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turtletaubwrites · 9 months ago

Text

Numbers Game ~ Chapter 20

Those Lovely Things

Pairings: Cross Guild x Fem!Reader x Shanks

Numbers Game Masterlist

Word Count: 7.3k+

Ao3 Link

Ongoing Series Playlist: Youtube Music Link | Youtube Link

Summary: You fight to find some joy while your little world falls apart. Is there anyone you can trust?

Author's Note: Hi friends! I realize that most of you came for the smut, and stayed for the drama, lol. Going forward, there will be some heavier topics including trauma, scenes depicting panic attacks, etc. I'll try to bracket the most intense sections off with ~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~ and I will do my best to make sure you still understand what's going on in case you'd like to skip past those parts. Thank you so much for staying with me, and letting me take this story where I always wanted it to go!

Alternate POV Symbols:

!!! SPOILER WARNING !!! Fic contains spoilers for the end of the Wano arc

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, SH (scratching while panicking), Swearing, Alcohol, Cigars, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Drama, Jealousy, Manipulation, Humiliation, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Cross Guild boys are VILLAINS, Possessive Behavior, Teasing, Threats, Size Difference, Daddy Kink, Double Penetration, PIV Sex, Anal, Multiple Orgasms, Hair-Pulling, Inappropriate Use of Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit Powers, Shameless Shameless Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

~~~🤡🤡🤡~~~

She’s perfect. She’s everything. She’s—

Stupid, red hair.

Buggy held Y/N close, hearts still racing, still breathing with each other.

This morning he’d woken up tense, sweating with guilt that she wasn’t in his arms after all the shit they’d been through to get back.

But the arms that had wrapped around him… The lips that had kissed his neck…

“Mornin’ Bugs.”

“Morning, shithead.”

Then there were her tears. More fucking tears today. That was all he could think about. The near panic of needing to make her feel better, make her smile, make those tears stop touching her beautiful face.

Now that those tears had stopped, his mind cracked open, letting that red hair shine through like the first light of the morning sun when you’re not ready to see it.

Gods, I’m such a piece of shit.

“Buggy?”

“Hey, star! How ya doing? Can I get ya anything?”

“No,” she laughed, the sweetest fucking sound in the world. “Just you, Bugs. Just stay with me for a while, please.”

He held her close, his head falling back against the headboard.

“I’ve got you.”

~~~🤡🤡🤡~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🐊🗡️🐊🗡️~~~

Buggy’s name echoed through the halls, so loud that Mihawk wasn’t the only one that heard.

Crocodile sighed, shaking his head slowly at the sound.

“Should we punish our pets,” Mihawk drawled, the words spilling out like acid.

“Sorry,” Shanks called as he sauntered back into the lounge, a pleased smile on his face. “My other hosts are a bit busy. Mind if I—“

“Fuck off.”

Shanks smirked up at Crocodile, sand fading from reality after the larger man had shifted across the floor.

“You two seem awfully grumpy,” he taunted, his voice too even, too calm. “It almost seems like you care about your captives. But that can’t be right...”

Mihawk was there, stepping slightly between the two men. Two men he’d betrayed.

“Is it really necessary to gloat, Red Hair?”

“Who’s gloating,” Shanks countered, his sunny smile falling fast. “I just wanna know that my friend and his girl are safe. Can’t blame me for that, can you? Not after everything you did to him.”

“We won’t stop him if he wants to go,” Crocodile rasped, the veins in his hand pulsing as he clenched his fist. That thought soaked his blood in a rage he didn’t know what to do with.

He knew there was nothing to be done.

“How kind of you,” Shanks mocked, walking away from Crocodile’s glare to stand in front of his old friend. He didn’t look back at the frustrated sound that left Crocodile’s throat at the dismissal.

Mihawk hated the itchiness in his fingers, the instinct to reach for his sword.

“You’ve been trying, haven’t you, old friend,” Shanks breathed, his eyes scanning over every slight movement on Mihawk’s face. “Looks like it’s too late to play nice, though. Why would such a sweet girl wanna stay with monsters like you?”

A clash of hook against sword.

Shanks’ serene face, inches from the striking metal as Mihawk blocked that golden hook.

“I think I’ll have lunch on the Red Force. Give my friends some time to cool off. All that screaming sounds exhausting.” Shanks winked at Mihawk, nodded at Crocodile with a smirk, and strutted toward the door with a laugh. “If you hurt them while I’m gone, I’ll level this place to the fucking ground.”

With that threat, the red haired emperor left the two ex-warlords frozen, their weapons still caught together in a useless battle between defeated men.

It was hard to say who lowered first, but as soon as their weapons were down, Crocodile brought his to the other’s throat.

Mihawk let him.

“You knew,” Crocodile raged, eyes flaring as he failed to spot any fucking reaction on his new lover’s face. “You knew, didn’t you? He’s gonna take them both!”

“Don’t you think he should,” Mihawk choked, wishing it was just the sting of the hook making his throat tight. “We’ll get through tomorrow, then we'll say goodbye to our little pets. Our little prisoners. They’ve served their purpose—“

He hissed, knowing there was blood beneath that press of metal, wet heat dripping down his skin. It was almost enough pain to relax him. Almost.

“You don’t get to decide that,” Crocodile growled, bringing his face in close to breathe scotch scented fury over Mihawk’s skin. “You spoiled, selfish, little prince. Finally grown a conscience, and now you’re making it everyone else’s fucking problem.”

Mihawk was away, leaving the hook empty, except for his own pretty blood. He didn’t bother to stop the flow of it down his chest before he snarled back.

“We can’t force them to stay, sandman,” he declared, his breath heavier than he’d expected. “I won’t do that to them again, not—“

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Crocodile sighed as he cleaned his hook with a handkerchief, white fabric staining red.

“And why is that,” Mihawk purred, eating up the anger, preferring it over everything else.

“If they wanna go, we’ll let them go,” the larger man conceded. His deep voice was almost weak with those words, though his next were spoken with power, with the need to make them true.

“So, we’ll convince them to stay.”

~~~🐊🗡️🐊🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

Fuck.

You wished that Buggy’s arms could make you feel safe from the parade of memories, of demands that dragged you back down.

It was stupid. Of course you couldn’t be free.

A choked laugh tore from your throat. Buggy tried to soothe it away, but the insanity of it all was too much.

You had felt safe. You’d felt fucking happy with these men that threatened to kill you, to sell you into slavery. Even though you were never without fear, you’d somehow felt good with the men that owned you. Felt good with the men that threatened to kill your lover, that had beaten him bloody, humiliated him, then made you crave them so fucking badly that you almost begged them… that you had begged them to fuck you like a whore in front of him.

Just to escape your boring, privileged life.

All of that guilt you’d tried to shove down deep was back, and Buggy’s sweet smile that had made it all okay felt like a mirage. His loving arms around you made you feel sick.

I am sick.

He was right. He wouldn’t even have to fake it. I’m everything he said. Damaged. Wrong. Worthless.

Buggy deserves better.

“What’s wrong?”

More brittle laughter escaped your raw throat, and Buggy chuckled at himself.

“Sorry, baby. That list is fucking massive, isn’t it,” he soothed, hands tracing over your skin. “Wanna take a shower with me?”

He carried you, helped you, kissed you, dried you, and made you wear some of his lipstick, chasing your lips with it until you laughed and gave in.

“Why don’t you care?”

“What,” he coughed, eyes wide as he reached for you.

“About my… About who I am?”

He looked confused, almost as if he’d forgotten. Almost as if he really didn’t see you differently. You couldn’t fucking handle that thought either way.

“Why would I care about your shitty family,” he scoffed, grabbing and squishing your cheeks. “All I care about is how long I have to wait before I can start making fun of you for your fancy trust fund.”

Your mouth would have fallen open in shock if he hadn’t been squeezing your face so hard. He smirked at you, looking way too fucking proud of himself.

“You. Dick,” you hissed reaching out to punch his arms, his stomach, anything you could reach. Buggy cackled as he floated each body part away just before you could hit it. You squirmed out of his grip, and he floated around you, sticking his tongue out while you huffed. “I’m gonna kill you!"

“Ooh, how much do hitmen cost? I bet rich girls can hire all the best assassins!”

“Buggy– mnf.”

“I still love you,” he whispered against your lips after shoving you against the wall. “That’s never gonna change, no matter what happens, star.”

Somehow there were still tears left in you, but he caught them with his gloved thumbs, giving your red lips a gentle kiss.

“I love you too, Bugs.”

"Of course you do,” he winked, leading you out of the suite. “Ya hungry, pretty star?”

~~~

��Good afternoon, Y/N,” Mihawk drawled as he pulled a chair out for you. “How are you feeling?”

Uncomfortable wasn’t even close to covering it.

They let you sit by Buggy, let him hold your hand, and they stared at you with eyes that might have held concern. Or they might have had dancing berries behind them, imagining what sort of price tag you had branded under your skin.

“Not great,” you said blandly, hating not knowing what they were going to do with you.

The lunch went on, and they didn’t push. Didn’t try to speak with you more than some awkward small talk, and a polite request for the salt shaker. All they did was observe you.

“I want to call my sister.”

“Of course, swee– of course,” Crocodile rasped after a pause, pulling his hand back before it could reach across the table.

“Do you already have a buyer in mind?”

That vicious growl left your throat like lightning, too fast for you to catch. Buggy’s hand went still on your shoulder while you shook with rage.

“Y/N, we’re–”

“Y/N,” you mocked, almost proud of the way Mihawk’s lips parted when you cut him off. “No rabbits? No sweet girls? Already distancing yourselves from your old pet, huh? I guess you can’t get too attached when you have to put ‘em down, can you?”

Your chair toppled over when you stood, but you resisted the urge to shove those pretty, round tables because you had to stop being there right that fucking second. Had to stop looking at them. You backed away from their shocked faces, the pain and anger in your blood making you dizzy.

“I hope your next pet survives a little longer,” you spat as you turned to run inside, fleeing down that long corridor. Your eyes were burning with tears, staring at the floor just ahead of your frantic steps.

It felt like only a few seconds had passed before you were caught.

“Hey, bunny,” Shanks cooed, pressing you against him. You clung to his waist, tears spilling against his chest, bare between his loose shirt. “You’re okay, sugar. I won’t let them hurt–”

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Mihawk breathed over your shoulder, so close. Shanks tensed, tilting you ever so slightly, as if preparing to pull you away. Mihawk’s wicked fingers trailed down your back, sending chills through you while he made his promises. “We’re not going to sell you, or ransom you, or hurt you, Y/N. I swear it.”

Detangling yourself from both of them with a shudder, you caught Buggy and Crocodile waiting, watching.

“Why are you talking to me like that,” you asked, hating how hard it was to swallow the lump in your throat.

“We didn’t think that you’d want us to talk to you so… intimately, after everything,” Mihawk explained. His fingers flexed, and you closed your eyes against another wave of exhaustion.

“Can we just pretend today?”

Pathetic.

“What do you mean?” Crocodile came closer, that frightening face going soft, breaking you down.

“Can we pretend everything’s alright? I just wanna pretend you care until it’s over. Do whatever you want with me, just let me feel… Just let me pretend you care,” you begged softly. Buggy’s arms wrapped around you from behind before his lower body could catch up, squeezing more tears from you. “Please?”

“Rabbit…”

“Come here, sweet girl.”

Buggy let them take you. You let them take you.

Golden eyes were so close, the scent of him making you sigh while he stroked your hair, kissing down your temple, your cheek, your jaw, before helping to lift you into Crocodile’s arms.

Silver eyes poured over you, his deep voice so calming while you cried against another silk vest, cried as he brought you back to that magical place filled with pleasure and pain. That place where you’d felt both shackled and free.

That stupid, green, velvet couch.

“My sweet girl. I’d never send you away. Never hurt you, babydoll. Daddy’s here. Whatever you need.”

“My little rabbit, my love. I want you by my side. I want to watch you, my fierce, little bloodhound. Tell me what I need to do, darling. Anything.”

“My shining star. You’re my everything. You’re everything I need.”

Pretty, pretty lies.

~~~

“President Buggy, sir?”

Buggy huffed while he floated his head across the room, sticking his tongue out when he flew over Shanks’ grinning face. His hands didn’t stop petting your legs while you laid across the three laps on the couch.

“What is it,” he snapped at the intruder through the cracked door.

“So sorry to interrupt, sir,” the man sputtered, clearing his throat. You couldn’t see him, but his anxiety radiated through the door. “The final dress rehearsal is meant to start soon. Should we… would you like us to run through it without you, sir?”

“No, I…”

Buggy’s hands went stiff, and you turned your head to look over at his concerned face, almost pained when he glanced at you.

“It’s okay, Buggy,” you croaked, your voice a wreck after all your tears.

“We can watch your show over dinner again,” Mihawk suggested as he laid his hand over Buggy’s.

“We’ll freshen up,” Crocodile agreed, brushing a bit of hair from your face. “How does that sound, sweet girl?”

The tiniest, most exhausted of smiles touched the corner of your lips before he lifted you, and followed Buggy’s headless body toward the door.

“Mind if I take a peek backstage, Bugs,” Shanks flirted, wrapping his arm around the clown’s shoulders. “I always love your shows.”

“Don’t get in the way,” Buggy grumbled. You heard Shanks’ pleased laughter while Buggy floated up to press a soft kiss to your lips, and Crocodile’s wide chest kept you warm, and sleepy. “Wanna watch my show, star?”

“Always,” you breathed, wishing you were worth that perfect smile.

~~~~~~

~~~🤡🔴🤡🔴~~~

“Don’t be so stressed, Bugs,” Shanks beamed, following his grumbly clown through the halls. “You’ll blow ‘em away at the party tomorrow. Then we can take Y/N, and get out of here. Help her smile again. She needs to–”

“You don’t know her,” Buggy hissed, rounding on his old friend. His old friend whose eyes widened a bit at his words, but still kept that fucking smile.

That perfect fucking smile that made his eyes go a little unfocused every time he saw it.

So he turned, continuing his scolding while he walked toward the banquet hall, avoiding that face.

“You don’t know what she needs.”

“You’re right,” Shanks apologized, walking backwards so he could look at his clown. Look at those perfect eyes. “You know her. You’re fucking beautiful together, Buggy. It makes me so happy to see you like that. Loved. She loves you, doesn’t she?”

Shanks watched all those expressions move under that greasepaint, studying each and every one. Trying to figure out the right words to say.

“She does,” Buggy hesitated. He shouldered past the red haired pirate, forcing the other man to keep up with his quickened pace. Forcing that smile out of his line of sight.

“Let’s get her out of here,” Shanks urged. Even with their speed through the halls, his voice was calm, quiet, soothing. “You can protect her, Buggy. I’ll help you. You know she’ll never be safe with them. I just want you both to be safe and happy, Bugs.”

Tears.

Too many fucking tears in her eyes.

“When did you ask her?”

“What do you mean,” Shanks chirped, skirting around a servant with a stack of nameplates for the tables.

“I mean, when did you ask her to come with us,” Buggy breathed, pulling Shanks backstage after looking around the banquet hall. The stage was tiny compared to the three rings he was used to, but he could get used to that swanky, private dressing room.

Especially now that he had Shanks pinned to the mirrored wall inside, those brown eyes flashing with a challenge, and a promise that almost made him forget the world.

Forget her.

“When,” he growled, more forcefully than he’d meant to as he shook himself out of Shanks’ spell. Shanks didn’t answer right away, his eyes roaming over Buggy’s face, concern and charm oozing off of him.

“The first night,” he whispered, cradling Buggy’s cheek, tilting his hips closer. Wanting to get this stress out of Buggy’s eyes, help him feel good, help him get out of here. “You still snore like a sea lion, Bugs. Mihawk didn’t hear me.”

Buggy’s red lips fell open, but he pulled away before Shanks’ thumb could rub across them.

“And the dance. What did you say to her?”

“Just this,” Shanks reassured with a smile. “I can protect you both.”

Shanks’ smile had always brought irritation or need. No, not need. Awe. Buggy had tried to compete with his friend, had fought and struggled for years.

“I want you with me, Bugs.”

He’d never felt good enough compared to his perfect friend. His perfect friend that was always in charge. Even though his perfect friend said such lovely things about him.

“I don’t wanna find the One Piece without you, baby.”

Those lovely things. They couldn’t be true.

“And I don’t wanna leave your pretty star with these monsters.”

Until finally, Buggy had believed those words. Believed that perfect smile.

“Let me make it all up to you. Anything you need.”

But in the end, that smile had brought him nothing but pain.

Nothing until…

“Come with me,” Shanks purred, not caring about all that greasepaint when he flipped Buggy around, shoving his clown against the mirror to kiss the surprised, little moans from his lips. “I want you so bad, Buggy. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Buggy’s eyes fluttered closed when Shanks’ fingers reached for him, finding his cock already hard beneath that bright, red fabric. Shanks let out a satisfied hum as Buggy lost himself, melting under that smile that said so many lovely things.

Melting under that hand that knew his body so well.

“President Buggy, sir?”

