘Spirit Healer,’ you found yourself both at the mercy of a cleric, and of a monster hunter’s blade. Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

MINORS DNI - 18+

TW/General Tags: No mention of Y/N, slow burn, stranger to lovers (Wanda), enemies to lovers (Natasha), eventual smut (lord have mercy), Swearing, Fantasy violence, occasional descriptions of light body horror during transformation, slight self harm, slight restraint, angst, fluff, will add tags as they appear!

Chapter Warnings: Non-consensual touching (arms/shoulders), slight transformation description, threatening, mentions of pain (burning), intimidation tactics, arguments, manipulation, angst, canon-level violence, mentions of scarring/burnt skin, restraint, we're finally leaving Belmoor y'all

A/N: Holy crap y'all, thanks for the incredible responses on everything once again! We finally get some trio dialogue going in this chapter ^^ Natasha’s interrogation is based within Latin, while R’s occasional text is built primarily within greek. Russian is also here, as expected. I had nothing for Smut Saturday, so I hope lore will suffice ^^' We will see if the writing block ceases, lol

Equally, we’ve got a Unica tag list coming along! Let me know if you’d like to be added to it! 

Word count: 3.9k - Read Length: 14 minutes, 29 seconds. ~~~

You’d never dreamt awake before. 

You could feel your mind faintly, cognition ghostly as you’d blink within your own head. Your transformation’s destruction was never something you were aware of until you rose out of it, covered in viscera from your form’s hunt. Was it really your body, after that? As you’d drift hazily in a river of your own thoughts, you couldn’t separate feathers from skin. You and your monster were one in the same.

You’d try to shut your eyes again, fall back into the painless slumber your molt offered. A part of you knew the horror you’d awake to- perhaps your succession had slaughtered them all, friend and foe alike. You would grieve her as you had the others, the fiery healer with her crimson magic. The knight would become a cliff note to your psyche, a tack onto an endless tally-board. You were used to being hunted. 

It’d be minutes before you realized you weren’t alone. 

Gaze snapping upwards, you’d bare your teeth towards the intruder which marred your thoughts, only to find a translucent figure. You could feel her chill from here, Her feathered speckling like a shawl over her shoulders, the wings behind her blanketing into a beautiful frame. She reached a hand towards you, although her smile was too thin to be kind. She didn’t look much different than she’d appeared days prior within your dreams yet again. The Aegyptius creation deity. Why was she here?

You didn’t shy from her gaze, looking at her with both respect and provocation. She was in your mind, fragmented as it was while your body rampaged elsewhere. If there was anywhere you were dominion of, it was this. “I know who you are now, Matron,” you’d assure, your voice echoing in the dim expanse, rippling along the water of your thoughts. She seemed to catch your words, and her grin grew wider, eyes narrowing. She’d tut, and in a second you could feel her cold, mist-like hands on your shoulders, “I expect something more reverent from my martyr..but you will learn.” 

“Martyr?” Your expression grew sour as she wouldn’t elaborate, toying with your frustration as she’d run her palms down your arms. An uncomfortable shiver would brace through your body, and you could feel your form stretch beneath as if her touch spurred your transformation all over again. She was cruel, a pained sigh leaving you as your teeth would clench. 

Her grasp on you would tighten, feeling the brittleness of pin feathers beneath flesh, “Your mind may not remember, fledgeling…but all my creations know my whims. And yet you wish to rid yourself of me?” Her laugh would be musical, but the bite in her tone was awash with rage, thinly veiled as the Matron stalked circles around you. 

The frustration that had flowed through you prior to your molt was flimsy now, embers against a cold snap. You felt your gut sink, fear bubbling thickly in your throat. You’d stopped looking at her by now, your gaze piercing down into nothingness. All you could manage was a pitiful nod, and you couldn’t tell if her snicker was anger from your lackluster response or joy from how compliant she’d rendered you. They were one in the same with your kind, you supposed. 

“You cannot..although I’m certain you’ve already understood that.” She’d pause in front of your face, ghostly touch icy as she’d claw your chin to meet your gaze with hers. Her phrase would come quickly, as if she was excited to utter it, “And for penance…you must kill that witch.”

“What?” They weren’t dead already? Your molt would’ve torn her to shreds by now. What was happening in the waking world? Even within a dream, the thought of murdering another with your conscious mind churned your stomach, especially one that brought you food. Mercy. “Command my body to do it, then-”  

“No. You must do this as human,” Her smile was dagger-thin now, and you swear sparks flashed from her maw when she spoke. “Not as bird. Your hunger will be your guide.” Her hands would cradle your face now, the chill of her spectral palms almost forgotten as your mind would rush and lurch. You could feel the knaw of famine in your gut, a terrible feeling, all too real. 

“I reject this- she has been kind, I-” The Matron would’ve disappeared immediately, the thawing of your flesh the only reminder.  Your plea would be met with silence, hyperventilation coaxing your heart into overdrive. Thudding in your skull, you could almost feel the weight of bone in your jaws, your throat suddenly parched. You’d rasp, drawing your hands close to cradle yourself as the world grew fuzzy and vague, “I don’t want to be a monster..”

“Oh, my martyr..” She’d murmur, her voice suddenly swirling along the shell of your ear, freezing your hunch in place. 

“That’s what I made you for.”

Your mind would swim, lucidity and unconsciousness blending into tar which filled your brain. You’d blink, heavier than before..and just before you’d wake, you’d feel her touch on your shoulder again. 

“Survivε, mυ μάρτυρας..” 

------------------------------------------

You’d regain your mind halfway through it all. Your body ached and tore within you, the subtle itch of plumage molting from your skin a feeling you couldn’t soothe. You were in the barn. 

Your arms were held back as you’d kneel on the floor, a searing heat plaguing your wrists as you’d fight against its hold- your chains. They’d manage to cage you. If you hadn’t been in so much pain, you would’ve wheezed relief at that. Your tongue was dry, the taste of blood and bone absent on your lips. You hadn’t eaten anyone during your transformation, and yet your body twinged with agony all the more for it. You had no fuel to offer you shifting body, and so it ate you from the inside to power your return to being humanoid. Panting a low whine, spasms would twitch your form as your bones would grow heavier within your flesh, solid all the way through. Even through your strain, a quiet shuffle would draw your eyes immediately- your heightened instincts were always the last things to go. In the recluses of the barn stood your prior attacker, although her attention was focused elsewhere, ghosting over something in the palm of her gloved hand. Thank fuck.

It was only now you could get a good look at her. Her hair was auburn, braided sharply in cascading strands which met the nape of her neck. It had been chilled near its ends, pale and almost wispy, as though something had leached the color from it. Sorcery? Stress? You couldn’t tell at first glance, but the perpetual scoff that seemed to mold into her face signaled the latter. 

Blueish gray irises stared into what she held, and it was only when you growled a restrained snarl at the sight did her eyes lock to yours. She was holding one of your shorn feathers, the visage making your hackles raise. You wouldn’t shy from her gaze as you had with Wanda, even raising your chin higher so you looked down at her with pinprick pupils- you were an adversary. A challenger. You didn’t fear her. Your head throbbed, the heavy burn of your engraved chains a constant reminder. 

