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turtletaubwrites · 3 months ago

Text

Numbers Game ~ Part 31

Could Never Stop

Pairings: Cross Guild Polycule x Fem!Reader x Shanks

Numbers Game Masterlist

Word Count: 7853

Ao3 Link

Ongoing Series Playlist: Youtube Music Link | Youtube Link

Summary: The Emperor of the Sea sets sail from Karai Bari Island. Can he make it to the banquet in two days? More importantly, can Shanks regain his confidence, and do what needs to be done to save the woman that both of his lovers love?

Let the games begin! 🏹

Author's Note: Thank you for the wait! This month has been extra, but I also spent a ton of time and research writing this one since the game is getting started. I hope you enjoy it! I have soo many plans 🥰😈

There's a yucky Uncle Cedrick scene, but from now on we'll just have to expect that. I will continue to bracket sections if heavier situations come up, but at this point, I hope that Uncle Cuntdick will be his own warning 😬 We are meeting Dr. Vorsan this chapter, and I've bracketed the scene with these symbols ~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~ so as not to jump scare everyone!

Alternate POV Symbols:

!!! SPOILER WARNING !!! Fic currently contains spoilers for up to the end of the Wano arc, and potentially current arc minor details.

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

~~~⏰🔴🔴🔴⏰~~~

“Go away, old man,” groaned a frighteningly hungover pirate captain, who was still face down on the floor of his quarters. Sheets with too many smells had already been stripped from his bed, but the night had held too much liquor for him to replace them on his own, so he’d slept on the rug.

“I’d love to,” Benn snorted, rolling Shanks onto his back. “Is my captain done drownin’ his sorrows?”

“Dunno what you mean.”

He cringed while he pushed himself up to lean against the wall, and couldn’t meet his first mate’s eyes.

“You’re too kind hearted for this, captain,” the older man sighed. “Why don’t you find a sweet, little barmaid to dote on like a respectable pirate, eh? What about–”

“I don’t want bunnies. I want…” Shanks growled, but his anger fizzled out at the thought of predators and prey.

“Nah. The Great, Red Haired Shanks just wants ungrateful brats that leave him crying on the floor a few times a year.”

The Great, Red Haired Shanks pulled himself to his feet, only to stumble over to an uncorked bottle in the corner, taking a grateful swig when he found it full.

“Just had too much fun is all,” he laughed, the bitter taste drowning out the sweetness of the wine.

“Well, next time that creepy asshole gives my captain too much fun, I’m gonna make sure it’s him that’s crying, ya hear me?”

“Sure, old man,” Shanks snorted, letting his first mate guide him to the shower, still downing that wine to fight off images of wicked, beautiful eyes. He wondered how long it would take this time for the cruel hint of gold to leave his mind.

The Great, Red Haired Shanks didn’t need bunnies or hawks. He just needed the sea, his crew, and another fucking bottle.

~~~⏰🔴🔴🔴⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

“It’s been some time since our last session. How have you been feeling, Y/N?”

Dr. Vorsan’s pale eyes always felt sticky. Puddles of too much glue, waiting to capture anything you let slip from your shaky fingers, your trembling lips.

Breathe.

“I’m feeling well, Doctor,” you lied, keeping your voice soft. “I’m sure you've heard about my recent behavior… I believe the experience has offered me some much needed clarity.”

Everything about this man was pale and watery, and you reminded yourself not to frown at his beige suit. It would have seemed like the doctor wanted to fade into the background, if every boring detail about him hadn’t been so exquisitely tailored.

“That’s good to hear,” he praised, though the emptiness in his voice had you fighting to stay present. “Why don’t you tell me about it. You’re going through a lot of transitions, Y/N. Major life changes, even positive ones, can cause a lot of strain. Have you been feeling strained, Y/N?”

“Mmssorry,” you slurred, fighting your lips that had already frozen, not even five minutes in.

“You stated that your time with the Cross Guild brought you clarity,” Dr. Vorsan noted. Those sticky eyes seemed to warm while your body left your control, until you couldn’t meet them anymore, couldn’t look higher than his elbows. “By putting yourself in such a dangerous–”

“I wasn’t–”

You were heavy and loose now, your whispered denial draining the last of your energy.

“You’re in a safe place, Y/N,” he promised while he pulled a shiny, gold pen from his jacket, propping up a notepad on his knee. “Do you know where you are?”

He asked again, voice so soft, until you nodded in agreement.

“Good, Y/N. Just take some deep breaths, and we can stop whenever you need to. We’ll help you get clarity, so you can stay well. Do you want to stay well, Y/N?”