~~~🤡🔴🤡🔴~~~

~~~~~~

The snail went on and on.

You’d let Mihawk take care of you, wiping your face, kissing you, rubbing cool lotion onto your flushed skin, kissing you, fixing your face up before kissing across it again.

“Lovely, little rabbit,” he’d purred before setting you up with the transponder snail. You were shocked when they left you in the lounge all alone, until you remembered that he could hear you from a mile away.

Pretending. We’re just pretending.

“Hello?”

“Kat? Oh gods, hi! Kat, it’s me,” you panicked, realizing you hadn’t planned anything to say.

“Y/N? Are you okay? Fuck, tell me it’s you, sis.”

“Kat,” you laughed, relief and joy flooding your drained body, waking you out of your daze. “It’s me. I helped you cheat your way through stats so you would—“

“So I would help you get out of those creepy match making parties mom kept—“

“Kat, I’m so sorry.”

…

“Kat?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I mean,” you grimaced, hating it all. “You were right. They found out who I am.”

“How much is the ransom?”

Sighing, you leaned back, tapping your head against the chair.

“I don’t know yet, but I’m okay. They let me call you.”

“… The Cross Guild?”

Fogginess filled your mind again, trying to mesh all of your worlds together.

“That clown,” she explained, her voice getting hushed. “Your clown, and his cronies, right? I saw the flyers.”

“Oh,” you relaxed, picturing that colorful flyer that had caused so much trouble. “Yeah, but don’t worry. They haven’t hurt me. I think they’ll just ransom me back. Uncle’s gonna love—“

“You should really listen to him.”

Kat’s voice was lined with stress, something you never missed.

“Kat, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she clearly lied, your sister’s shrill voice too easy to read. “It’s just been long enough, you know? Things are good here, and you could… we could all be happy.”

“Happy,” you breathed, not wanting to give in to anger.

“Yeah,” she brushed off, clearing her throat. “Mom’s coming, so I… I love you, sis.”

“Love you—“

“See you soon.”

…

The snail stared back at you for too long, its slow moving eyes making you dizzy.

Unease bubbled under your skin, Kat’s strained voice replaying in your mind.

“Something’s wrong,” you declared to empty air, your voice hollow.

“What is it, love,” Mihawk asked, appearing on the desk before you.

“Kat’s stressed.”

“What about, sweetheart,” Crocodile prompted as he came to lean over the desk beside the other man.

“He’s done something,” you trailed off, mind going hazy around the edges.

“We’ll help you, darling,” Mihawk whispered before kissing your wrist, your eyes fluttering from his simple touch amidst all your chaos.

“Please, don’t send me back.”

~~~⚫️⚫️⚫️~~~

The plea was dry, futile, almost silent while your eyes got lost around the desk. The moment the words left your lips, you went limp. Your mouth slack, drool forming, ready to spill if you got stuck for too long.

Nothing.

Just how he wants me.

What looked like panic in their eyes at the horrifying laugh you let out made you laugh even more, your fingernails scraping deep into your thighs while that grating sound tore through you.

“You can try to own me. I tried to let you. But he won’t let you. You’ll have to buy me first,” you warned in a harsh whisper, insanity creeping and creeping.

“Sweetheart?”

“Nope,” you giggled, shaking your head too fast. “No sweethearts for me! No love for me. Just work. Nothing else.”

“Y/N…”

“Y/N,” you parroted Mihawk again, your voice breaking. “Please pretend. Please pretend you—“

~~~⚫️⚫️⚫️~~~

“Please, tell me what’s wrong,” he urged, kneeling at your feet, your head in his hands. “Let us help you, rabbit. I…”

“Help me by pretending,” you sat up, voice clear when you brushed the fresh tears away. “I want to pretend. I want you to pretend to care for one more day.”

His strong hands gave in as you stood to walk away.

“Please, pretend.”

You were in his arms, resting your head in the crook of his neck, feeling Crocodile’s strong presence beside him.

“Thank you.”

“All you gotta do is tell us what you want, sweet girl.”

“Thank you, daddy.”

~~~~~~

~~~🐊🗡️🐊🗡️~~~

Murder.

Murder roiled just beneath the surface of their skin, bodies made up of raw nerves.

A panicked glance shared between them helped nothing, except to confirm that something was fucking wrong.

Something far worse than what they’d thought.

Mihawk held Y/N against him, pretending to be light, pretending to be the person he’d been for her before.

The person he’d been when he wasn’t scaring her, using her, showing her what a monster he was.

But all he wanted to do was shake her. Drag out whatever horrible truth there was inside her precious, little soul so he could stab it to death.

She’s going to leave us like this. She’s going to leave here broken.

He glanced at the other man again, wondering if he was just as terrified as he was.

Crocodile was terrified. All he wanted was to protect her. To never hear that jarring, scraping laugh leave her throat again. It was demonic. Wrong.

His sweet girl should never be in that much pain.

He had to fight not to tear his hook across every wall they passed, through every door frame he ducked under.

Had to give her what she wanted. To pretend everything was alright.

To pretend that he wasn’t one of the monsters that made her cry.

He sat and watched the show, watching her tired face pretending to be happy while her sick laughter clawed through the back of his mind.

I can’t let her leave like this. I can’t let my sweet girl hold that pain. I’m gonna fucking gut him.

~~~🐊🗡️🐊🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

Woozy.

But okay.

So nice to sway back and forth between them. To watch your clown perform. To forget the world.

Forget everything.

You were pretty good at it.

Practiced.

It helped when they’d call you pretty names, trace their warm, strong hands along your back, your thighs. Massaging your hand while you smiled at the shining star on the stage.

Even the red haired pirate made you smile with his laughter and jokes, with his charm and soothing voice. Even with that missed smudge of red paint on his chin, you smiled at the thought of Buggy being happy.

“Look at my star,” he hummed, his upper body racing to you faster than his legs could when the show was done. They left the band going for you, letting you sway. “You okay, baby?”

“Mhm,” you lied, not caring what Crocodile did to you now. “I think I need to stand.”

Pushing away from the table, every eye on you felt like pressure, felt like the real world was crushing you.

“Pretend,” you ordered, huffing a laugh at what a spoiled, little rich girl you were. “Everything is fine and we’re having a wonderful night, all of us together. Okay?”

Your three men promised, their voices soothing, but the forth voice cut through when the red haired man stood.

“Everything is wonderful,” he beamed, offering you his hand. “Would you like to show me what a wonderful dancer you are, bunny?”

He looked so pleased when you snorted, and even more so when you took his hand. You didn’t think about why you shouldn’t or why anyone would stop you.

I just want to pretend.

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

This poor thing. I’ve gotta get her out of here.

Shanks led Y/N to that gleaming floor, sparing just a glance at Buggy. His clown didn’t match his smile, and he couldn’t blame him.

How could he smile when his poor girl was coming undone?

“Your technique is amazing,” he teased as he kept her from rolling her ankle. “Where did you train?”

“I trained at— shut up,” she narrowed her eyes, so fucking cute.

“You actually trained,” he laughed, pulling her squirming body against his until her eyes went wide, her breathing slowed. His next words came out soft, but there was no need to hide from his old friend anymore. Mihawk couldn’t stop this.

“I’ll protect you,” he vowed, watching her eyes clench shut. “Come with me after the party. I don't care about your family’s wealth. I don’t care where you came from. I just care about Buggy, and the One Piece. And now you.”

Those pretty eyes were teary again when they opened, and he felt a twinge of guilt before he charged on.

“You can be free, Y/N.”

“Tomorrow,” she sighed, body slumping a bit against his. “Tonight we’re pretending that everyone cares, that everyone gets along, that no one would ever use me. Can you pretend?”

The emptiness in her voice made his stomach twist, something foul hiding behind her tired request.

“Of course. Anything for you, bunny,” he promised, kissing the top of her head. When he turned to look for Buggy, he clenched his jaw, fighting to keep tension out of his body while he danced with Y/N.

Mihawk’s hands were on Buggy, stroking his hair, smoothing over his thigh while the clown laid on the table in front of those scumbags. Even Crocodile leaned closer, rubbing his large hand along Buggy’s back before heading to the dance floor.

“May I have the next dance, sweetheart?”

“Yes, daddy,” she hummed, pulling away from Shanks, not even meeting his eyes before skipping toward her kneeling captor. She wrapped her arms around his neck, giggling when he stood. Her feet dangled while he held her thighs against that massive chest.

“Mm, see? My sweet girl doesn’t need to be a good dancer when daddy’s around.”

She squealed as the tyrant carried her across the gleaming floor, satisfied laughter floating along behind them.

Shanks tried not to gape at that sweet girl giggling in the arms of a man that destroyed an entire country for his own fucking greed.

Poor thing.

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🐊🤡🗡️~~~

“Aren’t you gonna stop them,” Buggy asked, watching his two favorite people head toward the empty dance floor. Wondering why he didn’t feel happier seeing them together.

“We’re never gonna do that again,” Crocodile rasped, the strange tension in his words making Buggy whip his head around to frown at that intense face. “We’re not going to force either of you to do anything you don’t want to.”

Buggy was rarely out of words, but he simply stared at the man, his red lips parted in almost comical confusion.

“I’m sorry, Buggy.”

Those words from the swordsman’s lips had Buggy fearing that he’d died, that his mind was imagining ridiculous scenarios while his body left this world.

But those golden eyes didn’t fade to nothingness. They kept staring at him, those dangerous fingers reaching for his own.

“The fuck…”

“We’re bad people,” Crocodile announced, and the firmness of it made Buggy crack up, his pretty throat exposed while that blue hair fell back.

Crocodile felt the urge to be angry. To demand fear.

That shit was getting old.

And his little clown was cute when he laughed. His little clown was cute when he made everyone laugh.

Still annoying. But cute.

“We’re bad people,” Crocodile apologized, smoothing his hand along Buggy’s back. “That’s not gonna change. But I wish we hadn’t been bad to you. We hope… I hope you’ll let us make it up to you.”

Buggy blinked up at Crocodile in shock, and Mihawk almost laughed. It was surprising to hear so many nice words out of such frightening lips all at once, especially without their darling in front of him.

Mihawk cut through layers and layers of guilt to touch Buggy’s lovely hair, to smooth a hand over his thigh.

No matter which direction he went, he would be hurting someone. There would be no true redemption for a wicked soul like his.

But he could start here with crystal blue eyes, and a silly nose. A nose he used to ridicule, but lately had caught himself almost smiling at when he saw it. Fighting not to reach for his little clown. And why shouldn’t he reach? Who the fuck was he trying to impress? This clown was more interesting than anyone he could think of.

“I am a terrible person. A selfish, cruel bastard. An asshole,” he whispered, staring into his clown’s wide eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” Buggy agreed cautiously, a nervous laugh leaving his throat as his eyes flicked back and forth between his tormentors.

“I’m sorry too, little clown,” Crocodile rasped, fingers pressing in gently against Buggy’s sore muscles. “I know it’s not worth much after everything, but I’d like to take care of you now. Make sure no monster like me hurts you, or our girl again.”

Crocodile watched his little clown try to understand him. He knew it wasn’t worth shit. How could a few words make up for the terror and pain he’d caused? He fought the instinct to slam his hook into the table at his own discomfort, his body not used to accepting guilt.

But this brave little clown had stood up to him. Over and over. Protected his sweet girl from him before he knew how precious she was. Made her laugh.

Made him laugh.

“We won’t hurt you if you leave, even if you take her with you. I hope you stay though,” Crocodile confessed, leaning over Buggy as he stood to walk toward the dance floor. “I’d love to spoil you, little clown.”

Buggy almost fell off the table when Crocodile kissed his temple, and the playful smirk on Mihawk’s face didn’t help.

These men were fucking horrible.

Dickbags. Monsters. Pieces of shits.

But they were also interesting. Relaxing. Intoxicating. Overwhelming.

They made her smile. Made her scream.

Mihawk chuckled softly, and Buggy realized that his eyes had fluttered when he thought about these big, scary, bad guys fucking his pretty star.

Fucking him.

“So, where’s the after party, Mr. President?”

Buggy let out an embarrassingly high yelp at Shanks’ question, breathed along the back of his neck.

“Our little rabbit wants us to pretend we all get along,” Mihawk purred, danger and challenge in those golden eyes. “Think we can all get along on that giant bed, or should I tell–”

“Can we,” Buggy asked, looking up at Shanks’ grin.

What if this is it? What if this is the end?

Buggy wasn’t sure which “end” he was more concerned with, and that made him want to beat his head against the table.