She’d approach you with malice- unsurprising given your circumstances, but the prick of a metal blade against your neck was a little more shocking. This early? Damn. You’d grit your teeth but remain steadfast, even as she’d glower over you. 

“Ossifraga, dic omnia quae scis.” She’d spit, her words foreign yet familiar in your ears. ‘omia’ was a word you gleamed in an instant - ‘everything’, yet the rest was butchered in her mouth. You’d bare your teeth at her, grin sickeningly raw even as she’d press her knife’s edge to your nape. “Dic mihi omnia Fraga, ne te interficiam sicut columbam-“ 

Her anger would shatter at the creaking barn door, flinching just as you did. At least one similarity between the two of you. A familiar soothing tone would echo to you, honeyed and thick, albeit strangled from…anger. Anger? 

“I leave you for one second, you глупый козел-“ Wanda muttered harshly, her stomping footfalls sharply rattling in your skull. She’d pluck the knight’s hand away from you, grip harsh as she’d try to wrestle away their weapon- futile, as their shock to Wanda’s insult only lasted so long. From your attacker’s reaction, it seemed they shared a language. Interesting. “And here you are, nicking my patient-“ 

You’d struggle at Wanda’s words, trying to show her your discomfort. Your wrists continued to burn, and you swear their imprint would be branded on your skin if they weren’t taken off soon. And yet, it may be safer if you remain chained. The Matron’s words still throbbed in your ears, a blinding sight locking your gaze onto Wanda before you bit it back down. You’d breathe, ragged, before gasping a sound which seemed to catch her attention. Her nimble fingers would move to start unshackling you, before being caught by Natasha’s rough grip, pulling her immediately back, “What are you doing-!? It’ll kill you-“

“I won’t harm…her..-“ You’d hiss, finding your bearings as your larynx would thrum with your voice again. You’d glare at the hunter, voice steadfast even through your pain, “You’re- a different story, knight..let me go, and maybe I’ll consider.”

You saw her jaw flex at your tone, malice seeping from every beat of her heart. She’d release Wanda with a tight-lipped grumble, your wrists losing their binds seconds later. You’d rub at the tender flesh for a split second, gasping and hiding away as it’d still bubble with scorching heat. You were too late, and soon your wrists would scar over. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt as bad next time, perhaps.

You’d sit up, movements sluggish as you’d sync again with a heavier frame. Your glance would be wary, looking to Wanda as if the knight wasn’t there. You saw annoyance flash across the hunter’s expression, and satisfaction bloomed in yours. Let her be upset. “What happened..? You shackled me, I am thankful for it.”

“And yet your wrists don’t look happy..” Wanda would respond with muffled concern, although you’d retreat from her scarlet magic’s attempt to heal- scars proved you had lived, this one above all. This one showed you could trust the healer to protect you when you couldn’t protect her. The slow rumble of starvation proved you wouldn’t be able to protect her for a long time. She’d sigh, but wouldn’t press further. “You’ve been in the barn for three days, we put you here on the evening of the first-“ 

Your expression faltering would quiet her words, a shaky inhale slicing into the room’s air. Three days. “I’ve never been..” you’d grip your hair as you spoke, bending to pull more of you closer. You’d stare at your shorn feathers, brilliant white where they lay unheated, almost ghostly in the thin light of Wanda’s shed. 

“I’ve never been transformed for that long.”

“And why should we believe you? You could feather again as we speak- kill us all.” The knight would glare at you, though there was a chance she never stopped, boring a hole into your skull which you gladly challenged. You’d bark a laugh, the sound uncomfortable in your raw chest and yet you reveled in how she flinched away. The air grew thick and still, “If you hunt my kind with that attitude, you obviously know nothing of the Aegyptius.”

“Then enlighten me, Fraga-”” She said that like an insult to you, and yet it didn’t register. 

  “And why the hell should I-?”

 “Because we have a common goal, you dolts-“ 

At Wanda’s interjection, your voice would sliver and slip away, her face red and scrunched with frustration. It was almost adorable how her nostrils flared with her words, yet the rage in her eyes was something that stirred sorrow inside you. Something clicked in the back of your mind, memories from your brood when you were young, and yet nothing registered in the fog of retorting anger. There was curiosity on the hunter’s face, shoulders squared back at Wanda’s tone, and yet your mind still held what the knight had said before.

“What did you call me?” Your words stumbled as you’d shift to stand, legs frail under the weight of yourself. You wouldn’t see the knight’s bewildered expression until much later, too busy keeping your feet underneath you, “Fraga…do you not even know what you are?” “Enlighten me,” you’d taunt, clipped thin between your barred teeth. Wanda would scoff, shaking her head in your peripheral.

“You are Ossifraga. Bone-breaker, the unclean bird..” Your eyes would narrow, but not in the way the hunter wanted, it seems. These names meant nothing to you. “A mistake upon your feathered kind. A blight-'' Her words would build in strength, low as she’d stalk dangerous steps towards you. You looked towards Wanda, her hands slowly raising as scarlet magic grew to weave around her fingers.

“Others of your kind can be minstrels, songbirds or doves- even raptors can experience valor as warriors…but you, Fraga, are the mutated husk of your false god.” She spit her tone with vitriol, acidic. The receding down on the back of your neck rose as your blood ran cold- Your heartbeat thudded in your ears, a lump swelling in your throat, but it wasn’t all fear. There was something else, a chill unfamiliar to your waking form, coaxing your mouth open. You resisted, even your back reached the worn wood of the barn’s walls and the knight’s voice swarmed back into focus. 

 “A dangerous monster, consuming the bones of innocents and leaving plague in your wake,” A gleaming metal shone near her wrist, and your stomach dropped all too late. The knife was probably sacred, intricately carved with markings you could hardly make out in the blur of motion, her gloved hand grasping your shoulder while the other swung to pierce your stomach. 

“You’re the infection I must quell-” 

Your maw opened before you could think.  

“Αμολάω-!” You’d shriek, your voice hissing with the inflection of many. You heard the clatter of metal on the ground as your tone echoed forth. The knight would barrel backwards, clutching her head as Wanda flinched behind her, the shockwave of your words hitting her fainter the further it went from your mouth. 

You kicked away the knight’s dropped blade, another command echoing from you, your tone no longer your own, cold and bitter on your tongue, “Γονατίστε, παράσιτα- Θα σε καταβροχθίσω χωρίς δεύτερη σκέψη..”

The hunter sunk to her knees before your sentence had finished. You’d gasp a second later,  your lungs filled with air as though they’d never have before. Blinking, you’d feel a tenseness in your body, arms trailing with thin plumage which quickly sunk beneath your skin. You’d watch it leave with a cold numbing shock, jaw slung open with a heavy breath. Your thoughts translated your foreign words after a few moments, ‘Let go. Kneel, vermin. I will devour you without a second thought.’

Your feathers had never grown beyond your molt, confined to the hellish day a month where you were no longer yourself. Your hands tremored, ghosting over the goosebumps that had been left behind. It’s like the feathers had never been there- and yet you could feel your body creak and crunch, as though impatient.  