What the fuck do I want?

~~~🐊🤡🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

I want to forget everything. I want everything to freeze right here, tonight. Never start again. Just this.

“All you gotta do is tell us what you want, sweetheart,” Crocodile promised, his hand tracing down your bare skin after Mihawk freed you from those fancy clothes they’d picked out for you. You giggled when Buggy started from the bottom, kissing up your ankle and shin, shivering when Shanks mirrored him on the other side.

“You said we all need to get along, right, love,” Mihawk teased, his voice alone making your body tighten with need. “My little vixen… You want everyone to get along inside you, don’t you? Want us to spoil our little darling? Want us to drown you in come?”

“Fuck, please,” you begged, interupting Crocodile’s weak argument against it. Interrupting whatever flimsy excuse he could muster up for why they shouldn’t fuck your brains out tonight. “Please, fucking take me.”

“Anything for you, little rabbit.”

Oh gods.

So many things. So many sensations.

Buggy on his knees in front of you, his tongue finding your clit like a fucking magnet. Shanks behind you, his hand holding one of your cheeks aside while his hypnotic tongue made you cry out, teasing, and then fucking your ass while you twitched.

Mihawk gripped your hair, forcing his tongue into your mouth while you whined before he shoved your head down, shoving your mouth over Crocodile’s thick cock. You cried, struggling against his size, until Mihawk took your place, showing you how it’s done.

Crocodile threw his head back, and the needy moan from Mihawk’s stuffed throat was enough, Buggy and Shanks’ tongues sending you screaming for the first time that night.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, falling back against Shanks’ chest while you devoured the sight of Crocodile fucking Mihawk’s throat, fisting that soft, black hair, and calling him his “sweet, little prince.”

“Want us to fuck you, little bunny? Want us inside you?”

“Please, gods…”

“You heard her, Bugs, let’s–”

“Shut the fuck up, and fuck my girl’s ass already.”

Buggy was already kissing along your cheek as they kneeled on either side of you, whispering to check if it was alright. Lubed fingers were shoved up your ass while your eyes rolled back, not ready for the pressure that was about to fill you.

“Oh, ffuck…”

“Little bunny likes getting fucked like this, huh? Like my cock in your tight, little ass? How did I know you’d feel so fucking good? Fuck her, Buggy. Let me feel your cock inside her.”

“Buggy!”

“Fuck, star… Gods,” Buggy moaned as he forced himself inside your needy cunt. He kissed you while you fell apart, whimpering and screaming with every greedy thrust. “Shanks…”

“I feel you, Bugs,” Shanks purred, his strong fingers finding your clit. He made you come, screaming your voice away while he talked to your clown. “She’s perfect, Buggy. Let me feel you come inside her. Let’s fill her up. You wanna please him so bad, don’t you? You want his come, bunny?”

“Need it,” you managed to moan while you twitched.

They may have said more words, but all you knew was their achingly hot pleasure pouring so fucking deep inside you. They filled and filled you while they kissed each other over your shoulder, letting out sweet, little moans while you took everything that their cocks could give you.

Before they were done fucking each other through your body, you felt Mihawk’s fingers in your hair, tugging just hard enough to pull you out of the feelings you were about to dip into.

“Want more, darling?”

“Please.”

“So voracious. I wonder if these little boys can keep up.”

“We're just getting warmed up,” Shanks taunted, fucking his come into your ass with a few wicked thrusts while you spasmed against him. “Can’t wait to see what other tricks our pretty bunny can do.”

“Come here, sweetheart," Crocodile purred from the bed, sitting against the headboard. “Daddy’s cock’ll make you forget everything.”

Whining, you begged to get off of the two cocks that had just made you scream, and onto the one that would rip you apart.

“Come on, boys,” Mihawk ordered as he helped you line yourself up, their come dripping down to mix with the lube Crocodile had rubbed over himself for you. “Let’s watch our lovely girl’s sweet pussy get destroyed.”

“Fuck, daddy,” you cried out, the stretch of him inside you still a shock after all your time together. “Daddy, it’s too much.”

“Nah, babygirl,” he soothed, kissing your neck while his hand guided your body over his. “You can take it. Take it for daddy. Take everything...”

“My little rabbit,” Mihawk hummed, kissing up the back of your neck. “You love it when we take you like this, don’t you?”

You started to say yes, but when he shoved himself into your come-soaked ass, all you could do was scream. All you could do was pant, and twitch, and come, and then fucking come again when they told you what a good, little girl you were.

“You fuck our girl so well, little prince,” Crocodile praised, bringing a soft moan from Mihawk’s throat. “Gonna stuff her sweet ass for daddy? Show me what a pretty mess you can make?”

You both cried out, their cocks twitching inside you. So fucking good.

“Mm, be a good boy, and kiss me first. Make our sweet girl come with your fingers again.”

“Daddy,” you fell apart, feeling his lips on yours before you watched him kiss Mihawk over your shoulder. Your head fell to the side, and your eyes rolled back at the sight of Buggy and Shanks with hands and lips all over each other.

But Buggy’s eyes were on you.

“Buggy,” you whispered at the sight of him, and suddenly he was there. He was kissing you.

“My little clown,” Crocodile purred, fisting his hand through that gorgeous blue hair. “Wanna make it up to him, little prince?”

“Yes, daddy,” Mihawk breathed, his fingers still making you twitch.

Buggy had already stopped kissing you, staring back and forth between the two men while they fucked into you, while he trailed his hands down your skin.

“I wanna take care of you,” Crocodile promised, his voice getting rougher as he fucked you open. “You know I’ll take care of you, don’t you, little clown?”

Your mind was almost lost to it all, almost fucked out, but his words felt heavy, vital. Your breath caught, waiting for your clown to answer.

“Yes, daddy.”

“Mm, such a good boy for me,” Crocodile praised, tugging that blue hair a little harder while you came on their cocks again. “Show him how sorry you are, little prince. Suck his dick. Let Buggy fuck that mean little mouth of yours.”

If you weren’t already coming, you knew you would have at those words, at the shocked look on Buggy’s face when Mihawk opened wide, at the sounds they both made when Buggy shoved his floating cock so deep, so fucking fast into the swordsman’s throat.

“Fuck yeah, daddy’s so fucking proud of you,” Crocodile groaned, thick come spilling down the sides of his cock as he filled you. Mihawk made delicious whimpering noises while he came in your ass, Buggy’s cock strangling him, then spilling across that perfect face when it pulled away.

You caught Buggy’s eyes when he stared at his mess, his satisfaction making you twitch again. Mihawk reached for Buggy, kissing him hard over your shoulder.

The door closed. It wasn’t a slam. That probably would have helped you remember why there was a door at all, let alone another human being on the fucking planet.

But the door shut, and Buggy was gone, leaving your body screaming until your other lovers let you loose, praising, and kissing, and touching, until you shivered with pleasure. Carrying you into the shower like they had that first night.

Buggy returned, helping to scrub Crocodile’s shoulders, making you all laugh under that lovely, warm water.

So many pretty lies.

Smiling against Buggy’s chest, with Crocodile curled up behind you, and Mihawk’s hand touching you from around Buggy’s body, you felt perfect.

This was exactly what you’d wanted.

Exactly the kind of pretend you had asked for.

Tonight you only dreamed of the transponder snail, and you decided not to answer.

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

It was already too much. Too much that Buggy couldn’t keep his eyes off of them.

It’s okay. He loves her. We’ll take her away.

Those words rang through Shanks’ mind while his clown couldn’t look away from the monsters in that bed. It was okay, even when Buggy left him without a second glance to kiss her. It was just for her.

Until it wasn't.

He called him daddy.

He let Mihawk…

Mihawk had…

Now they're kissing like that…

Shanks had to leave.

“Shanks, hey! Where ya going?”

The red haired emperor rarely had to lie. Rarely had to fake a thing. Never had to fake a smile.

But he did now.

Shanks plastered a smile on his face, tilting his head at his lovely, old friend.

“I’m good, Bugs,” he lied, moving close. He was about to touch his chin, but the thought of Mihawk there made him pause. “You should sleep in there with her. If you come with me tomorrow, then this is your last night to play pretend with them.”

“But–”

“It’s okay,” Shanks lied again, getting over himself to kiss those faded red lips. “I’ll be here in the morning, Bugs. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Soft, sweet eyes scanned his face, so Shanks held onto that fake smile as tight as he could. Wanting his clown to be happy.

“Okay,” Buggy whispered, reaching for his hips to pull him closer. "You can join us if you want. I’m sure–”

“I’ll be alright,” Shanks laughed, fighting not to shove Buggy back into that room, and slam the door on his new life that made no fucking sense. “Goodnight, baby. Dream about me.”

A bit of satisfaction ran through him at the shudder Buggy gave when he teased those words, kissing below his ear. The emperor turned around before his clown could say another word.

Shanks needed to get the fuck out of there.

Before he hurt someone.

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

Mihawk couldn’t recall feeling the amount of pleasure, safety, and comfort that he had tonight. The warmth and slow breathing of his three lovers would have had him drifting off.

Yet, he couldn't recall feeling the level of terror and helplessness he had felt when he watched Y/N fracture, the chaos in her distant eyes sending ice through his veins.

His darling's secrets kept him awake, especially at the searing thought that she might leave with Shanks. She might leave before he could hunt and kill whatever had poured that poisonous laughter down her throat.

That laughter.

“Hey, Hawk Eyes.”

Shanks’ quiet voice taunted through the halls, dangerous laughter floating with it.

“I know you’re awake, old friend. Let’s have a chat.”

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

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

a/n: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the DRAMA! How's everybody doing?

Chapter 21

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.

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justkeepshippingg · 2 months ago

Text

Back at the beginning: a caitvi hatefuck fic

Summary: Vi and Caitlyn find a truce built less around love and romance and more about the fact that, well, they’re both hot, cupcake. Allegedly, anyway. One-shot. Author's note: Took Caitvi to drag me out of a 10 year fanfic hiatus. Can you blame me? WC: 2392 Rating: M

It isn’t that they are friends, now. It’s that they have a mutual understanding. When it rains. When it’s dark. And, eventually, when the sun shines so brightly even the undercity burns. When Vi finds herself crawling through Caitlyn’s room with all of its silly luxe fabrics and lavender-vetiver scented air and pushing through wispy purple curtains and finding Cait, there, her body warm and waiting in green sheets that remind Vi of another time, one with soft grass beneath her toes and the sun in her hair and her parents somewhere nearby with a young, still-soft Powder.

She doesn’t speak when she approaches. Why should she?

This is Cait, and she knows why Vi is here.

Cait keeps her gaze soft and her body unmoving as she allows Vi to crawl into her room, into her bed, into her space, her body being bracketed by Vi’s. The only sign that she’s awake is her chest, betraying her to Vi as it rises and falls more rapidly. Vi’s legs come on either side of Caitlin’s, and Caitlin’s breath stumbles. Vi’s hands rest on either side of Caitlin’s head, palms sinking into silky curtains, and Caitlin swallows, hard. Vi exhales, letting more of her weight press onto Caitlin’s, and their hips meet and Caitlin can’t hold back anymore.

Her bright blue eyes lock on Vi’s gentle gray gaze and, for a moment, they could be lovers, real ones, speaking through sight. Vi’s maybe says, “Fuck, you’re beautiful.” Caitlyn’s maybe says, “Would you stay?” Their lips stay sealed, eyes wide and waiting, brows curving in question.

This is the one time of day that they can be like this, gentle and secure in their safety, no guns and no wraps and no knives to be found. Just two women, watching and breathing and waiting.

Who moves first? It’s hard to say. Maybe it’s the twitch of Vi’s fingers, like she’s dying to touch Caitlin but doesn’t want to be the one to break the tension. Maybe it’s the way Caitlin’s lips fall open, like she’s dying to suck Vi’s bottom lip right into her mouth but doesn’t want to spur the tension on. A second, a moment, and it’s happening.

Gaze no longer hazy. Brows no longer soft. Hands no longer restrained.

Vi lunges forward, capturing Caitlin’s lips in hers, and Caitlin responds in kind, her hands sinking deep into Vi’s hair, thumb rubbing over her shaved scalp, welcoming the tiny pricks of hair in need of a closer cut. A jolt of jealousy pops across Caitlin’s spine – who gets close enough to Vi to cut her hair? – and she bites it back by gliding her tongue across Vi’s bottom lip, following it with a bite hard enough to crunch. Vi doesn’t flinch; instead, she smirks, scarred lip jumping against Caitlin’s.

This, Caitlin hates as much as she craves it. Their fucking is always a little like fighting, neither wanting to give in, not to pain or to want or to the need that creeps up their ankles and around their calves and thighs and leaves them aching for it.

A memory: the first time Vi crawled through those windows, fingertips marking the glass and her brow furrowed. “I had this idea, Cupcake.” The way Caitlin rolled her eyes, but, somehow, didn’t seem at all surprised to see Vi in her bedroom. The way her robe fell down her shoulders; no, the way Caitlin allowed it to fall. The flash in Vi’s eyes at the sight of the soft curve of her shoulders, her vision growing cloudy as her gaze dropped lower, to neck, to collarbone, to the way her tits cleaved even in her silken pajamas. Caitlin looking away, but reaching out with a single palm, a come here, and Vi answering with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm, tripping as she yanked her pants down and moved toward Caitlin as quickly as she could, footsteps plodding and loud on the hardwood. Caitlin giving in, a giggle escaping before she could muffle it. Getting Vi into her bed. Getting her onto her stomach on her bed. Surprising her by crawling behind her, shoving Vi’s head against the pillows, Caitlin’s hand on Vi’s neck, and whispering, hips pressing to hips, I’ll be gentle for this first one.

Now, anything gentle is gone. It’s bone on bone, teeth gnashing at skin, the juts of their hips scraping and betraying their desperation. Each fuck lingers on the next one, drilling down to what’s at the base of this non-relationship. This mutual sense of respect and need and a sprinkle of distaste and leftover hate that mutates into the most overwhelming sense of desire, white hot and well-defined.

They know they could never have anything real in this world. Everything that exists is working against them. But fuck it, they can have this.

Vi pushes Cait’s sheer robe from her shoulders. She undoes the satin belt. She shoves at tulle and feather and, for a second, she forgets the promise of their silence and rolls her eyes, groaning the word “feathers” like it annoys her instead of turning her the fuck on, the chance to press inside of a woman like this, all luxury and class, until she’s a mess of herself, a mess of a woman, just like her, just like Vi, sweat and grunts and sticky fingers and zero shame.

Caitlin lets Vi push the robe away as if Vi is ever really in control. It’s a give and take, and Caitlin has come to learn that Vi likes to feel in charge until the very last second, and then have it yanked away. When Vi groans “feathers,” Caitlin bites her lip against a smile. She shrugs her shoulders back, bare beneath the robe. She lets her chest jut forward, feeling her shoulder blades meet at her back. Her collarbones jut forward. Her narrow waist flares out into curvy hips, and her soft belly rests on the top of her thighs. She can’t help herself; she wiggles, just a little, pretending she has to stretch.

Vi’s eyes go wide, and the moan that rips itself from her lips is well-worth Caitlin’s attempt at seduction. She likes to turn Vi into something pathetic, clear in her need and incapable of masking it. Vi reaches for Caitlin, thumbs wiping at the bottom of her tits, and Caitlin swallows back her own little sounds.

Vi smiles. This is the challenge of Caitlin. Turning her into a mess. She welcomes it. She’s never been afraid of a challenge, especially not in a package as pretty as this one.

Vi spirals her thumbs around each tit, closer and closer to her nipples, but refusing to touch them. Caitlin’s head drops back and her hands fall behind her, naked nails digging into the sheets. They’re too soft; she gets no purchase here. She only slides closer and closer to Vi, getting more and more distraught with each second that passes with these gentle, bullshit touches.

Another smirk from Vi. She slows her passes, and Caitlin cusses, a “fuck” from her plush lips. Pleased, Vi lowers her head, tongue laving at Caitlin’s nipple. Caitlin doesn’t hesitate – she shoves Vi’s head closer, lifting her hips in another ask.

“Demanding,” Vi whispers into Caitlin’s chest.

“You’re chatty tonight,” Caitlin snaps back, and Vi chuckles.

“Complaints?” Vi says. “I wouldn’t want to upset the princess.” She grins as she lifts her head, shifting her hips so that she falls back next to Caitlin. “I’ve got things to do tonight, anyway,” she promises. “Busy night in the undercity.”

Faceless girls flash behind Caitlin’s eyes. Again, that surge of envy. “Vi,” she says, but the sound of her name on her lips is too genuine. For a moment, Vi’s eyes get that soft, almost loving glimmer, and Caitlin shakes her head, blue hair nearly black in the evening light. She needs to regain power.

She takes it.

Vi visibly shudders when Caitlin crawls on top of her. She doesn’t fuck around. She doesn’t do the whole teasing thing that Vi loves to torture her with; no Caitlin goes for what she wants. She yanks at Vi’s clothes, tossing her pants and her binder to the earth, uncaring where they land. That glimmer of love ghosts in Vi’s gaze again, and Caitlin drops her head and bites Vi’s abs, dragging teeth down to her hip bone, hard. She slithers her hands behind Vi’s hips, nails digging into the lowest part of her tattoo, and pulls as hard as she can until Vi’s back is arched and her cunt is in Caitlin’s mouth, pouring a river of salt and something essentially Vi onto her waiting tongue. She kisses Vi like she’d kiss her mouth, sucking on her clit like she’d suck on her tongue, making gentle sweeps around where Vi wants her most, taking in the sound of Vi’s grunts and moans with a focus so intense that Caitlin’s entire world becomes, simply, this: Vi’s cunt in her mouth and Vi’s thighs squeezing her ears and Vi’s ass clenching as she begins to fuck Caitlin’s face.

When Vi comes, Caitlin rolls onto her back, pulling Vi with her, hips still undulating. Vi rains down on Caitlin’s face, and Caitlin welcomes each drop. She guides two fingers deep inside of Vi, and slides her other hand down between her own legs. As she fucks Caitlin – slowly and then more harshly, each press sending Vi running back up that hill, almost twitching in needing agony as Vi tries to get closer to Caitlin – Caitlin rubs two fingers so hard on her own clit that it’ll probably bruise. She thrusts into Vi as she thrusts into herself, her focus no less locked as she does whatever it takes to get them both to come at the same time.

Above her, Vi is near-sobbing as another orgasm approaches. Caitlin doesn’t know if Vi knows that she’s chanting her name like a prayer, but, much as she tries not to, she likes it. This ripped, powerful being on top of her, and needing her, prissy little Caitlin Kiramman, like this. Caitlin thanks her by taking her clit back into her mouth, tongue rubbing at the very bottom of her clit over and over again, never quite reaching the head, like she’s jacking her off with her mouth.

Vi pauses, her entire body freezing, and Caitlin feels the cut of white light flashing through her, her orgasm beginning at her shoulders and exploding across her naked skin like hot fingers. Vi cries out, her hips rutting at Caitlin’s mouth, and before Caitlin realizes it she’s flipped onto her stomach and Vi is behind her, now, still gasping and sweating and shuddering.

“Vi,” Caitlin says, “take a second.”

“I don’t need,” Vi gasps, “a second.”

“Are you sur-”

Three fingers are shoved into Caitlin’s entrance, a thumb at her ass, and she shouts, the sound a mixture of a scream and a laugh. She takes Vi with greed, arching her back and dropping to her forearms. If what Vi wants in this moment is a good girl, she’ll give her one.

But Vi knows Caitlin can’t help but give as good as she gets. The words power bottom roll through her mind as Caitlin pushes her hips back, wagging her ass, teasing even as Vi fucks her with frenzied fingers. Vi grips Caitlin’s hip with her free hand, kneading at the heavy flesh. She drags her body up Caitlin’s so that her front comes to Caitlin’s back. She drags wet lips across Caitlin’s long neck, brings her free hand now to Caitlin’s swaying tits, and pinches her nipple, rolling and digging into the cushiony brown skin.

“I can’t, Vi,” Caitlin whimpers, another orgasm approaching. This one has claws that begin at her ankles, setting her skin alight. Everything concentrates at her cunt, zeroing in on where Vi continues to fuck with no end in sight, her hips thrusting as she fucks her with her fingers.