The hunter stood a few seconds later, gait slow as she’d physically wrench herself from your command’s thrall. She’d brush at her scuffed armor, plagued with the barn’s dirt which clung to the metal, “I know what you’re saying. Your pronunciation is weaker, and yet it is still-” 

“The language of my kind,” You’d mutter without sympathy, scoffing as the knight seemed to take offense to your interruption. “You’ve stripped it of its history..it's what you spoke before.” You’d never learned your own tongue, and yet half your thoughts spoke in it now. A shiver rolled down your spine, a cascading chill that felt like an awaiting grasp. 

“Ah, so it can listen..” She’d sneer, glance harsh as she’d eye her forlorn blade again. Wanda’s interjection would be seen before it was heard, scarlet magic weaving around the hilt before daintily grasping it, pawing it over to her awaiting palm. “And so must you, Romanova..” The way she curved the words had a sense of familiarity, drawing a frustrated huff from the other woman. You’d narrow your eyes, but it wasn’t your turn to speak anymore, “You both listen, or you leave my barn with nothing but a death wish. Am I clear?”

You’d nod slowly, and by Wanda’s sigh, you assumed the knight did the same. “Alright. Let’s go somewhere cozier, shall we?”

------------------------------------------

Wanda’s home would’ve been just as comfortable as it had been the prior evening, albeit more cramped. Between three people in the living room, a thin glow of red magic seeping through the slats of wood that boarded the kitchen up, and the deadly eye contact you and the knight shot at each other every second, the air was never thicker.

“And you tore through the kitchen wall,” Wanda’s words were analytical, the gnawing feeling of guilt settling heavy in your gut. You kept your distance from her, a pang of hunger grinding into your thoughts the second you grew closer to the witch. You chewed at the inside of your lip as her palm waved towards the construction her sorcery partook in. Her shrug was too easy, “Not afraid of remodeling, after Romanova mistook my window for a door-” 

She’d almost bite towards the hunter, a simmering scoff laced between her accented tone. “Is that your name? ‘Romanova’?” The knight would leer at your question, slinging her arm against the heavy metal of her armor. From Wanda’s scoff, it seems she’d gotten the same reaction while you were out. “You butcher my family title, Fraga-” 

“Give me your name and I won’t have to.” You’d raise a brow as her eyes locked to yours, your breath thin and still. You felt the cold in your throat again, creeping like a retch up your windpipe- yet you swallowed it with huskier words, “Since we’re all in the sharing mood. Aren’t we?”

Her sigh was almost palpable, hissing in a low breath, “I am Natasha Alianovna Romanova. Templar of Latrodectus, it’s esteemed widow.” That title meant nothing to you, although your unfitting reaction seemed to knock her down a few pegs. Her reply was less angry than curious, “Did you ever earn a name, Fraga?”

“Earn?” Your snort brought an angry heat to Natasha’s face, perplexed laughter ricocheting through your solid skeleton, “You really do know nothing of my kind. We do not remember names. Unimportant.”

You wouldn’t see Wanda’s furrowed look until she exhaled sharply, looking away from you with crossed arms. Your mind sunk and crackled whenever you looked in her direction, suddenly parched. The flutter in your stomach remained, bringing an uncomfortable nausea rather than burst of curiosity. You kept your eyes on Natasha, expression hollowed, “Why do either of you stay? This..is your house, Wanda, I know-” 

“Because we want to help you-” “She does- mhph-” Wanda’s hand would outstretch towards Natasha, blocking her mouth with a wispy scarlet sheen. You looked at Wanda’s shadow, feeling her sigh as your gaze never met hers. Her voice was calmer yet thin, strained between forces, “Do you want to rid yourself of your feathers?”

“Yes,” Your quick response earned an unseen smile from the witch, although your skin grew clammy at the thought. Natasha shuffled, and when you met her eyes you saw hers were raised, almost in shock, her mouth still clasped closed. “Then we have a common interest. This one can find a method beyond violence- and if your transformation is progressing faster, then it is my role to bring you back to normalcy.” 

You’d meet her glance now, her smile radiating a warmth into you that culled away some of the chill, satiated you. Your palms felt your own, awkwardly poised as you offered your hold to the witch, her touch filling you with an unfamiliar satisfaction. You shook her hand against yours, ignoring Natasha’s silent indignation burning into your skull. Perhaps you could control yourself- you could protect each other, “Thank you, Wanda.” 

“Ah, none of that- you are a medicinal marvel..” She’d tease, your thanks rolling right off of her. You met her grin with your own, her words shushing as she’d lean to you, “Think of what it will do for my prices, to heal an Ossifraga-” 

Your laugh was a startling welcome, filling you with mirth as it was returned. “I will pay you then. How many feathers-?” Her hand patted yours before receding, wiping her palm along her clothed side. “...I’ll keep a running tab for you, Птичка.”

------------------------------------------

The sun had risen into midday, and you basked in its sunlight. Your shoulders felt tense as you hauled supplies towards the wagon Wanda and Natasha had acquired an hour ago from Belmoor proper. You’d hung back, admiring the hazy scarlet tendrils which packed Wanda’s belongings. The two had found you handing random objects to the sorcerous helpers when they returned, although Natasha was pulled away by the witch before she could crow about the non-essentiality of bringing Wanda’s butter churn. 

The mule that was attached to the wagon- Daisy, Doris, something like that- had been chewing on the turf as you’d settled another crate of rations along the wagon’s bed, pushing it into place with a heavy shove. It was a ten days road travel to Arkridge, the capital of this province, as you’d been told. Its libraries held what could be the first of many secrets. The forest never spoke of it, yet its grandeur was palpable even through Natasha’s gruff words. She hadn’t tried to stab you again, although her glare was seething whenever you met it. 

You passed each other by as you’d return towards the house, huffing an unimpressed groan as her haul was much smaller than yours. She’d abandoned her armor for now, and you watched as the musculature of her back shifted as she’d set her barrel down. You could take her if you had to, even without your strength- though the scabbard along her back gave you pause, the longsword’s hilt gleaming in the light. It had been engraved, similar to the leather sheath that bound it, and you’d guess it was the same inscription. Runic and familiar, it brought your thought to your chains, their markings similar yet worn. Perhaps you’d find a way to ask about it, if you could have a conversation without insulting each other.

Your side met Wanda’s as you leaned in her vicinity, your gaze locked onto the knight a dozen meters away. The witch’s voice was smoothed and sweet, honey-like as she’d offer her palm to yours again, inspecting the scarring along your skin as you’d accept. “Your name isn’t Margo, is it?” 

You shook your head, still in her embrace, “No. I just needed something to give to you. Satisfy..”

Your words petered out into silence, her squeeze of your hand gentle, shying away from the raw flesh of your wrists. “You don’t have to do that, Ласточка. I have countless things to call you that you won’t forget.” Her wink made your face flush, shying away from her gaze as her tone wrapped around your thoughts. Her giggle wasn’t lost on you, a fondness in her expression you couldn’t decipher. “Will you tell me what that means?”

She’d shake her head, just before you heard Natasha’s heavy footfalls towards you. The forested grove retreated behind as you three would set forth a few minutes later, silence thick. Bellmoor would be forgotten, in favor of new memories. Perhaps your first night at camp would be more riveting. 

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Tag List: @mousetheorist

[magnus-archives-brainrot]

TMAGP 21 Theories

Alrighty! Since TMAGP21 is public! Here are my theories that I've been stewing on (while sick with COVID) since Tuesday!

First, The Facts:

Jon, in MAG 191, says the creatures in the tunnels with Melanie, Georgie, and The Cult are Archivists who are guarding the way to the Panopticon

We know that Annabel Cane and The Web manipulated Jon since the start and that the tapes are theirs, not The Eye's

Additionally, Annabel explains her knowledge that, if one fear was to leave through the rift in Hilltop Road, then they all would leave, following Jon's voice in the tapes (and whoever else recorded statements, which we know includes Martin and Elias)

Something's weird about Celia

Celia seems to know more than she's letting on and seemed startled at Freddie's voices

Something's up with people and fears/needs (and there are Avatars/Beings of some sort)

Gwen was Compelled

There is a gas main under the Institute and it was used to destroy it in MAG

Sam and Alice explored the Institute in Manchester, resulting in Sam breaking a trapdoor

ERROR was then heard climbing out of said trapdoor in the Institute

The Conclusions from Before TMAGP21

Celia is from a different universe

Jon, Martin, and Jonah(?)'s voices are in the computers of the OIAR

Colin, and now maybe Alice?, think that something's wrong and/or watching

Gwen seems to be somewhat Eye-aligned

What we know from TMAGP21

Gwen was COMPELLED

ERROR is an Archivist

ERROR said that there were "more [fears? Victims? Peoples?] elsewhere"

ERROR 'claimed' Gwen

Gwen experienced something related to The Corruption as a child

There is a gas main under the London construction site for the Institute

My Conclusions/theories

The Case gave major Panopticon construction vibes, especially with the known gas main under the London site, just like the gas main in the Institute. The Manchester site is this universe's first Institute, with the London institute being its second (assuming construction was finished)

ERROR is an Archivist that was 'awoken' by Sam and Alice poking around the Ruins and is just like the ones that were in the Tunnels during the Eyepocalypse.

The Tunnels are a new rift (like Hilltop Road) that were created by the destruction of the Panopticon. Celia was accidentally pulled into TMAGP's universe as the rift was created. Additionally, ERROR said there were "more elsewhere", possibly insinuating that they're not of TMAGP's world either

Jon and Martin's voices are the reason the Fears are here, though I'm not sure if their conciseness' are in the computer too. Given no bodies were found, there's a possibility that they were pulled in by the tapes too, especially given Jon WAS The Archivist and DIRECTLY tied to the Eye in the end. This is supported by the fact that Freddie seems to be 'thinking' and 'feeding' certain cases to Sam and Celia, so maybe Jon, Martin, and Jonah's conciseness' were also pulled (maybe their bodies were destroyed? Maybe they'll bodysnatch from doppelgangers?)

The Fears are not fully fledged, though they're being embraced and even changed by those who connect with them, such as Ink5oul. They were pulled by the Institute team's voices (Jon, Elias, Martin, Tim, Sasha, pretty much anyone who has their voice on the tapes), just as The Web intended and are now lurking. We're just seeing the result of MAG200 and Jon's fears

Does this make sense? Probably not. I'm probably grasping at shadows, but it's something I've been stewing on for the week so y'all get to see it too

[overandunderland]

"Look at the color of his skin Clawfang, dark and rich! You know what they say about the taste of those from above?"

Owen's mind reeled, not just at the danger he faced but also at the Rat's casual bigotry. It was absurd and terrifying all at once, a nightmare conversation he never could have imagined.

"True, Snarltooth. A rare delicacy this one." Clawfang agreed–his yellow teeth bared in a grotesque grin.

"–We should eat quickly though, can't risk more of his kind coming after us."

Greetings Overlanders!

What's up y'all, W.P.P here, (He/Him) and I'm currently looking for Beta Readers/Editors/Fans of The Underland Chronicles by Suzanne Collins. To read/engage with and possibly even shoot some feedback on My Fan Novel/Fic.

It's a canon compliant Sequel-Boot of sorts and follows after Code Of Claw.

Ok, pretty cover but what is it about?

Three years (gotta get our boys in that Classic High school setting huh?) After The War of Bane. Fragile peace exists in the Underland. But as is The Underland, one knows peace never lasts. Especially built on deception. When a conspiracy is exposed and the ghosts of beliefs thought lost to Time pervert the ideas of coexistince. Prophecy calls yet again for its Salvation. When you ignore and attempt to reject fate, it tends to mess back. Now, calling for The Seeker. A being who's destiny is forever tied to Bartholomew's hand of war and tribulation, to return The Warrior to The Underland, to save the realm together. However, there maybe key players, manipulating destiny from the shadows. One that will change Gregor's entire view of Prophecy, Regalia and Owen's life forever.

Woah, OC Alert 🚨 Who's Owen?

Here comes the ✨Boy✨ 🎹

Meet you: Owen. "The Seeker"

15 year old Bronx native. A boxer, thanks to his dad. And quite the cook, thanks to his mother. It was their deaths, and the way the police handled them, that killed any respect for authority the boy had left. Owen is a resilient and resourceful teenager thrust into the extraordinary world of the Underland, where he faces trials that challenge his courage and determination. Despite his initial reluctance, Owen demonstrates a strong sense of compassion for others and a willingness to confront his fears head-on, although it takes him A MINUTE to get there. He possesses a sharp wit and a penchant for sarcasm, which often serves as a coping mechanism in the face of adversity. He's also 🏳️‍🌈 Queer 🏳️‍🌈.

let's talk Virtues and Vices?

Determination: Owen demonstrates a strong sense of determination, as evidenced by his resolve to survive and navigate the challenges presented to him in the Underland.

Courage: Despite facing daunting and unfamiliar situations, Owen exhibits courage by confronting his fears and taking action to protect himself and others. Albeit not without some coercing.

Compassion: Owen shows compassion towards others, such as when he expresses concern for the citizens of Regalia and reflects on the consequences of his actions on innocent lives.

Adaptability: Owen demonstrates adaptability by adjusting to his surroundings and learning to navigate the unfamiliar environment of the Underland.

And his vices?

Impulsiveness: Owen's impulsiveness is hinted at through his sarcastic remarks and tendency to act without fully considering the consequences of his actions. This impulsiveness could potentially lead him into trouble or exacerbate conflicts. It is this that sets off the entire Prophecy to begin with.

Self-Doubt: At times, Owen exhibits self-doubt, particularly when he questions his ability to fulfill the expectations placed upon him or doubts his capacity to make a difference in the face of overwhelming challenges.

Guilt: Owen struggles with feelings of guilt, especially regarding the unintended consequences of his actions, such as the destruction of the Prophecy of Time in the Underland. The source of his guilt extends from not being in the car when his parents died. Survivors guilt.