“You can, Cupcake,” Vi promises, her lips on Caitlin’s ear, and Caitlin sees it again in her minds eye: the flash of care in Vi’s gaze in those moments here in her bedroom where their eyes meet and they can see it all. What could be, what might be, what might never be, but what does exist, now, this game of theirs, this hazy dream they get to create every time they sink into downy sheets and into each other.

Caitlin can, and she does. She is all smoldering white light and Vi joins close by, her own body shuddering and illuminated behind her. They crumble, a ball of spent energy. Caitlin is pressed wholly beneath Vi’s body. She hates how much she likes it. Big, strong arms come on either side of her, and give her a squeeze.

“Are you…” Caitlin says. “Hugging me?”

Vi jumps like she’s been jolted. “Uh,” Vi says, and she smirks. “No?”

Caitlin can’t help it. She bursts into laughter.

“Don’t laugh at me, Cupcake,” Vi says, sinking her face into her hands. But her shoulders are shaking, too.

“It’s Caitlin,” Caitlin reminds. “I’m not sure why you continue with this ‘cupcake’ business.”

Vi perks up. “You know why.”

They laugh, growing shy as the seconds pass. Vi rakes her eyes over Caitlin’s body. A part of her always wonders: will this be the last time?

Caitlin takes in Vi’s eyes. Her thoughts grow quiet, and she puts everything she has into memorizing this moment. They both know how quickly life can flip. How much longer will they have this, whatever it is? A part of her always wonders: how can I protect this?

They don’t have the answers. They only have this, now. Caitlin doesn’t look at Vi as she holds out a palm, but Vi doesn’t hesitate. She simply sinks her fingers into Caitlin’s, grasping her long, clean fingers in her scarred ones. They pause, eyes locking, and take a breath.

A breeze through the window. The purple curtains around them sway. The taste of Vi still in Caitlin’s mouth. A gentle kiss, Vi pressing closed lips to Caitlin’s. A sigh.

For now. This is enough.

#caitvi #cait #vi #cait x vi #arcane #arcane fanfiction #arcane fic #vi x caitlyn #caitlyn x vi #caitvi fic #vi arcane #violet arcane #caitlyn kiramman #caitlyn/violet #caitlyn arcane #violet x caitlyn #violet x cait

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 8 months ago

Note

Congrats on 1k!!

for the ask game!

J: “dont touch me, get away from me”

in Someone who cares

hurt/comfort

book

and if I can make a special request that Eddie is the hurt party?

Thank you so much! 🥰 Always thrilled to write more about my favorite family.

Some dreams come true

Words: 954

Rated: G

Tags: Modern AU; No UD AU; Established relationship; Married Steddie; Steve is Dustin’s dad; Author Eddie; Hurt/comfort; Fluff

Notes: Set in the same universe as Someone who cares

“Eddie?” Dustin knocks on the door of the study. It’s slow and hesitant, and that alone is enough to tell Steve that the kid was not exaggerating when he called and told him to get home immediately. “It’s me. I’ve brought Dad. Please open the door?”

There’s no answer.

“Damn,” Steve murmurs. “What the hell happened?”

Dustin scowls.

“No idea. He opened that package that arrived for him, and then he went all silent and weird and locked himself in there, like- … oh, do you think it’s a bomb?”

“A what?” Steve squawks. “What the fuck, Dustin? Of course it’s not a- who’d even send us a bomb?”

“Dunno, grandpa?” Dustin is wibbling in his spot, weirdly elated with the notion. “He must still be pretty damn pissed, right? I mean, last time you saw him, Eddie punched him in the-”

Steve groans. “Jesus Christ, Dustin, I promise it's not a bomb. Go do your homework or whatever, I'll handle this.”

Dustin deflates, but sulks off towards his room, grumbling under his breath. Steve sighs and turns back to the door.

“Eds? I'm not leaving, just so you know.”

For a few seconds, everything stays silent. Then, something shuffles and footsteps approach. The lock clicks, but the door doesn't open. When Steve steps into the tiny room, Eddie is already back in his desk chair, elbows bracketed on his knees, head almost level with his hands. He's holding something. A book.

A familiar mix of feelings stirs in Steve's guts. Alarm. Worry. The overwhelming need to find out who hurt his husband and slowly tear them limb from limb.

“Eddie? What's-”

“Don't touch me. Get away from me.”

Eddie doesn't raise his voice. Steve catches himself wishing he had, because the quiet brokenness of the words is somehow infinitely more scary. His feet stop dead in their tracks, halfway between Eddie and the door. From where he's standing, he recognizes the book Eddie has in his hand.

“Author's copies arrived,” Eddie says, almost as if he read his mind. His head jerks weakly at the package sitting by his feet, holding a stack of identical books, all bearing Eddie’s name on the cover.

“But…” Steve mutters while his brain is still parsing through the situation. “But that's amazing, honey. You've been looking forward to this so long, why-”

“I know,” Eddie groans. The book flops to the ground as he brings his hands up to cup his own face. “I was. I am. It's just that …”

He exhales a long, shaky breath.

“It's all real now, Stevie. It's here. And- … and next week, it's gonna be in stores, and everybody will be able to pick one up and what if it sucks? I've been dreaming of this for as long as I can think of, but that's all it was - a dream. But now … I dunno, I'm just … I'm scared.”

“Hey,” Steve whispers, sinking to his knees to bring them face level. “Hey, look at me.”

Eddie does, big brown eyes peering out from between long fingers. Steve chuckles, reaching for those hands to pull them down into Eddie’s lap.

“Do you remember the pizza party?”

Eddie blinks at him. “Huh? What are you-”

“That was the first time I wanted to kiss you. I had only known you for a few weeks, but somehow, I was already falling in love with you.” Steve smiles, running his fingers over the familiar shape of Eddie's hands and arms, tracing the black ink of his tattoos. “I didn't do it then. Do you know why?”

“Because Mike puked on your sofa?”

“Yes,” Steve says automatically. Sputters. “I mean no. I mean- God, you're such an asshole.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches. Steve sighs.

“The reason I didn't do it,” he clarifies, “was because I was scared. Because I thought I'd rather spend a lifetime dreaming of having you than turning it into a reality and somehow messing it up. But you know what?”

“Hm?” Eddie hums, melting into him as Steve leans in to touch their foreheads together. “What's that, love?”

Steve smiles at the pet name, pressing a kiss to the dimple at the corner of Eddie’s mouth.

“I'm so incredibly fucking glad we got our shit together in the end,” he says. “Because the reality of it is so much better than anything I ever could've imagined.”

“So much fucking better,” Eddie whispers against his lips, and then neither of them says anything for a while. When they pull out of the kiss, Steve presses the fallen book into Eddie’s hands.

“This'll be fantastic,” he promises, smoothing over the wrinkle in Eddie’s brow with his lips before he can argue. “You just wait. Now, come down and help me with dinner? Dustin’s convinced you have a bomb in here.”

Eddie snorts a laugh and stands from his chair, carefully putting the book back with the others before slipping his hand into Steve’s. “What, seriously? And here you are, wondering why I’m doubting myself. With the things that kid comes up with, he should be the author in this family, not me. A bomb, fucking hell!”

Steve laughs softly as they make their way down the stairs. “You just wait until that book blows up and it turns out he was right.”

“Yeah, as if,” Eddie says, but there’s no bitterness left in his voice. He smacks a noisy kiss to Steve’s temple, pulling him into the kitchen with a dorky spin and twirl. “Keep dreaming, honey.”

He definitely will, Steve thinks as they get to work between a constant stream of bickering and kisses. His dreams have a habit of becoming true, after all, and he's no longer afraid of that.

More celebration ficlets

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie brainrot #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #someone who cares #hype's 1k follower ficlets

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gayelderstourney · 2 years ago

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OLD MAN YAOI BRACKET ROUND 1

Propaganda:

Jean Valjean/Javert:

One of the OG enemies to lovers. In the novel and musical, Valjean and Javert have complex, intertwined, and mirrored narratives which make them a fascinating ship to analyze. Also, there is a lot of hot fanfiction about them.

javert chases valjean around for at least 20 years because he broke parole and that's a big plot point. (jvj went to jail for bread theft if it matters.) considering how long that is and how much javert feels the need to do said chasing around that's kinda gay. also at one point javert is employed by valjean (except he doesn't know it's him and knows him as m. madeleine) and then asks madeleine to fire him. because he thought he was valjean and wanted to send him to jail even though he IS valjean. but some other guy got framed instead so it checks out and then WAY later on the barricades javert gets captured by a bunch of college students and valjean sets him free. this causes javert to have an existential crisis because 'OH NO HE'S A CRIMINAL BUT HE'S NICE TO ME' and then he kills himself. (also they have a very awkward carriage ride together. along with the unconscious body of valjean's future son-in-law. after valjean was in the parisian sewers and therefore covered in sewer water.)

what if i was an escaped convict and also the extremely benevolent mayor of a small jet producing town who broke into people's houses to give them money. and you were a furry cop trying to arrest me anyway. and then i save you from execution in the June rebellion and you realise that the police are not a symbol of justice but authority and being a criminal in the eyes of the law is completely separate from being a bad person. and this fucked you up so bad you killed yourself.

fuck those twinks in les mis these are the real finest gay love story victor hugo ever invented. javert literally followed valjean across france for decades because of his psychosexual obsession with recapturing him. valjean had the chance to kill him and spared his life, thus jump-starting javert's entire emotional arc. they're deranged and obsessive and they should kiss on the mouth

javert threw himself off a bridge bcs he was so mad the guy he was obsessively chasing was actually a good person depsite being a criminal theres gay ass old man yuri here

When you build your entire life around the existence of a man you despise is that still gay or do we need to invent something that transcends homosexuality. Asking for a friend.

fellas is it gay to spend your entire life chasing another man to arrest him even though all he did was steal a loaf of bread

Ravenpaw/Barley:

kitties who were outcast from previous groups they were a part of and find and live with each other. they are canonical mates even though theyre both dudes. they grow old together, but ravenpaw gets cancer and dies before barley (he lives to be considered old in warrior cats years). however ravenpaw wanted to be in the same kitty afterlife that barley will go to, so they can be together in kitty afterlife. barley is still alive though as far as we know and might be the oldest living cat in the series now. also i just think its funny to call little kitty cats "old man yaoi"

#polls #round 1 #gay elders tourney #tournament poll #ravenpaw #barley #warrior cats #ravenbarley #jean valjean #javert #les miserables #les mis #valvert

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blakbonnet · 6 months ago

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AUTHOR OF THE WEEK: @clairegregoryau 💕

Everytime the topic of fandom kindness and community comes up, of helping each other out and fostering a quiet corner where people can be themselves, most people in our little fandom think of Claire. She's written over a million words of OFMD fic and read even more, and you can always see so so many recs over on her twitter. Incredible good vibes, and an author who truly lives to lift other authors up. She also does SO SO much for fic authors over on the OFMD Fic Club server <3 And she was incredibly kind and shared her entire writing process with me:

What's your writing process like? Do you start with the beginning or the end? Do you write in order or as the scenes come to you?

I’m a huge advance planner, which is a process that has developed for me over more than 25 years of writing original fiction. I’ll get whacked with a story idea, then I’ll sit down and set out the central kernel of that idea, and where it needs to start, where it needs to end, and what the turning points need to be to get there.

A lot of the time I use a three-act structure, largely because Jenkins has talked about OFMD using that structure (one example here). So that makes it easy for me to hold to the canon beats when I’m writing AU stories, or to mirror them in canon-era stories, which is also something I try to do most of the time. With long experience (and now 1.7 million words of OFMD fic written (!)), I find this part of the process really easy. I’ll usually do that plotting by hand-writing out my notes, because it really fires up a different part of your brain.

Because I am such an advance planner, I do tend to write in a completely linear way from start to finish (I also pretty commonly post my long-fics as I write- each chapter goes up as soon as it’s finished and has a final editing pass). Punching through it in a linear way, knowing the ending that I’m working towards and being enthusiastic to get there, really keeps me motivated.

I do all of my writing in 30-minute sprints at the OFMD Fic Club Discord, where we’ve built a lovely and LOUDLY enthusiastic writing community that anyone is welcome to hop into 24/7. For those who find the constant chat a bit overwhelming, we also have a Quiet Focus Sprints channel. Again via long practice, I’m a very fast writer, but that’s accelerated a lot more over the last couple of years, paradoxically because I couldn’t write the way I used to anymore.

I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that includes some fun brain impacts at times, and it’s really hit my working memory especially. I used to be able to hold all the strands of a complicated story together in my head as I wrote, but now I can’t do that as easily. So that’s why the outline is important for me, so I never lose track of the idea- I’ll also do a quick outline at the start of each chapter I’m writing that notes what needs to happen, and then I’ll write in what I call layers, getting down whatever I can first, and then doing sweeps back through it to add internals, narrative detail, sensory details and so on. I make a LOT of notes and square brackets as I go to remind myself of things to look at later.

I also use a plot matrix [Twitter thread, Example Matrix] that you may have seen floating around- I mostly use it to keep track of plot details that have already happened within a story, so that I can check it out at a glance, but I will sometimes plan certain elements in advance (as in the case of Tree Change, which covered 87 of the 93 Kinktober prompts last year across 12 carefully planned chapters). There’s always space when I’m writing for the characters to surprise me within that plot framework- as a final plotting thing, once I’m at the halfway mark I’ll often plot backwards from the planned end to make sure that I’m on course, and to see what I need to adjust.

Favourite trope or headcanon you like to explore while writing?

I really like to dig into the friends-to-lovers trope that sits at the heart of the show. The Ed and Stede relationship reminds me immensely of my own- like Rhys and Taika as friends, we’ve been yes-anding each other for over 25 years (all of my least hinged fic ideas come from bouncing thoughts back and forth with my husband), and it’s been a steady mix of constant silliness, curiosity, and care. We’re best friends first and that’s one of my favourite things about Ed and Stede, that they are, too.

What I really love about it is the vulnerability of these two people who’ve been hurt so much by others in the past, who’ve never been fully appreciated for all the things that they are, and in each other they find the one absolutely perfect person who just gets them, and it makes all the difference. It’s always fun to play with that and variations on it in fics, and it’s usually the beating heart of my stories.

Whose voice is easier to write - Ed or Stede? Why?

I want to say that I find them both equally easy depending on the story. Ed as a character speaks very much the way I think- he has that ADHD buzz, the high swear level, and a very AoNZ turn of phrase that’s also very familiar to Australians (like me). Writing Ed is like turning the inside of my head out and it always flows easily.

But I have always said that I see myself in both characters in equal parts, so I find Stede pretty easy to write as well. I feel like I pretty solidly understand him as a person, with his history of rejection and his commitment to trying anyway, and trying to be kind, and letting himself be fascinated by things, from piracy to books to moths to Ed (that one’s not hard).

Your personal favourite thing you've written that you'd like more people to read

This is a near-impossible question with 69 OFMD fics up on AO3 😅 I really do love them all, and I have a lot of smaller one-shots that haven’t been read as much, but overall I’m incredibly lucky with readership and so so grateful for everyone who enjoys my work.

But my recent Reverse Bang fic The Broken Lines is hugely important to me and I think it’s probably one of the best things I’ve ever written anywhere. It’s set in the aftermath of the First World War (my professional zone of expertise), and features a Stede who’s lost his voice, his memory, and as far as he knows, his Ed. He gradually remembers what happened with the help of the crew and another Ed, who appears in his mirror from 1719, searching for his own Stede. It was a beautiful collaboration with artist Gerlinde to begin with, but I also got to work with one of my longest-term writing friends Jill @followedmystar as my beta, and then with Boy, who made a truly transcendent podfic that I can’t yell about enough.

What is the one word that you think you use a lot?

I think the word I have to zap more than any other is “actually”, and there are still a million of them in there when I’m done. The main reason is that to stick close to canon voice, I try to incorporate a lot of the less iconic/ more ordinary turns of phrase that the characters use a lot in their speech (I’ve watched every episode of the show… way too many times), and both Ed and Stede actually use “actually” a surprising amount. I just use it an even more surprising amount 😂

(This just sent me on a QUEST to find a specific number because I am that kind of nerd- Stede says it 15 times in S1 and 12 in S2, and Ed says it 8 times in each, for totals of 27 and 16, many of them in distinctive moments; it just gives that little buzz of recognition for me. I started out screenwriting before I moved to prose, so my writing tends to lean pretty strongly on having a recognisable, almost audible voice to the dialogue, as well as a cinematic visual style for the big adventures especially).

Do you have a beta reader? Have they made you a better writer?

I quite deliberately don’t use a beta reader for most of my OFMD fics, because being in this space is an exercise in recovering from lifelong paralysing perfectionism around writing especially. I’ve spent so many years not finishing original work because it never feels like it passes the invisible bar for perfection that exists in my own head. So when I started writing OFMD fic, I set out to accept good enough as good enough, and to get back to enjoying writing as fully as I can.

Obviously this means that my work could be better, but I’m actively working on letting that thought go and loving everything I’ve made just as it is. When I have worked with beta readers on projects that require them, like the Reverse Bang, it’s been with friends who I trust and adore, who I know will listen to what I need (cheerleading, mostly), and will do their best to work with me on improving the story without letting me spiral into hating it all because it wakes the perfectionist beast back up.

That doesn’t mean I’m without regular support, or that I’m not trying to improve my writing! I read an absolutely insane amount of fic, and I’m always in awe of the talent we have on this ship, and always learning from what other people do well. In lieu of beta readers, we share snippets of work all the time in our sprints team, so I get feedback there; I also get it from readers in progress, who often give me a sense of what’s hitting the way I hoped and what needs a bit of tweaking. I also have lovely group chats and individual friends like Kerry @communionnimrod and Lis @ghostalservice and Jill who I can run to if I need an opinion on whether an idea feels right or not, which I will often ask.

I’m very very careful with my writing, but in a couple of rare instances readers have also DMd me to note spots where I’ve inadvertently included something that doesn’t reach the sensitivity standard I’m aiming for. I’m always grateful for that gentleness and bravery in reaching out and I’m always happy to change something or to add tags or notes as needed.

Why OFMD 🥹

I watched the whole show in one hit a week after the final episode aired, and I loved it immediately, but I thought I was going to be normal about it. The unravelling into complete, unrelenting obsession happened gradually as I rewatched it with my husband and teen, then again, and again, then started to read fics and hunt up art, then started joining fan spaces, and then dived into writing my first fic in two and a half decades (all original writing between The X-Files and here), thinking it would also be my last.