Owen definitely suffers from bouts of Imposter Syndrome and feelings of inadequacy, especially when comparing his experiences to Gregor's.

Oh God, it's not OC X Canon, is it?

Hey now! I'm not throwing any shade at OC X Canon shippers, I have a few ships in other fandoms that are essentially that. But no, Gregor & Luxa's Relationship while will be rocky in it's rekindling, are endgame. Also Gregor isn't remotely Owens type. No, Owen will have his own Underlander romantic interest. In fact, Meet you:

Aiden: Luxa's personal guard, Archer, confidant, and best friend.

16, (what the hell are they feeding them nowadays down there, he's a brick house.) Aiden is Queen Luxa's personal body guard and closest friend. During the years after The War of Bane. When he discovers his family had planned a coup d'etat against the royal family, including catching his father about to kill Luxa, he draws his bow, taking his life and testifying against his family's quest for power. He's jailed for a time before Lord Vikus takes him in admiring his loyalty to the current crown and grooms him to protect Luxa, and to be there for her for when he eventually passes. He's arrogant, showboaty at times, and abrasive, especially when it comes to The Overland Boys. More specifically "The Mouthy Imp" known to him as Owen. He and Luxa are fairly close, to where rumors amongst Regalian council, and teen girls, are suggesting they are to be wed. Yeah, good luck with that ladies. 💅🏽

Oh so he's like Henry?

Some pretty decent comparisons and contrasting elements can be made between the two of them.

Both of them are/Were close to Luxa

Both of them can be described as Arrogant.

Both of them technically betrayed their families and believed they did so for a good reason.

Where as Henry was desperate for power, Aidens only motivation is to maintain peace for the Royal family and the Kingdom Of Regalia.

Personally, I don't believe Henry came up with his idea of Allying with King Gorger on his own. Nor do I think he's the only one after him who thinks that way. Listening to the Return to Regalia Podcast has helped provide some really dope questions about the landscape, geopolitical or otherwise, that are like alluded to, but never really expanded upon. That I wanna use this book to answer. Oona and the Gang have been a godsend for fic writers who are fans of the series.

If *insert character* isn't in it, I'm not reading it. 🤬

Guys, Of course Ripred is gonna be in the bo- Look, it's Canon Compliant alright 😅. Ive been listening to the series on Audiobook on loop for the last few weeks as I've been writing. I want to make sure I'm not misunderstanding each characters voices, and how they think and speak. Remembering who was where when this or that happened. But Let's discuss some returning characters!

Boots: Now 6 years old, Boots has become quite the little person! Her affinity for taking animals hasnt gone anywhere, her most recent hyper fixation being a show about Australian talking dogs. A show Gregor has to admit, has it's moments.

Temp: The gangs back together! Thanks to his association with The Princess, Temp has become highly regarded amongst Crawlers. You and Boots will love the Set piece the Crawlers built in her honor.

Hazard: Now as old as Gregor was when he first arrived, The Halflander has been elevated to a role of diplomacy and interpretor liaison for dialogue between Underland Inhabitants. He carries a sword, for defensive combat. A sign of unavoidable circumstances, even with his fathers dying wish. A rebellious streak may in fact land him in potentially fatal trouble.

Howard:Luxa's Cousin and medical prodigy, makes him one of the most skilled Healers of all in Regalia. He's made it a personal mission to learn to Heal every species known to them in the Underland. As of late, he finds himself frequenting visits and courting with one of Regalias nanny's in the Nursery.

Dulcet: Dulcet is one of the nannies that works in Regalia's palace. She was the one that took care of Gregor's sister, Boots whenever they came to the Underland. She was one of Gregor's favorite Regalians. Sweet but embarrasses easily. Nowadays, especially around a certain Regalian healer. She isn't too sure, but he's been quite sweet to her as of late.

Mareth: Mareth has a good heart. He never stopped caring for those under his protection, and even for those that weren't. After his leg was removed, he still maintains his humor and kindness. He'll stick knock you out if you wild out too much. He and Perdita saw Aiden's training through in it's entirety. He's moved emotionally to see Gregor Return, however bittersweet it may be. Designated to be a bit more hands off, he still finds time to train the young soldiers of Regalia. His improved prosthetic affords much more mobility since his last interaction with Gregor.

Luxa: Hardened by her assassination attempt, the loss of her family and Gregor. Luxa is finally approaching the full cusps of uncontested power in Regalia. Her actions such as memorializing a controversial figure, as well as her Bond with Ripred has caused much dissenting opinions amongst factions of power in Regalia. There is a particular fear from her grandfather that she may be doomed to repeat history. Will Gregors return, spawn a change in Luxa? And is it safe to even find out?

The rest of Gregor's Family also make an appearance! Lizzie, Grace and Gregor's Dad. (Going with Dr.Elliot/Eli for short) all come back and influence the story in some Capacity.

Why is Gregor White/White Passing?

Gonna level with y'all, I didn't really know about Tumblr like that. I'm a mixed race poc myself, and definitely lack Eurocentric features. I just was honestly basing his look off of what I've seen in the covers and alt editions of the series. Hell, Homie is even BLONDE in the Russian edition. Me and my partner also are a little too far into the story to match him up with the Headcanon of Tumblr. That being said, I do love POC Gregor, and will be maintaining that his dad is a person of color as well. Just have Gregor as yt passing presenting. It could also provide a bit of conflict between He and Owen. As Gregor's first descent is a lot more welcoming, Than what Owen goes through his first time down, starting from his initial fall.

So do The Warrior & The Seeker immediately hit it off?

Yeaaaaahhhhhhh-no. Wouldn't be much of a story if the two became immediate besties. I couldn't imagine being too thrilled with the guy who's fault it is that you're even in this mess at all. Now who exactly I mean by that is what makes it fun. They need each other to make it through the quest. Over time however, they learn about each other, and how they can truly help one another. Eventually becoming close as their journey reaches its end and inklings of a new ones raises it's head. That being said, when he learns of Gregor and Luxa's relationship, or their past together. Is full team Gregor and Luxa. With Owens dating pool being non existent above and below (so he thinks) ground. He becomes invested in the possibility of Love blossoming at all, mostly to see Luxa pull the stick from out- know what, it's better to read it.

But the video though, what's that about?

For Nostalgia sake, as well as Accessibility reasons, I've been screening several actors and VA actors who would be down to do an audiobook! So it will be releasing as audiobook as well!

Hobbies aren't cheap but I love the series so much that I don't see why not 🤷🏽. I fell in love with the audiobooks so it'd be pretty cool to see it again.

In the same manner as Star Wars novels, where not every book is written by the same author-

I want readers to feel as if the baton was passed from Suzanne to yours truly 😅.

So Overlanders! Fans! If you're looking to beta read, I'm looking for Beta Readers ✨

Hope to hear from you all!

Fly you high! 🦇

Breezy Edit: Hey y'all, it's Breezy again, Just want to let y'all know, according to some of y'all what we're looking for are "alpha" readers. But beta readers still apply 🫰🏽💙

[poetry-protest-pornography]

I've seen a lot of people hating on Ray, and it's honestly baffling to me.