I’m still here, still writing constantly, and a major portion of it is the show and how distinctly it reflected all the many parts of me, some of which I’d never seen so clearly before. I had a tough childhood in a few different family respects. I didn’t understand that I was neurodivergent until I turned 40 and my own kids were heading for diagnosis, and I’d been rejected constantly throughout my life for being too much. I was a high achiever who was in the process of crumpling under pressure right when I watched it, and while I’d been figuring out my sense of my own queerness for a few years, I’d never had a community that helped me feel at home with that.

And in the end it’s the community that’s been the reason I’ve been fully sucked into fandom for the first time since my teens- the writing in this space is top-tier wonderful, and the community is such a found family, just like the Revenge. Being able to write and have people actually want to read that writing, being able to cheer others on and hype their work, being able to help set up the OFMD Fic Club Discord and make it a safe spaceship for so many people, has been incredibly fulfilling and lovely.

Please head over to @ofmdlovelyletters (who also made the header) and send your love to all your favourite authors (and authors of the week 😈 watch that blog for some special letters coming your way)

#aotw #author of the week #artist of the week #clairegregoryau #ofmd #our flag means death #writing

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mythalism · 1 month ago

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i think, anecdotally, canadians love to use land acknowledgments and Diversity(tm) a bit more than americans do, and have a degree of always pointing at the us and being like "well at least WE didn't do anything that fucked up! we're so much more enlightened and respectful 😌". and so any acknowledgment that racism exists, or that necessary societal change is often only brought by unpleasant disruption, or specifically that indigenous people live in terrible conditions because of colonization, is bracketed with this type of "but it's very complicated, and who's to say if there's a solution? we're thinking about it really hard, and holding space, and listening and learning, and maybe we will get to fixing it in like 50 years if people ask nicely" rhetoric. and there's a degree of apprehension that "land back" is a call for ethnic cleansing of settlers (somehow, despite this being both physically not possible and not actually anyone's demand) and that any movement towards that will be bad and overly radical.

which maps directly onto how bioware writes elves specifically haha. they'll sympathetically show how they're oppressed and living under the boot of a catholic church-esque entity, but then... ahhh noo, actually they had a very problematic pre-colonization culture, and they're too impractically fixated on the past and that prevents them from moving forward, and the church employees are sometimes trying their best and making amends, and the demands of the elven leadership are just too out there and violent... so really, it's very complicated. maybe it could be better to keep the status quo and only have Incremental Change, forever.

(they sort of didn't do this in the masked empire, but as always they had to throw in a bit about how Rude And Mean the dalish are. plus the ridiculously evil chevalier lore of each one randomly executing a few elves as a rite of passage, and then never mentioning that aspect again bc i guess it wasn't relevant to michel's story. as well as the insanely underwritten premise of what briala and celene's relationship actually was. there's ~toxic lesbians~, and then there's "extremely rich and powerful white noblewoman calls her younger servant class gf ugly for being dark skinned, lies to her for years, has her family and then entire community killed, then tries to seduce her back when she gets angry and leaves" lmao. i think weekes was going for a tragic morally grey starcrossed lovers to enemies vibe, but to me it was more of a horrific one-sided exploitation that the author did not seem to realize they were writing.)

and in veilguard i suppose they tried to avoid the entire issue by mostly removing those aspects of the setting, so you no longer even have the somewhat well-observed depictions of oppression combined with Justin Trudeau Moments, it's just kind of empty.

anyway thank you for appreciating my very long ted talk! i left tumblr after the whole "popular bloggers mass reporting pro-palestine people for terrorism" thing (i can get that treatment for free irl, don't need that extra stress from the Fandom Webbed Site haha). i've just been drifting back to look at dragon age posts bc i was curious about veilguard. i didn't expect much from bioware but it was surprising that they just went even further into tone-deaf bizarre race allegories rather than reading 1 (one) nonfiction book in the years since dai, or hiring anybody from a different background who could weigh in. :')

wow this is seriously so fascinating and insightful and truly does give me a better understanding of both canada and bioware LMFAO so thank you so much for sharing seriously. you are welcome in my inbox for more ted talks anytime and now im just gonna leave this here to marinate on it further and hope other people read it because its fantastic. xoxo

#asks #veilguard critical #fave

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outercrasis · 4 months ago

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The Distance - Ch 13

Pairing: Din Djarin x Pilot F!Reader (reader is petite/no other descriptors)

Word Count/Rating: 4.8k / T (will become M/E in later chapters)

Summary: Time to meet a new (old) friend.

Warnings: some general angst (nothing too heavy), alcohol consumption

Previous || Series Masterlist || Next

Din doesn’t offer any additional details about Mos Pelgo or whoever you're supposed to be dropping in on. You put together a small bag, prepping for a couple days away from your ship. Tex seems more nervous than you do.

“I know buddy, but I'll still be on planet,” you placate. “It's a good opportunity to test out these long range comms too. You can send me whatever updates you want while I'm gone.”

Tex beeps lowly, reluctantly accepting the situation. You don't blame him – you can't remember the last time you left Tex or the Chimera for more than a single night.

“Got ‘em!” You hold up your old goggles triumphantly, finally locating them at the bottom of a long forgotten pack. “Knew I still had these somewhere.”

Peli is already waiting for you at the bottom of the Chimera's ramp. You can see why Din likes her – she feels like a crazy aunt that you only see once a cycle, while also being able to intuit things better than anyone else you know.

“What should I know about her?” Peli asks. You can't help but smile.

Thirty minutes later and you've given her the rundown of the Chimera's basics. Tex has instructions to share schematics with Peli when needed and is officially given authority over the pit droids. He's not so secretly thrilled by that fact. Knowing that Peli is the mastermind behind the N1 calms any of your bigger anxieties about leaving your baby behind for repairs.

Din is already standing by the speeder bike when you’re done. It’s a bigger model that could probably support a sidecar, but there are none of those in sight. The only option is to sit on the bike with Din. You steel yourself, trying to push down your hurt feelings. There’s no point in lingering on them right now when you’re about to be in very close quarters with him.

You give Grogu a couple pats goodbye and then shove your bag into one of the saddlebags already attached to the bike.

“Is it comfortable?” Din asks. You're more than a little lost.

“My bag?”

He chuckles, the low noise just managing to bypass the vocoder. “No, the holster.”

It's the first time you've been able to wear it since he got it for you. Sure, you've worn it around the Chimera a few times, but never out in the world. “It's good.”

If you were in a better mood you might tell him that it fits like a glove – that you can almost forget you have it on. You don't know how he managed to find a holster that feels like it was made for you.

“Good.”

You climb onto the bike, moving yourself forward to make it easier for Din. He turns and says something to Peli you don’t catch before getting onto the bike behind you. It’s tight, but you both fit.

You’re hyper aware of his body around yours. The firm, cool beskar at your back, the way his legs bracket around yours, his arms caging you in as he reaches up to the handlebars. You barely have enough presence of mind to pull your goggles down before he takes off, launching the two of you into the vast expanse of the desert.

You wish you could enjoy this more. This is the closest and longest you have ever been next to Din and yet you're stuck in a terrible mood. With nothing to distract you, his stupid words are running on a loop in your head.

Just a pilot.

Even worse is that you're getting upset with yourself as well as Din. You don't know why you can't let it go. Why the words wormed their way into the worst part of your brain, plaguing you and making you feel childish. He probably didn't mean anything by it. You wish you could convince yourself of that.

The speeder bike is doing nothing to improve your mood. While the bike is capable of carrying two, that doesn’t mean it was built for it. Peli was right when she said it was junk – the seat cushion barely offers a modicum of support.

Din’s position on the bike is so firm you can’t move or readjust at all. It was fine at first, making you feel a bit safer, protected by him on the dangerously fast bike. Now though, your body aches. Your refusal to create any additional points of contact between your bodies beyond what's unavoidable isn't helping either.

Your muscles demand to move, one of your legs half asleep from the position it’s in. Only your hands are free to move but you can’t decide what to do with them, so you settle for relaxing them in your lap until that gets uncomfortable after a while. Logically you know this isn’t actually Din’s fault, but the irrational side of your brain is winning. You feel trapped, stuck in one place on the machine until Din determines that it’s time to stop. You aren’t even sure of a way to signal to him to let him know that you need a quick pause to stretch.

You endure for a bit longer before deciding that you can’t continue. You don’t know how far away Mos Pelgo is and your body feels like it’s being turned into stone from inactivity. Even if it’s only for a few minutes, you need to stretch your legs. You decide to tap Din’s leg and try to look up at him. He gets your message because soon the speeder slows down and comes to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” Din asks.

“I need to stretch. I haven’t moved in too long and I’m way too stiff,” you explain.

Din gets off of the bike first. You keep your eyes firmly planted forward, unwilling to watch and risk an awkward situation.

You stretch your arms and back first before moving from the seat. Your spine pops and you can feel your muscles rejoice from the new movement. You swing your leg around and go to step off the bike, only to have your legs give out and nearly fall face first into the sand. It appears that your leg was more than half-asleep in its crunched position.

You’re saved by Din’s quick reflexes, catching your arm and holding you up before you fall completely. “You okay, can’gal?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you mumble, pulling your arm from his hold. You do your best to ignore the painful tingles in your leg as blood flow and feeling returns. You scan the landscape as you continue to stretch. It’s desolate, countless dunes of sand as far as the eye can see. Yet the planet is beautiful in its own way – a sterile kind that is unique with its twin suns shining brightly overhead.

After about five minutes of stretching and moving around, you turn back to Din. He’s leaning against the speeder with his arms casually folded over his chest. He looks like he should be on the cover of Speeders Weekly.

“I’m ready. Mind telling me how much farther we have?”

You climb back on and Din follows. “About another hour and a half. Think you can hold on that long?”

You glance up at him behind you. “It would be easier without your giant body blocking me in, but I think I’ll make it.”

Din lets out a distorted chuckle at your barb. He gives your legs a quick squeeze with his own. You ignore the skip in your heartbeat. “You can move if you need to, just don’t fall off.”

“How can I, with you in the way?”

Din laughs again and starts up the speeder. You pull your goggles back down and he takes off, launching you back over the endless sand dunes.

Nearly two hours later, Din’s prediction a little off, you can see Mos Pelgo in the distance. The twin suns hang low in the sky and cast barely enough light to see by. The second half of the speeder ride wasn’t as bad. It was shorter and the suns sinking had alleviated much of the heat.

You felt a bit more comfortable moving when your body began to stiffen which helped to prevent more pain. At some point you even begin to relax – if you ignored how uncomfortable the seat was beneath you it wasn’t so bad. Din’s chestplate acted as a nice backrest for you and you can tell he tried to position his legs to give yours more room. They didn't start tingling again at least.

Once you see the tiny settlement on the horizon you feel your stomach drop. Your palms are getting sweaty and you know it has nothing to do with the planet’s heat. This town clearly doesn’t have much and you wonder why Din made his way out here before. Did he track a bounty all this way? And who could compel him to return? Whoever they were, they must be pretty to come out here for a visit.

Din slows the speeder bike as you roll into town and you see a few people wandering around Mos Pelgo. You expect them all to stare in wonder or fear like what normally happens when Din comes into a town. Instead, you can hardly believe your eyes as they… wave? Are the people in this town actually waving at the big scary Mandalorian? Maker, what is this place? It’s unlike any experience you’ve ever had with Din at your side before.

Din stops the speeder outside of the cantina. He hops off and offers you a hand. You still feel anxious and a large part of you doesn’t want to take it, but you can’t fully trust your legs at the moment. His hand is firm in yours and you can’t help but feel a small amount of comfort at the touch.

The cantina is as small and cozy as you've ever seen one. The lights are low, half the tables taken up by patrons. There's a comfortable murmur filling the air that mixes with the jizz music coming from a jukebox in the corner.

Din guides you towards one of the rounded booths. You've never seen him this relaxed in a public setting before. His visor is scanning the room but the looseness of his shoulders tells you he’s not looking for a threat.

You figure you'll know this mystery person when you see them. Din might be hidden away under all that armor, but somehow the only the prettiest of people find their way to him. You've seen more than a few brave souls be turned away. Nerves get the better of you and you begin to absentmindedly pick at your fingers.

Moments later, a drawl comes from above you. “Well I'll be.”

You look up and see a tall, lanky but not awkward man standing in front of you and Din. He’s got a sideways grin plastered on his face, which should look more ridiculous than it does. His silver hair looks as though it was nicely styled like his short beard before the desert winds blew through it. His eyes are bright and you’re tempted to describe them as sparkling.

“Mando,” he says in a friendly greeting while sticking his hand out towards Din for a handshake.

“Marshal,” Din shakes the man’s hand. He turns to you and gestures to his acquaintance. “Meet Cobb Vanth, Marshal of Mos Pelgo.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Cobb turns his smile to you and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel yourself melt a little. You already understand why Din would want to come out here for a visit – this man could probably charm just about anyone.

“And just who might you be, darlin’? Don’t tell me you’re somehow that little green kid he had with him before.”

That makes you laugh out loud. “No, I’m not.” You offer up your name along with your hand to shake. Cobb takes your hand and presses a soft kiss against your knuckles. You have to admit, he’s smooth. Din gives a small cough from his side of the booth.

“Sorry there Mando, just couldn’t help myself,” Cobb says, winking at you. Oh, he’s very smooth.

“Sure you couldn’t.”

Cobb sits on your other side, across from Din, and hails the bartender over. He sets down three cups and an entire jug of spotchka. The Marshal must be well liked then, you think, if the bartender is willing to part with a jug so easily. Cobb pours all three glasses, which strikes you as odd, considering that he should know Din doesn’t eat or drink with others. Din doesn’t say anything about it though, so you keep quiet as well.

“What brings you out this way?” Cobb asks as he passes the cups around.

“Had the time. I was told you came back here after your time in the bacta tank.”

Just how many friends does Din have on this backwater rock? You thought you were getting to know one another – two loners who found each other – and here he is with a number of mystery friends he never speaks of. Maybe you had misjudged the closeness of your relationship.

“Nowhere else for me to go,” Cobb says. “Besides, the new arm works for intimidation purposes.”

With a flick of his wrist, a small blaster pops up out of the Marshal's robotic arm. It probably doesn't have any more power than a hold-out blaster, but it gets a message across. Din doesn't even flinch.

As close as you are to each other, you're able to see the gears whirring in his arm and follow the different lines and parts as they travel up towards his shoulder. His mod isn't the fanciest you've ever seen but it's still a work of art.

“Marshal, do you mind if I take a look?” you ask, gesturing towards his arm. He seems proud of it, so you don't think he'll mind the request.

He puts the blaster away, setting his arm down on the table in front of you. “Not at all. Just don't touch with that part there, sends my nerves ablaze if it's messed with.”

This new man is just as much of a mystery to you as the other one at the table. Din took months before he'd let you poke around at his armor’s electronic components and that wasn't even fully attached to his body. Meanwhile Cobb is more than happy to have you take a look while also revealing its biggest weakness.

Din and Cobb's conversation fades away as you look over his arm. This kind of fine mechanical work is always tricky, ten times more when you factor in the biological component. Cobb allows you to move his arm in whatever way you see fit, easily answering the questions that you’re mostly muttering to yourself. You ignore Din’s weighty stare.

“You’ve got a thing of beauty there, Marshal,” you say as you complete your observations.

“Well that's not a word I hear that often,” he defers. “And please, call me Cobb.”

“Somehow I doubt that, Cobb.”

He laughs loudly. “Well shoot. You've got one heck of a girl here, Mando.”

You glance over at Din. He's as stoic as ever. You're left floundering – no longer truly understanding your relationship with him or his relationship to Cobb. Irritation bubbles over.

“Not his girl. Just a pilot.” You throw back the shot of spotchka in front of you, ignoring the burn as it goes down.

“Duly noted,” Cobb says, giving you a small nod. You don’t look over at Din. You don’t want to see his reaction.

The three of you are able to fall into easy conversation from there. You discover the connection between Cobb and Din – You mean you haven’t told her ‘bout me? I’m hurt Mando, real hurt – and you decide you can’t imagine Mandalorian armor on Cobb. There’s just something about him that doesn’t work quite right with your picture. He’s too casual, too comfortable with himself to ever need a second skin over top. He's also too skinny you decide, not nearly broad enough to fill out Mandalorian armor as it should be.

You don't try to hide your fascination as Cobb regales you with the tale of the krayt dragon. "I thought he was a goner for sure, getting eaten like that. Just when I'm thinkin' the worst out he comes, flying out of the beast's mouth like some sorta hero."

You turn to Din, the spotchka in your system removing any embarrassment as you openly gape at him. "Is he telling the truth?" you ask. It's not that you don't trust Cobb, but the whole thing is so remarkable that it's hard to believe.

"He's making it sound like more than it was. I was covered in it's bile, I stunk for weeks after that."

You learn about Mos Pelgo, how Cobb came to be its Marshal, and how the town has been getting on since the dragon's death. He tells you about the run-ins with the Pyke Syndicate and how he came to lose his arm.

Through all the replays of Din and Cobb's greatest hits, you figure that if there are any kind of romantic feelings between the two, it's never elevated beyond some flirtation. It makes you feel foolish for ever getting jealous in the first place. Old habits and ways of thinking die hard, you suppose.

The spotchka goes down easy, a welcome distraction from any unhappy thoughts lingering in the back of your mind. Cobb continues to flirt with you throughout the night, serving as another nice distraction. You know you shouldn't encourage it, but his open attraction and the alcohol make it difficult to resist. Sure, he is a bit skinny, a bit talkative, and his skin isn't as sun-kissed as you preferred, but he could do.

As the night wears to a close, you can feel sleep begin to pull at the corners of your mind. The long day in the sun combined with the alcohol you consumed start working together to make your body shut down. You hardly register as Din asks Cobb where the two of you can stay for the night.

You pull yourself out of the booth, slapping your cheeks gently to try and clear up the fog in your mind. You regain enough clarity to function without assistance. After Din grabs your bags off the speeder, you both follow Cobb as he leads you both to the single spare room above the cantina.

"Sorry it ain't much, but as you know we don't get many visitors out here," Cobb says as he opens the door.

He's right. It isn't much. Just a tiny square room with a bed and a dresser with a 'fresher attached. You're happy to note that it all looks clean though, devoid of the layer of sand that seems to cover everything on Tatooine.

"It'll be just fine, thank you Marshal," you tell him. Cobb tips an imaginary hat and throws a wink at you. He gives Din a wink too, which makes you snort. He then walks away, throwing a goodnight over his shoulder.

You shake your head, amused, and follow Din into the room. Rather than flounder about the sleeping arrangements, you grab some clothes from your bag and go into the 'fresher, determined to get off at least some of the day's grime. You're disappointed with a sonic shower, although you weren't sure what else you expected, being on a desert planet. Still, it provides some relief and you change into some clean clothes to sleep in. You splash a small amount of water on your face from the sink and gulp some down in your cupped hands.

"All yours," you announce as you walk back into the small room.

Din doesn't say anything, but he goes into the 'fresher and closes the door just a bit too hard. Was he mad about something, you wonder? Although you've hit your second wind, the alcohol is still playing with your thoughts. Maybe he's just moody from the long day.

He doesn't take long in there, certainly less time than your small tipsy fumbles, and comes back out still fully dressed. You push yourself up onto your elbows in the bed and look him over. "Take off the armor," you tell him.

"You're drunk,” he responds.

“Yeah? And why does that matter?” you ask. Din doesn’t reply. You sigh and drop backwards to stare up at the ceiling.

“There’s no way you can be comfortable sleeping in all of that metal. So just take it off and get in the bed. I’m obviously not talking about the helmet.”

You stay staring at the ceiling. It’s a fairly comfortable position, head cushioned in the pillows, while you try to not make him uncomfortable.

You aren’t really sure why this is such a big deal to him tonight. He’s taken off his beskar in front of you plenty of times now. Yet maybe something had changed between the two of you again without you noticing. You were just a pilot to him, maybe that meant some of his walls were coming back up? Desperately, you tried to ignore the stab of pain that thought caused you. You don’t want to lose Din to the cold, distant Mando you met so many months ago, especially not without knowing why. The thought is too much to bear.

You turn on your side, away from Din, offering him extra assurance that you weren’t just trying to perv on him as he removed his armor. You know he's caught you staring more than a few times around the Chimera. Did that bother him? You should have asked.

Part of you knows you should be more nervous about sharing a bed with Din – particularly with this growing gulf between the two of you. This is intimate in a way, isn’t it? Sharing a space to sleep like this? Yet, whether it’s the influence of the alcohol or the exhaustion, you can’t find it within yourself to be flustered over it. It’s practical anyway. You both need sleep and Mos Pelgo only has the one room and bed to offer. One of you sleeping on the floor would be stupid. You try to convince yourself that if only Din would stop being ridiculous and get into the bed, things would be just fine again – right?

After what seems like an eternity, you hear metal pieces begin to clank down together on the dresser. A small smile works its way across your lips and you’re happy that for once it’s your face hidden away from his. He’s hesitant maybe, but not uncomfortable enough to keep the heavy armor on. Knowing that things are okay enough, your eyes shutter closed and a deep sleep carries you away.

Din is surprised to discover that you’re already asleep when he climbs into bed. You seemed so awake a few moments ago when he started taking off his armor. He’s still kicking himself for his reaction.

Of course you meant for him to take it off to go to sleep, not... anything else. Why would you? You’ve been acting off ever since landing on Tatooine. You wouldn’t suddenly be asking him for that, not now. Not that you would want anything like that with him anyway – Din feels like a monster for thinking that way about you.

Looking down at you, Din ruminates a bit more. Somehow between all of the bounties, long hours, injuries, and repairs, you worked your way into his heart. Part of him doesn’t want to admit it still, that you have such a large effect on him, but it gets harder with every passing day. Touches and stares linger for longer and Din takes notice of your bashfulness every time he calls your name. Until today.

Din hasn’t been able to figure out what has caused the change. Soon after landing in Tatooine you brushed him off, distancing yourself from him. He knew the speeder bike situation wasn’t ideal, but usually you would have handled something like that with more tact, not the brash way you questioned Peli about another bike. You were tense for the longest time on the bike, not relaxing until the small break you took part way through the ride. Were you just upset to be stuck on Tatooine? Bothered by the beating the Chimera took? Or had he done something?

He was leaning towards the idea that he had done something to upset you. Just a pilot. Those words bounced around in his mind.

He panicked when Peli asked who you were and those had been the first words out of his mouth. He hardly even considered the way they would sound. The way you repeated those words to Cobb, it felt like a slap to the face.

The town marshal wasn't helping anything either. Watching the two of you was making his blood boil. He likes the man, killing a krayt dragon together has that effect, but he has few qualms about punching the Marshal in the face right about now. He stared at you so openly, flirted so shamelessly, and you reciprocated. If Din was a lesser man he would have thrown you over his shoulder and carted you out of the cantina.

His mind continued to swirl and wander. Was it simply being stuck on Tatooine that made you change? Did being stuck here, with no agenda as you put it earlier, make you realize flying around with him was not the life you wanted?

Of course you didn’t want to be stuck, tied down to a man who couldn’t even show you his face, who couldn’t even admit what you were to him. Cobb was able to make his intentions towards you obvious from the first words he spoke. You deserved that, not the brief, vague moments of intimacy Din had to offer.

Din looks away from you, trying to close his heart off from you, deciding that it’s what's best. He makes himself comfortable, lying on his back, helmet cushioned by the pillow.

He reopens his eyes just as soon as he closes them. You've repositioned yourself in your sleep, turning over and wrapping an arm firmly around his waist, face tucked into his side.

The touch makes him nervous, unsure of how to react to the foreign embrace. His resolve to give you up quickly crumbles. Din’s never had this. He’s thought of it before, but it was all theoretical. This is real and unlike anything he ever imagined.

Part of him feels perverted for enjoying it as much as he is and so quickly after realizing you deserved more than him. You’re asleep and you fell asleep facing the other direction – you had no control over this, no consent.

Despite those protests, he can’t help but sink into your touch. He repositions his arm, wrapping it around you, which causes you to shift your head up onto his chest. His breathing stops for a minute, terrified that you’ll wake up and pull away, but you remain lost in blissful dreams. The feeling of your warm body pressed against his, hand fisting into his shirt, the gentle rise and fall of your back against his palm while you breathe, is almost more than he can handle.

Din lies there for a few minutes, trying to commit every sensation, every sound you make to memory. It’s overwhelming and yet he craves more. With the helmet on in this position, he can’t get the right angle to look down at you. A risky idea runs through his mind and once again he ignores his protesting thoughts, following the path your touch has sent him down.

He calls your name twice, softly, just to test how deeply you’re sleeping. When you don’t do so much as twitch, he decides it’s safe enough.

Carefully, Din removes his helmet with his hand that isn’t holding onto you. He doesn’t set it down, holding onto it in case he needs to quickly put it back on. Vision unobscured, he looks down at you wrapped around his body. Din finds himself dumbstruck.

That moment secures your position in his mind as the most beautiful thing in the whole of the galaxy. You look so peaceful, any worries wiped clean from your face. Your mouth is slightly open and although Din knows that means you’ll probably drool on him, he can’t bring himself to care. Your hair is a beautiful mess and Din thinks back to the one time he was able to touch it before, back on Rishi with you half-conscious from a concussion. He's really got to stop having these moments while you aren't awake.

Moving more cautiously than he ever has before, Din dips his head down and presses a gentle kiss against the top of your head. He whispers cyar’ika to you and dares to kiss you again. With one final look and a shaky breath, Din slips his helmet back on. He knows he’ll never get to sleep otherwise, far too tempted to spend the rest of his night just staring at you.

No longer using a taglist -- If you want alerts, this fic is available and gets updated on ao3 at the same time, so you can subscribe on there if you want to know when I update!

also going to be mushy here and say thank you to anyone who has sent me a message, left a comment, etc on this fic. It genuinely means the world to know that people are still reading and thinking about this fic 🥺💕

#din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin fanfiction #the distance #crasis writes #din djarin x reader

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xshingie · 5 months ago

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Edouard Character Profile and Analysis: A second look at the man behind the bright-eyed smile.

Introduction/Context:

One of the most difficult challenges when analyzing Edouard’s character is that much of his backstory is enshrouded in mystery. The most we know of him is told through Annette, which necessitates peeling back layers from how Annette would perceive him with her limited perspective.

However, we can look at history to construct what sort of life Edouard might have had, and what unique challenges he might have faced. By piecing together circumstantial details of Saint-Domingue’s theater culture, we can start to ask the questions: What might have shaped Edouard’s motives, ideals, and beliefs? What motivates Edouard’s character?

So, let’s embark on a iceberg-level deep dive where I explore a potentially cynical interpretation of Edouard that hasn’t been examined before...

Note: Throughout you will notice certain words enclosed in brackets following the end of a sentence with a number. This references the cited source by author's last name or website name, which is listed in full at the end.

PART I. Annette and Edouard, Revisited

1.1 Initial Impressions

I initially held the belief that Annette/Edouard relationship was intimately close -- closer than anything, family, perhaps bordering on romantic. There was something implicit in their connection through demonstrated character actions: (1) Edouard saving her from Vaublanc, (2) fighting side-by-side during the Haitian slave insurrection. (3) How Edouard chose to follow Annette to France without hesitation (4) how Edouard’s death affected Annette so deeply.

At the time when I had completed my first Annette/Edouard fic, I had written an in-depth analysis ("On the Edouard/Annette 'ship'") where I posited how deep their closeness must have been, and what they had meant to each other.

However, as I’ve let things sit in the fridge more, certain observations have made me reconsider. I believe they were 'close' in terms of trust when fighting alongside each other, but they didn't truly understand each other on a deeper level.

1.2 Re-Analyzing Sampled Interactions

Richter: Are you alright? You can’t be sure that was him. Annette: Those were his eyes.

At the time, I had thought that Annette recognizing Edoaurd’s eyes in a vastly different form was an implicit indication of their closeness. However, as mentioned in this previous post here ("Exploring The Narrative Significance of Edouard’s Blue eyes"), my stance now is that this speaks more to her own personal perception of how well she thought she knew him, rather than actually knowing him.

Annette: Edouard believed singing was the soul's way of speaking. That's why, from pauper to statesman, everyone is drawn to music. He'd say that when he was on stage looking out to the audience, he could see the colors of everyone's soul. Mine was pink. He was wrong, though. Green is my favorite color.

When Annette recounts Edouard’s belief about singing and souls, there’s a wistful quality in her tone, sentimental and romantic with a subtle laugh. This scene can be interpreted in multiple ways -- perhaps she felt the notion Edouard held was silly, something she appreciated but perhaps didn’t understand or didn’t quite see it the same way he claimed. Note the visual storyboarding setup -- she is quite literally, reconstructing an subjective image -- her subjective image -- of Edouard as she speaks through memory.

As I began to research more into Saint-Domingue’s colonial theatre scene, I began to understand on a deeper level what kind of environment Edouard was in. This led me to question why the only things we heard about Edouard from Annette was from a rosy lens. Of course, here I ought to extend some grace. When grieving, it is only normal human tendency to want to remember the best parts of someone.

Annette: My sweet, beautiful Edouard has been turned into a monster conjured from hell.

But… Annette’s phrasing of “my sweet, beautiful Edouard,” combined with the fact that we only hear only rosy things, suggests me that either (1) Edouard didn’t share much about himself beyond his romantic ideals, and/or (2) Annette didn’t know him as well as she thought, perhaping lacked the capacity to understand him deeper with her framework of understanding at that stage in her life.

Another instance that may hint at this disconnect is when she finds NightCreature!Edouard, she offers to give him penance through killing him.

Annette: I can make it quick, Edouard. No. pain [..] I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought that's what you would have wanted.

This situation, taken in isolation, is not a strong one. With limited knowledge of night creatures, Annette wouldn’t have known that Edouard could be cognizant or the extent he retained his humanity (his case being unprecedented in the animated Castlevania universe). However, this still highlights Annette’s tendency to jump to conclusions and take action first rather than seek understanding.

----

PART II. Who was Edouard, Really? Constructing a Character Profile from History and Headcanon

2.1 Saint-Domingue’s Political, Social, and Economic backdrop in context of French Colonial Theatre

At the peak of the Haitian revolution, the racial diaspora in colonial Saint-Domingue had evolved into a nuanced and complex one -- with the burgeoning rise of the mixed race population, some of which had amassed wealth and economic influence. Even within the mixed race population, there were nuances and subtleties regarding their rights -- i.e., a gens de coleur that would have been born free, compared to an affranchis, a slave that had earned their freedom. A mixed race person’s circumstances of birth governed mobility in what careers, ownership of property/land, voting rights, and strategic marriages/unions could be pursued (Maguire[3]).

Edouard was shown performing in the Comédie du Cap (also referred to as the Comédie le Cap), which became open to the public in 1764 and experienced a boon/bustle in hosting performances, ushering a peak of French colonial theatre all through the 1780s before the slave revolution sunsetted the end an era.

Background Art from the Portfolio of Mark Adams, Lead 3D Artist @ Powerhouse Animation, where he shares the design inspiration is from the theatre Comédie du Cap.

This theatre was situated in the heart of Cap‑Français. now known as Cap-Haitian. At the time, it was one of the wealthiest cities with its key strategic seaport location and boasting a diverse urban population, and eventually became a key staging ground for the Haitian slave revolt that sparked in 1791 through 1793.

A fun detail comparing the skyline of modern Cap-Haitian (courtesy of Wikipedia) and Cap‑Français as depicted in Nocturne. Note the similarity of the eminence of the peninsula that resembles a "widow's peak."

Note: Detail the specific theatres and setting will be important once I discuss Edouard’s transition from theatre to joining the maroons, or escaped slaves.

The theatre scene in Saint Domingue was complex social, political, and economic space that both (1) reflection of a system that reinforced the French hegemonic colonial presence, but also (2) may have influenced and challenged the complex social structures that arose through the eventual Creole influences in performances -- all the while serving as a melting pot where a diverse body of people convened to immerse themselves (the perception of) high-end French culture and music (Prest[6], Clay [1]).

As discussed, there were a lot of nuanced social ordinances, not too dissimilar to a caste system. The majority of theatre attendees were wealthy plantation owners, businessmen, stationed military, or visiting government representatives traveling abroad on business or behalf of the crown; eventually, gens de coleur and free blacks were admitted. Enslaved persons only of the audience if they were attending their masters, and were only allowed to perform under very strict circumstances (Prest[6]). Theatres also enforced French colonial cultural influence by primarily performing French pieces (as we know, African-influenced expressions of song/dance were greatly suppressed and theatre was no exception) (Clay[1]). Structural rules on theater seating arrangements and social fraternizing by race were also imposed.

With the vibrant diversity of individuals also came varying motives within the theatre’s social scene. People gathered to negotiate business or political deals, exchange ideas/sentiments regarding the current economic and political climate (sentiments that were growning increasingly tense as the revolution progressed). Wealthy gens de couleur saw this as an opportunity to enhance their social standing and economic influence, given Au Cap’s self-touted reputation for French sophistication and culture. It was also a place where less scrupulous motives were afoot, where colonists and soldiers would visit specifically to seek the company of the mulatto prostitutes (Clay[1]); or colored families would strategize in matchmaking for their daughters, tutted in well-spent attire, in hopes of being backed by a white sponsor (Powers[5]).

These details paint a vivid picture of Edouard's position within a broad social circle, ranging from the wealthy and educated, petit blancs, freedmen, and possibly even enslaved persons. By playing his cards right, Edouard could have gained insight into military, political, or business dealings and conversations happening at the time.

2.2 Edouard’s Unique Challenges, Motives, and Ideals

What drives Edouard as a character?

Edouard clearly has a passion for song, and any opportunity he has to express himself so, he eagerly does. We also know that and he verbally espouses romantic ideals. If the theatre was such a place where people constantly tried to leverage to climb higher within the social and economic ladder, did Edouard ever have any similar aspirations or motivations? Or was he just content with the pure passion of singing and performing?

Edouard openly admits to being relatively privileged due to his birthright and likely enjoyed access to material possessions, given we are shown his inclination to accessorize with jeweled rings and the first thing he says to Annette is, “You’re stepping on my French silks.” As a side note, the theatre scene was also a place where gens de coleur often saw this an an opportunity to flout their wealth and proximity to french culture to up their social standing. Since fine goods (most fabrics in Saint Domingue were muslin/linen) from France would to be imported, and carrying/wearing something like silk in a social setting is to the effect of an opulent display of indulgence.

What other disadvantages or challenges Edouard might have faced?

We must also consider if Edouard faced any financial or economic pressures or constraints. As discussed, opportunities afforded for mixed persons depended on the circumstances of birth and their family's amassed wealth of social network and monetary resources. A subset of gens de coleur had indeed acquired wealth through merchant, administrative, artisanal, or clerical areas of business (Walton[8]). The primary passageway for a nonwhite to live or study abroad in France, i.e. to receive education, would be through sponsorship from a benefactor (Powers[5]). Was Edouard already born into wealth, or did he have to procure a benefactor or sponsor to fund/support his lifestyle?

During this time, the majority of performers were imports from France during this era (Powers[6]). Since it was a challenge to retain native French performers in Saint Domingue, salary contracts customarily were generous in incentives for these white performers (Clay[1]). If Edouard was a native of Saint Domingue and of mixed-race origin, it is likely he may not have been able to levy a favorable salary contract with the theatre relative to his white colleagues.