As someone who has loved, and been loved by addicts -- someone who was raised by an addict -- it's honestly infuriating and painful to see so many people write Ray off as just a selfish drunk.

At first, it was clear that most people have never met or loved an addict. But it's become more and more about just straight up dehumanizing addicts, as though Ray's alcoholism makes him a bad person who doesn't deserve to be happy.

And like, fuck. If people can't see a character as sympathetic as Ray as a whole person, Ray, whose motivations and hurt are so clear and easy to understand, then what about the people in your lives who are addicts or otherwise struggling with mental illness? What do you think about strangers you might encounter who have fucked up their lives or relationships because of addiction? What about the addicts who aren't so easy to understand and want better for? What hope and care is there for them in your eyes?

Do they not deserve to recover and make amends with those they've hurt and be met with understanding -- not even necessarily forgiveness! Just acknowledgement of their struggle and their attempt to get and be better!

What about the addicts that never really make it out of their addiction? Do they not deserve basic compassion? Yes, even the ones who are mean in their inebriation. Even the ones that can't see or can't care about what they're doing to the people around them.

Ray is easy to understand, and he's easy to love, and some of y'all are holding him to standards the rest of the characters don't have to meet, and it is 100% because he chooses alcohol to cope with and avoid his pain. And I just think you should take a few to really think about why that is.

(it's interesting that Ray's friends and his dad all do this to some degree, this dismissing his worth because of his addiction and reducing him to an inconvenience. That they all dismiss his feelings and his ability to feel, and even tease him about his need to be loved. They all refuse to see when he's trying to be better and making progress, because they've all decided that he can't change, that he can't get sober, and that means they don't have to stop encouraging and enabling his drinking; they don't have to care about him.

Mew gets a pass for his drinking and drug use and assholishness, because they can blame Ray for it.

Sand has been the only person to see Ray as a whole person, and to love him anyway.

It isn't easy, loving someone so deep in their addiction. But Sand knows who Ray is, he sees Ray, and has let himself love him anyway. And some of y'all have decided this means Sand is being stupid, or that Ray has manipulated him into it, and this means they're terrible and toxic for each other.

It's interesting that some people find so little likeable about Ray in particular when the whole lot of them are such a mess.

They're all selfish and destructive in their own ways, but Ray is the one who gets talked about like he doesn't deserve to be happy or redeemed. Because people can't understand why an addict behaves like an addict, and doesn't just choose to stop.)

Anyways, this got away from me.

The way this show is portraying young people living with addiction is so real and accurate, and it's difficult and painful to see Ray and his addiction be treated like he is by the people in his life, and in discussions about him.

I sincerely hope that the people stuck on characterizing Ray as less than never know the pain of addiction, but I really really hope that any addicts in their lives/ who may come into their lives get better from them than they're giving this character who is so clearly good, who is trying, who is so easy to understand; because those people deserve better.

[lylathewise]

So, I'm glad y'all are starting to see what happened to Sandra Lynn. Like, yes, she is messy, she's very realistic. She was at most 18, when she got out of high school and immediately into that group. She was a rebel early on, so what I think happened is that she saw Bobby Dawn, cleric of Sol, saw how others flocked to him (he had to be extremely charismatic for him to later become a successful televangelist), and when she interacted with him, he was probably very (falsely) kind, and she felt this warmth of the sun. He probably manipulated her into a "secret" relationship, very likely already abusive. And from there, it quickly devolved until she got kicked out with her name dragged through the mud. She was so young, and no matter how mature 18-20 year olds feel, it's incredibly easy to be manipulated if you're not careful, I have a lot of experience with this personally. So, her promising career is shattered and she has to find some way to carry on. Eventually, she finds Gilear. We know he wasn't as miserable back then, and she overcorrected with him, she wanted someone who couldn't hurt her, who she could feel safe with and she married him. Then, she meets Gorthalax, this wild demon of gluttony. My take is, she's been married a few years, might be feeling bored and stifled. So, she overcorrects again, and from that, comes Fig. Years later, Fig's horns and the truth comes out. Then, Sandra Lynn meets Jawbone. Someone who has lived an incredible, wild life, but is ready to be a safe space. But then she messes up and sleeps with Garthy. Sorry, I'm honestly kinda rambling and trying to get something out there, bc I really identify with Sandra Lynn. She has this really self destructive streak and so much anger and shame and guilt, and she's just trying to help Fig not be like her. I'd honestly really love to know what Sandra Lynn's parents are like. I feel like that's the last piece of the puzzle.

[moraloreldeservedbetter]

It's been FAR too long since we've last talked, but I recently rewatched the series and I really wanted to talk about Bloberta and Shapey (And Bloc) because those two kids have always been very oddly endearing to me.

We all know that Bloberta is a negligent mother to both Orel and Shapey (and later on, Bloc), but I personally think that while Clay is physically abusive towards Orel, Bloberta is emotionally abusive towards Shapey.  We see in "Help" that she manipulated Clay into marrying her because she just wants someone to help, and I think she does the same thing to Shapey in a way.  She claims that she is "weaning him" but really it looks like she's teaching him to be quiet until she wants to be "helpful."  As in, she feels like she is helping him when she nurses him, so she doesn't wean him, she intentionally makes it so that he's dependent on her BUT only when it's convenient to her.  That's why one minute she happily allows him to nurse with no resistance, and then the next she'd rather do something else and sprays him with a bottle like he's a pet cat and ignores him.  He's just a means to an end for her, and in doing so she emotionally manipulates him, to say nothing of how her ambivalence must affect how developmentally stunted he is already from the constant neglect from his family.  And all this is underlined by Clay- who Shapey probably thought was his dad up until the season 1 finale, if not then he probably still thinks is his dad -openly hates him, and Orel- the one person who cares and tries to help -is constantly told by his parents to "leave Shapey be" (aka perpetuate his neglect) or risk being punished.

(And yeah, Shapey does hug Coach Stopframe and yell "MINE!" but I think realistically he saw his mom and dad "hugging" him and thought "Well, now it's my turn!"  I don't think he knew he was illegitimate at the time, and it's possible he still doesn't know.  I also highly doubt he knows Stopframe is his father.)

Idk what Poppet was doing to Bloc, but when he and Shapey got switched, Bloberta didn't notice the difference.  Bloc must have been through something close enough for Bloberta to continue doing what she was doing without resistance.  I do think it's interesting that Bloberta is so manipulative to Shapey all for her desire to be helpful, but never even noticed when she wasn't even with him anymore.

Had we gotten the episode "Nurture" and Shapey and Bloc gotten their character arc, I wonder if they would have ever explored the idea of them both weaning themselves.  Like, if their friendship made them bolder and they decided to grow up on their own and ended up rejecting Bloberta even despite her apparent manipulating.  I think Bloberta would have had some kind of breakdown.  Maybe she wouldn't lash out at them or double down like Clay does with Orel, but I think she would throw her own kind of fit.

Idk, at the end of the day it's just a theory, but in my mind, Bloberta is destructive towards Shapey and Bloc the way Clay is destructive with Orel (albeit in her own way).  And it really proves how selfish she is, first manipulating Clay into marrying her under the guise of being "helpful," then doing the same towards a son she otherwise wants nothing to do with, AND THEN doing it a THIRD TIME with Bloc.  Like, girl had so many chances to get it right and didn't.

HOLY SHIT

LOOK Y'ALL

ACTUAL ANALYSIS!!

THIS WAS FANTASTIC HUN

[aspho-bell]

Dallis' tragedy

Dallis is the tragic villain of DOS:2. She's the classical trope of "i'm a villain because i've been hurt and y'all gonna suffer for it".

And the tragedy is. The other way was just right there. She didn't meet the right persons, thus she was denied of it. She cannot evolve past her Eternal point of view - and we know how Eternals may think of mortals, see Fane, see the whole "let the Eternals come back" ending. She sees mortals as vermin, and she's ready to wipe them out if necessary ( the battle on Lady Vengeance where she let Vredeman kill grusomely most of the Seekers is a good example ). She hates the Eternals, she hates the God King, but she's still a product of this culture.

While Fane. Fane who is an Eternal all the same. Fane who, when we first met him, wanted to bring his people back so they may "have [their] world again", who sees you as an useless and retarded creature. This same Fane who, much later on, can't bring himself to doom this world so his own can come back. This same Fane who sees now the beauty of this world, and that it is worth living. This is because of the Godwoken. Because Fane met the Godwoken at the most convenient time, and this band of heroic losers show him, in their own way, how beautiful this world can be, even in this void-tainted state.

Who does Dallis meet, when she's free from her prison ? A poor woman whom she steals the face, and then - Lucian. A man whose motto is probably "the ends justify the means", the one responsible of a genocide for the "greater good", the one that wasn't afraid to kill tens of Godwoken to achieve his goal. So, at his contact, Dallis learnt nothing - how could she learn the value of mortal life when the very Divine saw those as disposable ? And she may think she was equal to him, but she was another tool of violence in the Divine's hands. Hence the way he talks to her :

Dallis, control yourself. Our purpose transcends your personal wounds.

Her only motivation, vengeance, is depicted by Lucian as lesser and, i can also note the AUDACITY of resuming thousands years of prison and the destruction of her own world as mere "personal wounds". And she obeyed. She obeyed him ! Anger is a violent feeling, and one can be manipulable when this anger became wrath, and Dallis seems to be consumed by it. Lucian was here to offer her vengeance, he was the promise to satiate her rage and so, she strode all Rivellon in his name to kill the ones coming through his way.

Lucian lost his lapdog when Ifan became a Lone Wolf, he'd found another in Dallis.

And this is very unfair, because in the end, Dallis was just a scared little girl, who was left to rot in a tomb, because dad thought knowledge was better than his family's safety. And he was gifted another chance - he met the godwoken, and he saw the mortal world as a place of beauty and wonder. Not Dallis : Dallis, wrongly imprisoned only saw the world through Lucian's eyes : filled with violence and death.

[beloved-daydreams]

Y'all we actually NEED to talk about how loving and caring Wren actually is. Like, from her flashbacks with Bex (Rebecca) we know that she was the emotional shy kid. That her sister would bring her to hang-out with her friends (maybe because Wren didn't have any or too little.) And how she would always play the role her sister would give her.

Flash forward to the present, Wren:

Breaks into the house of her family at night only to eat food from their garbage and maybe do the dishes sometimes. Like???? That's SO unnecessarily nice. Imagine thinking a monster is downstairs only to find out in the morning that the dishes are clean, the laundry has been folded, the place has been cleaned... like what??

She would practice by reading Bex's textbooks to try to educate herself on her own

Breaks the curses put on humans to spite the Faeries (but also I bet she wants to protect humans and be useful to them, like she wishes someone would've been to her) not to mention she's been doing that for YEARS without anyone's thanks. They just get scared and run away

Collects purely sentimental stuff, never does she steal many things that could make her life easier, never does she glamour humans for malicious reasons (and besides, like she said, she's not good at it because her education both in the human world and in the fae world has been lacking)

Again: always eats from garbage, never or rarely fresh stuff she could easily snatch from anyone she wants

Freed some prisoners because she felt like it wasn't right to keep them locked (and well, other more logical reasons BUT I believe 80% of the time Wren is purely acting on her feelings) like, "oh?? I kissed Oak but now he's dancing with other girls? Okay Hyacinthe must be right then, Oak is just a manipulative whore >:( how dare he play with my feeling??"

Felt happy for having Gwen care about her despite them never interacting much to begin with. Just getting those text messages was enough

Probably lots of other stuff I forgot

Anyway, the point is that: Wren is sweet and sentimental and emotional and she knows it. It makes so much sense that she's scared shitless of loving Oak because she KNOWS her feelings are strong. It's what she acts upon most of the time, it's what leads her decisions.

And now she just gave in to some of her "darker" feelings. That feeling of destruction she talked about.

Anyway. Sorry but I'm FERAL over the fact that Wren is just SO full of love yet she receives so little. We need to change that real quick cause now she got everything. Mellith's heart, Mab's bones and Greenbriar blood (Oak). Girlie could literally make anything happen so if we don't want Elfhame's doom, please give her lots of cuddles and appreciation and love. Thank you.

On a side note: I am actually SO scared for Wren's story to end badly. I suppose not but I've only read The Folk of The Air trilogy from Holly Black so I'm not sure how she usually writes her other stories. Please someone reassure me haha :')

[psudopod]

Splatmas is coming, and you know what that means?

Bet none of you guessed it's Psudopod's Big Lecture on How Y'all Need SPORTSMANSHIP!

Sportsmanship is behaviour and attitudes that show respect for the rules of a game and for the other players. 

Part 1: Rules of the Game.

There are indeed rules, here they are!

In Splatoon 3 you may be reported for breaking the rules for the following infractions;

Inappropriate Nickname

Inactivity

Intentional Disconnection

Unsportsmanlike Play (Self-Destruction)

Unsportsmanlike Play (Disrupting Team)

Intentionally Not Contributing

Network Manipulation

Malicious Use of Glitches or Errors

Cheating

Griefing (the action or an act of deliberately spoiling other players' enjoyment of a game by playing in a way that is intentionally disruptive and aggravating)

I've bolded the rules I see broken, often, especially during splatfests. Thankfully, I rarely see the ones I didn't bold. What I do see, pretty often, is Bad Sportsmanship.

I am referring to mid-match squid parties.

What are squid parties? A squid party is when the players ignore the in-game objectives and do... Whatever they feel like! Usually, this is seen as people standing around squidbagging together. It's honestly pretty fun! When everyone is on the same wavelength and the full lobby parties, it can be a cool time to explore how the game feels, play party games, and be silly! Note however, I said the full lobby. To play by your own rules when any single player is playing by the game's rules, is unsportsmanlike.