Although there were mixed race and black artists in performances documented in passing mention, the majority of their identities and names were lost (more likely, white people who left written records didn’t care to name them). The individuals who stood out enough to be recorded in history by name often had their talent begrudgingly acknowledged alongside backhanded remarks about their status or skin color in historical records. To obtain the opportunity to be be showcased as a soloist like we see in Edouard performing in Nocturne (i.e., the theatre agreeing to hold a named benefit in concert) especially for a mixed-race person, would have required a benefactor’s backing. The most well-known case was Minette and Lise, two affranchis both sponsored by Madame Acquire and Saint Martin (Powers[5]). This suggests that, given the disproportionate lack of named black performers in written records, Edouard would have faced additional hurdles to gain recognition and credibility as an individual artist. He would have had to overcome social stigma while competing against predominantly white contemporaries -- most black performers never achieved this. Additionally, he likely needed a benefactor to sponsor him to achieve headlining solo performances.

Although the culture of benefactors sponsoring performers is known in theatre settings elsewhere, I have not found conclusive source regarding what the environment for Saint Domingue would have been like -- the why and what constituting these arrangements, and each party’s respective leveraging influence in negotiation. I can only remark on what would be an inherent power disparity due to financial reliance -- it begets the question, what would the benefactor seek in return, and what would the performer be able to offer? (Note: I have written an analysis regarding 19th century opera scene in Paris where is a harrowing example where young female performers were exploited by their benefactors) However, I don't think circumstance have to be that dark -- perhaps Edouard came from a family who was able to leverage a business deal, or Edouard’s talents were remarkable enough to draw in an audience to generate revenue.

What were Edouard’s motivations, ideals, and beliefs?

Annette: Why do you sing for these people, then? Edouard: I make them happy, and they loosen their tongues. You learn useful information that way.

If we revisit the above exchange with additional historical context, this exchange might be the closest insight to Edouard’s underlying character. It hints of an Edouard who is fully cognizant of these invisible, subtle barriers governing economic/social mobility within the different sub-classes, and is willing to engage in what types of flattery are necessary evils to grease interactions with socialites to acquire a favorable standing.

Theatre played an important role inculcating the audience with not only French sentiment; pieces normally performed centered on themes of virtues of innocent love, pursuit of pleasure, tranquility and serenity -- a stark contrast to the growingly disparate mounting tensions arising in reality due to the oppressive political, social, and economic climate. Issues like increasingly non-virtuous behavior of French men toward black and colored women, misery, corruption, and other intricacies of court and city. (Powers[5]) Edouard would have been singing and trumpeting about rosy ideals all the while reality was the opposite.

Edouard: It's in our hearts what matters, Annette.

Yet, some part of me now has to reconcile: to what extent these rosy ideals he spouted were truly ones that he believed? Given his explores to various facets of human behavior that shed a darker light, how can he say something like, "It's what in our hearts that matters”?

Perhaps he was aware of this hypocritical farce, or perhaps that in spite of certain darker realities, some part of him did continue to harbor these romantic sentiments.

Some part of me can't help but speculate -- did he ever feel like an empty puppet within the society, effectively an empty puppet for the French crown? Did he ever become jaded, if he ever witnessed greed, corruption, and indulgence?

All these details provide insight on not only the potential complexity of his personal circumstances, but also how Edouard would have required social acumen to navigate around -- observing both things that would jade him (greed and corruption), but also engaging things that make him happy (enjoying the privileged life, being able to perform his passions).

----

Part III. Annette and Edouard: Revisiting Their Relationship Yet Again, with Historical Context

3.1 What motivated Edouard to leave stage life to join Annette?

If Edouard ostensibly was happy and comfortable doing what he loved performing and singing, what prompted him to join Annette to fight in the front lines, putting his life at risk for no good reason?

This is actually a two-pronged question: Did Edouard leave of his own volition from a true character growth standpoint, or did he have no other choice to leave? Again, the timing and aligning of the history that occurred is a little murky If we look at the excerpted timeline courtesy from (Dayan[3]) as follows:

August 22-23, 1791: Slave Insurrection in the North

Sept 26, 1792: Cap Francais, the oldest, riches, and most densely populated city of the colony, burned to the ground by rebelling slaves.

June 20-21, 1794: Cap Francais again consumed by fires, and white inhabitants desert the island.

We know that the Comédie le Cap likely would have been burned/looted alongside the raid of Cap-Français in 1792 and faced subsequent closure. When Annette and Edouard blaze into the frontlines from the Vodou Ceremonial ritual, there is a shot of the same seaport view we were afforded, now on fire.

We also know that present Nocturne takes place in 1792. I am inclined to think that when Annette recalls taking up arms and Edouard is shown alongside her it would have referred to the August 1791 revolt, meaning that Edouard must have joined before the theater closed down. Maybe he had heard the disgruntled rumblings and saw the writing on the wall through the grapevine. Perhaps he had become jaded with the business of theatre. Maybe something about Annette's honesty, candor, and simple and straightforward nature inspired him to take up arms, too.

3.2 How well did they understand each other?

Edouard’s lifestyle was markedly different from Annette’s, full of subtlety and nuance. Ironically, what drew Edouard to Annette (her simplicity and candor) may also have created a fundamental rift in their ability to understand each other. At the start of Nocturne, Annette’s simplistic approach to situations would have prevent her from comprehending the nuanced aspects of Edouard's life -- a life that both granted him relative privilege and constrained his opportunities.

With Edouard’s background in interacting with various people, he is portrayed as observant, empathetic, and kind, as seen when he inquires about Maria’s connection with her birds. Being naturally emotionally attuned to others, he would have recognize Annette’s short-sightedness and tendency to make overly simplistic judgments without considering nuance. Knowing these traits, Edouard likely contributed less to their dynamic, often following her lead rather than suggesting his own ideas.

In conclusion, although Edouard and Annette were close, I believe there would have been certain things Annette wouldn’t have been able to understand about Edouard; ultimately limiting the depth of their connection before it was tragically cut short with Edouard's death.

----

PART IV. Conclusion, Acknowledgements, and Further Readings.

tl;dr I way over-engineered a potential backstory for not even a side character that had less than five minutes of screentime in total probably

If you managed to read all of this, thank you! I mostly write these character analyses for personal reference when I find myself struggling writing a character. Because Edouard’s screentime in Nocturne is lacking, I had to substantiate insight with an unusual amount of research.

I think I’m ready to tackle a writing story focusing on Edouard perspective now.

Cheers! - Shingie.

Citations: Works Referenced for Further Reading

Clay, Lauren R. Stagestruck: The Business of Theater in Eighteenth-Century France and Its Colonies. Cornell University Press, 2013. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.7591/j.ctt1xx50x

“Colonial Society.” Traveling Haiti, 23 Mar. 2016, www.travelinghaiti.com/colonial-society-haiti/

Dayan, Joan. Haiti, History, and the Gods. 1st ed., University of California Press, 1995. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1525/j.ctt5hjhnv.

Maguire, Léa. Haitian Soldiers at the Battle of Savannah (1779), 8 Jan. 2018. https://www.blackpast.org/global-african-history/haitian-soldiers-battle-savannah-1779/

Powers, David M. From Plantation to Paradise?: Cultural Politics and Musical Theatre in French Slave Colonies, 1764–1789. Michigan State University Press, 2014. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.14321/j.ctt7zt6t5.

Powers, David M. “The French Musical Theater: Maintaining Control in Caribbean Colonies in the Eighteenth Century.” Black Music Research Journal, vol. 18, no. 1/2, 1998. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/779400.

Prest, Julia. Review of Public Theatre and the Enslaved People of Colonial Saint-Domingue, by Julia Prest. The French Review, vol. 97 no. 3, 2024. Project MUSE, https://dx.doi.org/10.1353/tfr.2024.a920002,

Walton, Charles, "Saint Domingue", The Digital Encyclopedia of British Sociability in the Long Eighteenth Century [online], ISSN 2803-2845, URL: https://www.digitens.org/en/notices/saint-domingue.html

#castlevania nocturne #castlevania edouard #edouard #castlevania netflix #Edouard Castlevania

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baestruly · 2 years ago

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❝she’s so beautiful, and i tell her everyday.❞ bruno mars

( 𝗌𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 ⋫ 𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖔𝖘𝖘𝖎 ) jj maybank x insecure!reader

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 - talks of insecurity and self doubt if thats a triggering topic for some

authors note - quick head canon

✩ would constantly reassure you that you were the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, even though you consistently say he only says that to be nice.

✩ he gets mad because of this because he wishes you could see yourself through his eyes.

✩ would literally make a whole ass list one night if he was late home or something, and leave it on your bed saying all the things he loves about you.

✩ yeah i believe jj’s second love language is words of affirmation.

✩ lots of kisses.

✩ he would kiss all of your insecurities, as if his lips can make it all better and you appreciate him so much for it.

✩ by now, he knows when you’re over thinking because you always fidget with your fingers and pick at the skin around your thumbs when feeling anxious.

✩ whenever that happens he holds your hand.

✩ literally can sense how overwhelmed you are, and he feels it even more because he hates how you feel like that.

✩ once again, lots of reassuring and kisses.

✩ ❝what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, baby. tell me everything, let it out, i’m here.❞

✩ oh, and if he catches people making fun of you or your insecurities, he will fight.

✩ ❝jj! just calm down!❞

✩ ❝can’t believe them━━looking at you as if you aren’t the sexiest goddess ever, i’m gonna fuckin’ make them blind so they’ll never look at my pretty girl again, they don’t deserve to admire this.❞

✩ you think it’s so stupid, but you laugh it off with him.

✩ he’s very touchy, as if you’re fragile. he just wants to make sure you know how much you’re worth.

✩ every time you look in the mirror and he sees you groan in frustration as you pick at the clothes on your body or tears form in your eyes on bad days, he comes up and wraps his arms around you from behind and reminds you how beautiful you are.

✩ he will do this literally right when you wake up.

✩ like, you could be waking up sweetly and suddenly, jj’s already in your face to tell you how beautiful you are and how much he loves and appreciates you.

✩ ❝morning, pretty girl.❞

✩ ❝you look so beautiful when you sleep, baby.❞

✩ more kisses.

✩ sometimes there are days when you feel good about yourself, and on those days jj does nothing but hype you up. he’s super encouraging.

✩ but he can also tell when you start to feel insecure again if your mood changes, and he will keep reminding you that you’re amazing and complement little things to hype you up like if he notices you’re wearing new brackets, necklaces, or trying a new hairstyle.

✩ would definitely be the best photographer.

✩ well━━maybe not.

✩ ❝oh my god, you look stunning, princess.❞

✩ ❝a dream━━❞

✩ ❝jj! are you even taking the goddamn photo!?❞

✩ ❝oh shit!❞

✩ and when he does, he’s too busy admiring you that the photos are terrible. they’re all blurry and uncentered.

✩ but he still agrees to keep them, unless you beg to delete them ofc🫶🫶

✩ if he’s taking photos on the polaroid camera, he’s totally making a banner of them when you get home.

a/n: remember, every single one of you is beautiful. looking a certain way to be pretty is bullshit, we wouldn’t all look different if that was true. we are all pretty in our own ways and when you’re feeling down, remember there’s someone in the world who would kill to look like you, or have one of your insecurities that you hate that others think are beautiful.

embrace yourself for who you are bae<3 bc you’re hot asf

also request anything!

masterlist jj masterlist

#headcanon #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank one shot #jj maybank headcanons #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x you #jj maybank imagine #jj x yn #outerbanks #obx #obx3 #outerbanks imagine #imagine #writing #fanfic

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zablife · 2 years ago

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We're In This Together

Joel Miller x female reader

Summary: Joel calms you down during a panic attack.

Author’s Note: Despite being a reader insert, Joel's companion is an adult. As such, use of the term "babygirl" is a pet name, not an indication of age/someone who is underage. My first fic for The Last of Us so please be kind!

Reblogs are appreciated, comments are love💕

Warnings: anxiety, panic attack, mention of the infected, mention of weapon

The old weathervane above the dilapidated barn groaned outside your window, spinning forcefully with the gusting wind. The creaking sound was an unsettling reminder of the terrible shrieking you’d tried to put out of your mind. Removing the tattered gloves you wore and rubbing your hands together for warmth, you attempted to think of anything else. Closing your eyes tightly, you envisioned a crackling fire and hot tea with honey. Although you were good at imagining the things you’d come to live without, tonight was different. You couldn’t keep the fear at bay no matter how hard you tried, receiving no comfort from the cozy memories that usually calmed you.

A familiar tightness in your chest returned as you wondered how much longer you’d have to live like this, running from the infected and making a home wherever you found shelter. As you counted the days you'd already been looking for your family, your future unraveled before you along with any remaining fortitude. You looked around the weathered farmhouse where you found yourself tonight and wondered who had once called this place home. You shivered as you thought of those who were surely dead by now, allowing you to occupy their space because they no longer had need of it. The crushing guilt pressed into you until you felt suffocated by it.

Stop it, stop it! you chided yourself, banging your head against the peeling wallpaper. Get it together! you thought as you dug your heels into the floorboards, every muscle in your body tense as your stomach churned. You tried to stay strong and remember why you and Joel were still searching after all this time, but you couldn't concentrate. You began to shake as your worst fears replayed in your mind on constant loop and you couldn’t end it. The fit overtook you more quickly than usual, rapid breathing turning to dangerously shallow hyperventilation in seconds as the terror consumed you.

The sound of heavy footsteps outside your door had your heart racing even faster in seconds, threatening to tear from your chest. Your eyes darted up in time to glimpse Joel’s boots by the dilapidated wooden door and soon you spotted his jeans, moving toward you in a blur. The room began to spin as you heard the distant thud of his rucksack hitting the floor. “Y/n, it’s gonna be alright, I’m comin’” Joel called out, crossing the floor in long purposeful strides to reach you as quickly as possibly. He knew the signs of your panic attacks well by now. You were too dizzy to comprehend his words, only feeling the warmth of his hand on your cheek at first, bringing you around. His brown eyes studied you with deep concern. You hadn't been this bad since the night you met.

A year ago, he found you hidden away, clutching an old hunting knife of your father's. Separated from your family during evacuation, you were unsure how to navigate this new world, let alone an attack by several infected. He’d gotten to you just in time to save your life, but your conscious mind had slipped below the surface where he couldn't reach you. It wasn't until hours later through his calm demeanor and gentle voice that he was able to pry the weapon away. He held your hand, promising not to leave you, until you felt steady enough to tell him your name.

Taking up a place behind you now, Joel promised, “Nobody’s here but us, babygirl. You’re safe with me. I got you." He cradled your back to his front, legs and arms bracketing yours, securely holding you in place. Without the need for words, you felt his chest rise and fall against your back, urging you to adopt a similar rhythm for yourself. You leaned your head back against his shoulder, wanting the spinning to end. “It won’t stop, It won’t stop,” you panted, desperately clutching onto his hands, fingernails digging into his skin. Joel wished you never had to suffer like this again. He would have done anything to take the feeling of powerlessness from you.

“I got you. You're safe. I’m here no matter what, okay?” you heard him say in a soothing monotone, the rumble of his deep voice reverberating through you as you felt his beard rub against the top of your head. After a few mintutes, your heartbeat slowed it's pace. As the relief began to wash over you, the waiting tears silently escaped your lash line and slid down your cheeks.

Pulling away to search your eyes for understanding, Joel rubbed your arm gently asking, “Can you tell me what happened?”

You shook your head, unable to put your finger on what had triggered you. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about it now,” he said, wiping the tears away with the pad of his thumb. “You should try to get some rest though. You wanna lie down for a little while?” he suggested. You nodded as you clung to his jacket. He slowly lowered you both to the ground, wrapping his arm around you so still felt connected to him. You breathed in the familiar scent of him as he stroked your hair gently. “I'm sorry,” you said, sniffling.

“Shhh, you don’t have to do that,” he reminded you. No matter how much you apologized, Joel told you you weren’t a burden and that knowledge made you feel secure with him, knowing that you didn’t owe him anything in return for his kindness.

“Joel?” you asked in a shaky voice.

“Hmmm?” he grunted.

“Do you ever wish you were on your own?” you asked hesitantly.

You felt his body go rigid for a moment. “What are you talkin’ about?” he asked, voice suddenly turning harsh.

You slowly turned to look at him, noticing the deep furrow in his brow as he studied you. “I…I just thought…well...we might go our separate ways in the spring,” you stuttered, trying not to explain your feelings about how much better Joel might be without you. He must have thought it before, the freedom he'd have by himself with no one to care for or defend. If you said it first, maybe he wouldn’t have to propose the same plan to you one day when it all got to be too much for him.

You watched Joel’s face fall, a pained look of hurt and confusion settling over his handsome features. He cupped your face in his large, rough hands, staring into your eyes for a moment before he finally spoke. “Don’t you understand? I wouldn’t have been able to go on all this time without you. You’re the reason I’m still standin’, darlin’. I need you,” he confessed, voice barely above a whisper. His thumb stroked your cheek gently as he added, “Remember what I told you the first night we met?”

Tears clouded your vision as he spoke those words to you. You nodded, thinking back to that fateful night. You laced your fingers through his as you answered with the words you’d never forget, “We’re in this together.”

------------------------------------

**If you liked this fic please leave a comment or reblog! If you have an idea for a fic, send an ask! Interaction keeps me motivated to write.**

-----------------------------------

Tag List:

@springsteens

@marauderssimpcuzwhytfnot

@astheskylinefalls

@moral-terpitude

@potter-solomons

@acewritesfics

@huntingingoodwill

#tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #Joel Miller fanfic #Joel Miller imagine #Joel Miller x you #Joel Miller x y/n #Joel Miller x reader

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bl-bracket · 3 months ago

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Bracket Statistics #9

Ok so I forgot to do this after the second season of Poorest Little Meow Meow, so this is a combination with the second season of Greenest Flag as well! Luckily there's no overlap between the characters featured! I'll make note of which new characters were from which brackets with some handy color coding!

Another reminder that this is just the individual character brackets! So no Best Kiss, Best Siblings, Build-a-BL, or Best QL Marriage Proposals!

***Also for the purposes of country breakdown, I'm counting Meet You at the Blossom as coming from China. The show is in Chinese, with almost all the actors from China, and based on a book from a Chinese author. I'm open to changing it to Thailand or Taiwan if people think those would be more appropriate, but for now, this felt like it would make the most sense of the three***

There have now been 135 different dramas that have been in these brackets. 82 are from Thailand, 17 are from Japan, 7 are from China, 9 are from Taiwan, and 20 are from South Korea.

There were 18 new shows total. 13 were from Thailand, 2 were from Japan, 1 was from China, 0 were from Taiwan, and 2 were from South Korea.