Thankfully, for all you partiers, there is a simple and easy way to make sure every player in your lobby is playing by the same rules; private lobbies! Make a private lobby, invite your friends, or join a pool to make some friends! I imagine "Squidparty" is a code you could use, but please do share any codes you've tried in your reblog. You can even plan games in lobbies, like "bumper brushes" or "hide-and-seek"!

Please, if you want to party, join a private lobby. Everyone else there will want to party, too. Assume everyone in public lobbies is there to play the game as described by the rules, even if they leave you to party.

If you are in a lobby to play, don't ignore partiers. They are just as often "Griefing" with intentions to use your mercy against you. Kill. Leave the lobby. Report. Move on. Pick any of the multiple rules that apply to squid party behavior. You can find the report button in the battle logs section of the terminal. Don't join a private lobby and report the goofs going on there, don't join a public battle and goof.

Part 2: Respect for Other Players

The Sportsmanship life doesn't end when you put the controller down! Y'all still Unsportsmanlike in the community. You need to treat other players right. We don't have Rules out here, but here's some bullshit I'm sick of seeing:

Racism (colorism and xenophobia)

Bullying (extreme language, hate mail harassment)

Being a sore loser (BS points 1 and 2, really.)

I don't need to re-hash the colorism issues. This is an old problem. Stop. Please remember your comments on the physical features of the idols can be hurtful, real people share those features.

What I do have to hash is the xenophobia. Y'all aware that blaming an entire nationality for you losing is bigoted? Y'all aware that claiming an entire nationality is just too good at the game is a stupid stereotype? Stop saying weird shit about Japanese players.

Bullying- hey, are you aware saying "KYS," any suicide baiting, is bullying and harassment? This is EXTREME language. Do not throw that shit around in the Splatfest tags when you're sad you lost. Do not throw that shit around in plaza posts. You will lose your plaza posting ability, account-wide. I dare you to send that shit on anon. I will drag your ass. Again.

It's ok to be sad you lost, but please be aware that lashing your negative feelings out on real people, or in ways that can hurt real people, is POOR SPORTSMANSHIP. Do you remember, in grade school sports, how the coach would tell you to line up and tell each member of the opponent team "good game"? You ever wonder why?

You should always be grateful and courteous, respectful, and constructive to every one of your opponents. You would not be able to play the game without opponents.

This splatfest, I really hope to see some better sportsmanship inside and outside the game.

I've said way too much already, I'll leave you with homework. This 'fest, I'd like for you to thank your opponents. Even when they beat you. Especially then. They did their best and respected you with a display of the fruits of their effort.

[twobrokenwyngs]

I just saw the ep and oh my goddd, some of this fandom needs to touch grass when it comes to their media. so many of y'all have been watching waaay too many cutesy, sweet, tender, sanitized queer love stories. like, y'all know this isn't Love Simon or some shit, right???

it is so SILLY to act like lestat did this catastrophic out-of-character thing that there's no coming back from. anyone who feels that way has a very disney-fied version of who lestat is in their heads. I realize that the guys have had moments of sweetness and romance but y'all really clung onto that so hard you forgot what show you're actually watching, huh?

please. pull yourselves together. for the following 4 reasons:

he is a spoiled fuck!! he's the brat prince!! he takes what he wants and reacts destructively to not getting his way! the fact that he's been as patient with Louis as he HAS for all these years has been a miracle unto itself. this act has been boiling under the surface and ultimately amounts to no more than a violent temper tantrum befitting of the character

louis! 👏 is! 👏 a! 👏 vampire!!! he's a goddamn immortal being, who is going to completely heal after a good day's sleep lmao. lestat knew that when he laid hands on him! he didn't actually do anything that could kill or maim or otherwise permanently disable louis, he wasn't TRYING to!

they are in a toxic relationship!!! did you guys think that was just an adorable expression? their relationship is fucked up and unhealthy, steeped in coercion and violence and manipulation and a massive power imbalance and literally always has been!!! hello?!!?

this is a tv show. it's a visual medium. it needs to comprise seven hours of compelling, exciting content, it needs to up the ante and take liberties due to the fact that it isn't a book and cannot sustain itself on louis' emotions alone. on top of that, the VAST majority of the violence that occurred still happened offscreen. they struck a perfect balance

so yeah, idk, I have absolutely noooo patience for some of the takes I've seen about this. none at all. either wake up and realize what genre of show this is or see yourself out tbh lol

[misrepresentedmorallygrey]

PROPAGANDA

Mabel Propaganda

"[insert "i am 12 years old" comic]"

"You probably already know about this but back when the series was airing people were really pissed at Mabel because she was supposedly selfish. Yeah ok guys asking for a fucking megaphone to help a merman find his family was TOTALLY unreasonable. Dipper giving up one (1) "date" with a girl way older than him to save Mabel's pet was SO not worth it. (This is sarcasm btw. Side note a lot of these have to do with Dipper's crush on Wendy which is a whole other discussion.) And then there's the big one. Mabel causing Weirdmageddon. What people fail to realize with this is that 1) she was extremely stressed when she handed Bill the rift 2) she was tricked by Bill, a being that is A MASTER AT TRICKING PEOPLE, into thinking that she was being handed a magic solution to what felt like the end of the world to her, and 3) she was TWELVE. Not to pull out the "she is literally neurodivergent and a minor" card but do you really expect a 12 year old who's just been told that she's gonna have to face a big and difficult transition WITHOUT her brother who's been there for her all her life to make a rational decision? Y'all seriously fell for Bill's empty words in Sock Opera. Absolute bufoons. You would not survive Weirdmageddon."

"Oh wow, a preteen girl under extreme distress acts like a preteen girl under extreme distress. Whoda thunk?"

Allison Propaganda

Receives classio fandom misogynoir. She did eventually go down a dark path and do some fucked up things in season 3 (which I have a lot of problems with) but it was met by reactions of "see I knew she was evil all along!" people saying she never changed and was always selfish and terrible: (at the start of her character arc in season 1, she's struggling with the consequences of her actions and trying to be a better person. Among other things, she used her powers of compulsion to force her daughter to behave, which is BAD but it's not inhumanly evil. Can you imagine being an exhausted mom dealing with a misbehaving child and knowing that you have the ability to make them be quiet and do what you want? You really wouldn't be tempted? Anyway, she REGRETS IT.) It was painful near the end of season 1 where her sibling (Viktor, but season 1 was before his transition) was being manipulated by his evil boyfriend into unleashing his powers (sealed because they were dangerous) and turning against his family. Allison tried to warn him and take him back with her. When talking didn't work, Allison felt her only option was to compell him (which works by her saying "I heard a rumor" and then whatever she wants the person to do), and when she tried that Viktor slit her throat. He felt guilty for it but his evil boyfriend led him away and Allison was left there bleeding. People watching BLAMED ALLISON FOR THIS. She was DESPERATE to get her sibling back & away from an evil guy that was leading him down a really destructive path (he caused the end of the world! because of it!) and only tried to use her power after asking didn't work. She did not deserve to be hurt like that. Allison unfortunately was a bad person in season 3. But she sure as hell wasn't always a bad person and I hated seeing so many people say she was, I stopped looking at fandom spaces because of it. She was trying her best and did a lot of good before that."