The new shows from Poorest Little Meow Meow are: 4 Minutes (Thailand), Long Time No See (South Korea), Love Sea (Thailand), Meet You at the Blossom (China), One Room Angel (Japan), The Rebound (Thailand), and This Love Doesn't Have Long Beans (Thailand).

The new shows from Greenest Flag are: Cooking Crush (Thailand), I Feel You Linger in the Air (Thailand), I Hear the Sunspot (Japan), I Saw You in My Dream (Thailand), Kidnap (Thailand), Knock Knock Boys! (Thailand), La Pluie (Thailand), Last Twilight (Thailand), Monster Next Door (Thailand), Our Dating Sim (South Korea), and The Trainee (Thailand).

There have now been 298 individual characters featured here. 198 from Thailand, 28 from Japan, 23 from China, 20 from Taiwan, and 28 from South Korea.

There were 51 new characters featured. 38 from Thailand, 3 from Japan, 4 from China, 2 from Taiwan, and 3 from South Korea.

There were 18 new characters in Poorest Little Meow Meow.

The 10 new characters from Thailand were: Shin (3 Will Be Free), Great (4 Minutes), Tian (A Tale of Thousand Stars), Thaenthai (Laws of Attraction), Tongrak (Love Sea), Kenta (Pit Babe), Phob (Something in My Room), Nut (The Miracle of Teddy Bear), Atom (The Rebound), and Methas (This Love Doesn't Have Long Beans).

The 1 new character from Japan was: Tomoda Koki (One Room Angel).

The 3 new characters from China were: Zongzheng Huaien (Meet You at the Blossom), Zongzheng Shaoyu (Meet You at the Blossom), and Ling Jing Shi (The Spirealm)/

The 2 new characters from Taiwan were: Jack (HIStory 3: Trapped) and Zhang Teng (Kiseki: Dear to Me).

The 2 new characters from South Korea were: Chi Soo (Long Time No See) and Tae Myungha (Love for Love's Sake).

There were 31 new characters in Greenest Flag.

The 28 new characters from Thailand were: Rock (Cherry Magic TH), Ten (Cooking Crush), Yai (I Feel You Linger in the Air), Yu (I Saw You in My Dream), Bas (I Told Sunset About You), Min (Kidnap), Latte (Knock Knock Boys!), Tian (La Pluie), Mhok (Last Twilight), Night (Last Twilight), Tinn (Laws of Attraction), Mahasamut (Love Sea), God (Monster Next Door), Kongthap (My Love Mix-Up! TH), Gun (My School President), Joe (My Stand In), Alan (Pit Babe), Daisy (Secret Crush on You), Jane (The Trainee), Ryan (The Trainee), JJ (This Love Doesn't Have Long Beans), Nub Nueng (This Love Doesn't Have Long Beans), Yang (To Sir, With Love), Cher (Wandee Goodday), Chain (We Are), Fang (We Are), and Peem (We Are).

The 2 new characters from Japan were: Taichi (I Hear the Sunspot) and Naoya (Mr. Unlucky Has No Choice But To Kiss!).

The 1 new character from China was: Lan Sizhui (The Untamed).

The 1 new character from South Korea was: Shin Kitae (Our Dating Sim).

If we include characters who have been in multiple brackets: 386 are from Thailand, 53 from Japan, 53 from China, 35 from Taiwan, and 49 from South Korea.

130 characters have been featured at least twice (opposed to 102 before). The average amount of times a character has been featured in a poll is 1.94 times (opposed to 1.81 before). The most amount of times a character has been featured still is 8 which was Prapai (Love in the Air) and now also Pat (Bad Buddy).

The average amount of characters per show is 2.2, opposed to 2.12 last time.

A character from The Untamed has now one a bracket 6 times (Poorest Little Meow Meow - Season 1 & 2, Most Whipped, Autistic Swag, Best Siblings, and Most Unhinged).

There were 17 actors who had another character they played now be in a bracket. Of those 17, 8 had already had at least 2 characters in the brackets, while the other 9 only had one character prior.

Amongst these is a very special, Wayne Song, the first non-Thai actor to have multiple characters in the bracket (Xiang Haoting - HIStory 3: Make Our Days Count, Zhang Teng - Kiseki: Dear to Me).

Included under the read more is a full list of all the actors with multiple characters! (only based on the individual brackets) (

Bolded names are the 17 actors who had another character added.

4 Characters: Gun Atthaphan, Off Jumpol

3 Characters: First Kanaphan, Fourth Nattawat, Gemini Norawit, Jimmy Jitaraphol, Khaotung Thanawat, Mark Pakin, Mix Sahaphap, Phuwin Tangsakyuen

2 Characters: Bible Whichapas, Billy Patchanon, Book Kasidet, Earth Katsamonnat, Force Jiratchapong, Fort Thitipong, Garfield Pantach, Fluke Gawin, Heng Asavarid, Inn Sarin, Joong Archen, Krist Perawat, Louis Thanawin, Love Pattranite, Michael Kiettisak, Mike Chinnarat, Nut Supanut, Ohm Pawat, Pond Naravit, Satang Kittiphop, Sing Harit, Singto Prachaya, Tay Tawan, Wayne Song, Zee Pruk, Zorzo Natharuetai

#bl bracket #bracket statistics #long post

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zahroreadsthings · 9 months ago

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One of the things that I'm really enjoying about Carrie is the way the narration is interrupted by characters' thoughts in brackets. I dont think it's something I've seen before much, if at all?

And I still feel like I'm not good at describing what I want to talk about so bear with me

Having those lines break up paragraphs (including breaking them mid-sentence) lets us zoom into the character's head more than putting their thoughts in a completely separate sentence along with a thought tag (what do you call dialogue tags when they come at the end of thoughts and not dialogue lol?)

And captures the little flashes of thought we all have where we contradict ourselves or have a little tangential thought before bringing ourselves back on track

These two really stuck out to me:

No one would be up here between now and the Ball; the light that shone on the mural and on the apron where the King and Queen would be crowned

(they'll get crowned all right)

were controlled from a box backstage.

Cant remember the actual terms for this but it's reasonable to assume that Billy isn't the one narrating the first part there but the author; cutting the paragraph in two with what is obviously his direct thoughts brings us into his head much faster than, say, this:

[...] the light that shone on the mural and on the apron where the King and Queen would be crowned were controlled from a box backstage. They'll get crowned all right, Billy thought.

And this time when Chris is thinking to herself about Billy getting the pig blood:

She has meant to make him wait until he had actually done something,

(but of course he did he got the blood)

but it had all begun to slip out of her hands, and it made her uneasy.

Like, that would not hit the same if it was written something like

But he did do something, she reminded herself, then quickly squashed that thought down.

^that takes way too long to convey the thought imo! Sticking it in the middle to interrupt her thought mid-sentence is so effective at showing how that thought popped up and got shoved aside, as well as keeping the focus on her unease at the lack of control she has over Billy.

And sure it can be jarring and I wouldnt say it works all the time but I also love how it lets Carrie's feelings run parallel to her sewing planning:

She lay

(i am not afraid not afraid of her)

on her bed with an arm thrown over her eyes. It was Saturday night. If she was to make the dress she had in mind, she would have to start tomorrow at the

(i'm not afraid momma)

latest. She had already bought the material at John's in Westover.

Because how often do we freak out while trying to think an unrelated thing through at the same time! I love this book

#carrie #stephen king

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neon-chemicals · 3 months ago

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Let’s talk Purplebloods 2/?

This is mainly me talking about my OCs, and how they’re important

srry

CW: Suggestive, sexual acts mentioned, hard drugs

The Four Jesters

The Four Court Jesters are the authority directly below The Grand Highblood; there has only been one set of these trolls, staying firmly in charge for well over 10,000 sweeps.

The Jesters reside on a large colony referred to as Karnival , this planet is firmly under the jurisdiction of The Jesters and the purplebloods as a whole, The Empress’ influence is extremely lax and she turns a blind eye to most of the goings on.

[Karnival from a distance]

The Jesters are:

The Diabolis ~ Belial Hofman [He/Him]

The Hedonist ~ Namaah Yeoung [She/Her]

The Euphoric ~ Morkis Melpom [It/Its]

The Obscured ~ Morkan Melpom [He/They]

Each Jester is in charge of a sector or quadrant of the planet, split evenly in four where their individual followers can congregate. While the church itself is one entity, young clowns often will select a specific Jester’s subsection of the church to focus their worship on. These are examples of what some of those trolls would be like!

The following are descriptions of the various sectors and the trolls within!

The Infernal Ring

Governed by Jester Belial Hofman

The Infernal Ring boasts a host of activities where Purplebloods can attempt feats of violence and strength to impress Jester Hofman and hopefully win his favor. These include High Strikers, a more purple-flavored Muscular Theatre, Obstacle Courses, and above all else, a towering Coliseum.

Conquering the Coliseum is considered the highest feat anyone who follows Jester Hofman, every day there is a tourney where hopefuls fight in a bracket to the death, the final match being between the victor and Jester Hofman himself, no one has ever won against him, nor does anyone know what the prize is. Rumor has it that Belial will give up his seat to whoever wins against him, though when asked about the prize, Belial has always brushed it off with a simple “When it happens you’ll see”, If an opponent impresses him enough during their match, he will spare them and they will be treated like royalty while they’re on their pilgrimage, said to be blessed by The Messiahs with combat prowess to rival his own.

Belial represents the facet of the church that exemplifies violence, cultivating righteous rage, and the art of murder. Blood Sacrifices are commonplace in the ring, doomed trolls get shipped to the planet to be killed elaborately, their bodies are displayed in artistically grotesque ways, bled like livestock to be used as warpaint in the Coliseum.

[picture]

It is considered among the purplebloods to be an honor to be used in such a way, but the trolls actually subjected to it would beg to differ. If a young clown chooses to follow Belial they often adopt a splash of orange somewhere on their outfit going forward.

Belial himself is an intimidating, daunting figure, his physical mutations giving his visage a demonic edge, and his pyrokinesis lets him be as showy as he could ever want to be.

[picture]

His chucklevoodoos are impressive to say the least, his powers allow him to negate any pain he would feel in battle, allowing him to keep going and keep fighting a supernaturally long time before he would ever collapse, he can also extend this blessing to others, though he rarely does so.

[picture]

Privately, Belial seems to be a rather neurotic troll, always fussing about something or someone, particularly his now ex-pitch Namaah.

[picture]

Trolls who are close to him also describe him as a lover of the arts and spoken word, even a gentle soul with the right person. He is also the only Jester with an overall positive view of Grand Highblood Sigmar Patera.

Hedonist’s Haven

Governed by Jester Namaah Yeoung

Hedonist’s Haven is a much different sector compared to its violent counterpart. The ground is covered consistently in a light purple mist that flows and shifts almost hypnotically. The area is covered in beautiful lush foliage, fairy lights, and places to chill out, cushions and piles galore! Namaah doesn’t put herself above any of her followers, preferring to be among them, smoking and ahem, congregating. Special Stardust and recreational downers are provided to make a troll's stay in this haven absolutely transcendent and ethereal. Jester Yeoung’s goal is to make her followers feel all connected with each other and the universe while under her diligent eye. Nonconsensual drugging or touching is absolutely forbidden and Namaah herself assures comfort and safety, including culling any who would disrupt her paradise of calm and togetherness by her own hand and assuring that the most difficult members of her flock are perfectly at peace. Should a follower of another Jester cause such problems, she is not afraid to have a very thorough discussion about how the others should be keeping track of their flock.

Namaah represents the facet of the church that exemplifies community, working together and feeling The Messiahs resonate through the collective. Physical and Mental connection are especially important to her side of things, trolls in her community often participating in psychedelics and physical intimacy as a form of devotion to the whole. If a troll enters the haven upset and stressed, their comfort becomes priority for all inside, especially Jester Yeoung. Young clowns who accepts being brought in to Namaah’s congregation often adds a bit of pink somewhere on their outfit, though followers of Jester Yeoung are easily spotted due to their markedly chill and kind demeanors, most having a rather progressive view on the hemospectrum and how all trolls should try and be as connected as the purples are. Most lowbloods consider this behavior off putting and bizarre coming from a clown. Occasionally Jester Namaah finds a soul desperately in need of her assistance, it is an honor to be considered a project, granted specified attention and eternal bliss.

Namaah, the troll herself is a warm, maternal, comforting figure, always willing to lend an ear and listen to her flock’s concerns and wishes. She is noted as being the most beautiful troll most have ever seen, with striking eyes and a figure to die for. Despite a focus on her appearance being common outside the congregation, most within find her allure comes mostly from her personality, being surprisingly soft and quiet when within the Haven but able to turn on a dime into a commanding, intimidating voice, especially in regards to her recently separated kismesis, Jester Hofman. Her chucklevoodoos are subtle and empathetic in nature, allowing her to feel the emotions of other trolls as if they were her own, shouldering their burdens with them. In more extreme circumstances, her abilities can even be used to erase something from the mind entirely for a time.

Carnevale Phantasm

Governed by Jester Morkis Melpom

Rather than questioning what is Carnevale Phantasm your real question should be what is it not. Jester Morkis’ realm is anything and everything, a maddening, breathtaking array of shifting architecture and dizzying colors. No law of physics is consistent, no location in one set place except for the big top at the center, the eye of the storm so to speak. The Big Top is where Jester Morkis’ physical form resides while it is resting and dreaming, all appearances outside of the Big Top within Carnevale Phantasm being astral projections. Its physical body only gets up and makes appearances outside of its sector of the planet if absolutely required by the other jesters, Jester Morkan speaking for it otherwise.

From the outside looking in, the Carnevale Phantasm looks like a vast eerily silent emptiness, completely void of people, stepping inside, this vision shifts and warps into the fantastical landscapes of Jester Morkis’ most vivid dreams. An endless array of excitement and indulgence in carnival food and recreational hard drugs for those so inclined. Jester Morkis concerns itself with the entertainment and enjoyment of its congregation, always coming up with new games, shows and contests to make sure every soul in its dream gets to live their lives to the fullest, indulgence is the name of the game.

Morkis represents exactly that: Indulgence. Living your life like every moment is your last, life is the pregame for the endless extravagance and spoiling of The Dark Carnival! Trolls in its congregation tend towards the energetic and enthusiastic, beacons of energy and advocates for free time and living it up in whatever way you see fit truly YOLO personified. Individuals like to show their membership in its congregation by donning a spectrum of colors, if you see a clown barely wearing any black, that’s likely a member of this congregation. Morkis tends to it’s more down on their luck visitors with a forceful gentle encouraging, very excitable hand towards anything it thinks will help, mostly the individual's vices, be them food, drugs, alcohol, attention or any plethora of other things. Does it indiscriminately indulge even harmful addictions? Yes! Does it make the person feel better temporarily? Double yes!

Morkis, the troll is an enigma and likes it that way. Outwardly excitable, erratic and wildly inconsistent in mood and demeanor, it's near impossible to discover what its true personality is like. Face eternally obscured via mask and doused in a shifting array of patterns and fabrics. In rare moments caught between it and its brother, trolls have said that Morkis is soft spoken, not unlike Jester Morkan, and seems to be anxious or paranoid rather frequently with many mentions of time rushing by or losing track of it and fears of ‘not having long’. No one is sure what this is in reference to, though it is speculated by members of the collective to be some kind of chronic or degenerative disease/disorder, or perhaps a generalized anxiety of death.

Morkis’ abilities are arguably the most impressive of the Jesters’ chucklevoodoos, able to pull innumerable amounts of trolls into a collective dream in a vicinity around its own sleeping form. It has complete control over the senses and acts as a sort of trickster deity, able to appear anywhere and summon anything anyone could ever want, though of course it being in a dream all food alcohol and drugs have no actual effect on your body and rather it’s Morkis’ abilities stimulating the brain in a way that feels similar! (You can and will get addicted though)

Carnevale Obscurae

Governed by Jester Morkan Melpom

Far from the sparkles, glitz and glam of the other three quadrants, Carnevale Obscurae sits in relative silence, darkened tents and still carousels sit under the vast expanse of stars, completely visible due to the darkness. The air is melancholic and a chill always seems in the air as the clowns here go about esoteric meditation and prayer in blissful quiet as compared to the loudness and aggression of the rest of Karnival. Some might compare the vibe to a clownish monastery, where its inhabitants spend more time actively worshiping rather than on things considered ‘frivolous’. Some might consider this form of worship strange and out of character for purples, but silence has long been a tool of the messiahs.

Jester Morkan is an almost omnipresent… presence throughout the entire area, never in one place for long moving like a spirit, keeping watch over his flock closely, like his sibling. Trolls within the congregation often choose this over the others because of their own struggles with sensory overload, many of his followers are selectively mute and he strives to provide a calm, soothing environment for them to reach out to the messiahs in their own way. Jester Morkan believes even those who cannot participate in the color and noise and contact of traditional worship should not be excluded so callously, they are all children of the messiahs, after all. A lot of the clowns in their flock tend to be those that fade into the background, silent but faithful observers cloaked in black and other dark colors. Morkan’s calming embrace of silence and shadow also attracts those with sensitive abilities, leading to an abundance of oracles* in their midst, much like Morkan himself. Also, you know mimes, but that’s self explanatory.

Morkan the individual is quiet and reflective, much like most of their congregation, speaking in hushed tones and more often than not staying completely silent. They are respectful and polite but also can be particularly blunt when dealing with people and their problems. They care deeply for their sibling and for the individuals who choose to follow them, providing a listening ear and his divination capabilities to any who request such, his connection to the messiahs and ability to accurately predict the future and discover the past leads him to being deeply respected by other jesters and most of the purple populations. He is also the only jester in a long term relationship with a troll that isn’t a purpleblood, his matesprit, whose name he has kept private is an indigo cavalreaper who he cares very deeply for.

Morkan’s abilities are slightly more varied than the other jesters, able to draw from powers outside of his innate chucklevoodoos. The powers he was born with allow him to traverse shadows as if they were doorways, any spot of pitch blackness within a certain radius he can step between and appear out of another patch of darkness. It’s very convenient for keeping an eye on everything in Karnival as he tends to do, being a good neutral peacekeeper as compared to the other three jester’s more opinionated personalities. Jester Morkan’s more impressive skill however, was developed through sweeps of intensive meditation and spiritual guidance, the ability to see the past, present, and future. Using the holy act of puppetry, Jester Morkan receives visions from the beyond and crafts puppets to act out said predictions, it’s said he’s made hundreds of them, though most go unused, until the right troll comes along, asking for advice.

*Oracles will be discussed further in the ‘Ringmaster’ section

The Jesters have never needed successors however, there are rules in place if one of them was to tragically die.

If a Jester is to die without naming a successor previously or on their deathbed, The Grand Highblood is tasked with providing a suitable replacement.

If the current Grand Highblood has no one in mind, they may request some form of tourney to choose who is worthy of such a prestigious position.

The form this tourney takes is dependent on which Jester has passed being the following;

- Belial is to be honored with a show of combat prowess, traditional clownish brawls to the death

- Namaah is to be honored with words, heartfelt poetry and song

- Morkis is to be honored with “It’s a surprise :o)”

- Morkan is to be honored by choosing an oracle whose predictions can be tracked as near-completely accurate

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