“Y-yes, Doctor.”

“Wonderful,” he purred, scratching a note onto the top of his page, the movement of his manicured hands holding your gaze. “Why don’t you tell me about the clown?”

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🗡️��🐊~~~

“With Sylvad’s cowardly level of security, I believe this would be too risky to use, but you should take it, in case the opportunity arises.”

“It’s so small,” Shanks hummed, inspecting Mihawk’s earpiece transponder snail, its tiny eyes blinking up at him slowly. “Maybe if I–”

“Save it,” Crocodile ordered, pushing away his untouched meal before closing the ornate shell container in Shanks’ palm, shutting those little eyes away. “Right now, the safest way to save our girl is for you to marry her. Don’t put that at risk by acting suspicious.”

Shanks stared at the closed shell before tucking it away, looking up to find his old friend winking at him.

“Don’t fret, love. We can have a belated bachelor party when you return,” Mihawk teased, combing his fingers through that bright, red hair.

“But Buggy—”

“I’m not thrilled about it either,” Crocodile sighed, standing to usher the other man out of the suite, “but it’s our best chance. That’s your mission. We’ll be listening, we have the location, and we can reach out to your crew if we need to share something vital. Can you do this?”

The two men stared each other down again, the swordsman’s hand dropping away to give them space.

“I’ll bring her back,” Shanks swore again, offering Crocodile his hand. The larger man shook it, but the press of time killed their peaceful moment.

The Emperor made his way into Adam’s room, waiting for Buggy’s permission to speak, but his clown looked pained, and Shanks couldn’t wait.

“What’s wrong, Bugs?”

Buggy’s hands were cramping from recording the pros and cons of the men that might marry his star. His throat was tired from swallowing nasty fears and guilt at the thought of Y/N actually finding someone she wanted to be with.

“You’re leaving,” he whispered, letting out a sigh when Shanks nodded. Strong fingers were so gentle as they brushed hair behind his ear, pens not doing enough to hold up all of that blue.

“I’m gonna fix this, Bugs.”

“She doesn’t believe…”

Though jealousy had turned him into someone he didn’t recognize, now when he saw that look of love in Buggy’s eyes for Y/N, Shanks wanted to burn all the oceans to bring them back together.

“She loves me, but she thinks it’s over, Shanks. My star’s really looking for someone else.”

“That’s not gon–”

“Make sure it’s you, alright, shithead?”

Buggy pressed his last piece of hope into Shanks’ palm, before letting himself hold and be held by this beautiful man that had been so many things to him over the years. He sank to the floor, allowing soothing kisses to be left along his unraveling hair while slow, exhausted tears escaped him.

Shanks opened his mouth to comfort, to promise, to share, but Buggy reached for the notepad again, mumbling about her “favorites.” After a rushed, bittersweet kiss, the red headed pirate was on his way, met by his golden eyed lover in the hall.

“Making sure I don’t run off with all your booze,” he tried to smile, feeling the weight of distance already crashing over him.

“Something like that,” Mihawk teased. “I thought I’d send you off.”

~~~🔴🗡️🤡🐊~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

“How was your session with Dr. Vorsan,” Uncle Cedrick taunted, filling the dining room with ice.

“It went well.”

You’d managed to bring yourself back, to find your body and voice again before dinner, knowing that he’d be waiting to poke at you.

“Excellent,” he purred, killing your appetite again. “He’ll be staying until the wedding, just in case you need the extra support.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” you hummed, forcing down a bite.

“So polite,” he laughed, touching your moms chin to lift her face up. “See, Delaine. A little time with the doc, and your daughter’s already feeling better. Maybe she’ll even stop asking her mama bird to chew up her food soon.”

“She can stop after the wedding,” you said coldly, not enjoying the cruel laugh he gave at her expense.

“Such a high maintenance bride,” he taunted, towering over you all when he stood from his seat, offering you his arm. “Come on, smarty. Let’s take a walk.”

Kat started to argue for you, but it was a pointless battle, so you left the other Sylvad ladies at the table, letting Uncle Cedrick guide you out to the lavish courtyard.

“I know you’ve been reviewing the details with Kat, instead of your mother, but I expect you to be prepared tomorrow. You know the rules of the game?”

“The suitors have a month to win me,” you recited while he led you through the tables, dragging you to the beautiful, carved bench where the introductions would be held. “They’re not allowed to fight amongst themselves unless it’s for the game, and they have to leave grudges aside until after someone wins my heart. They’ll all have time with me as a group and in private, and they can woo me however they like, so long as it doesn’t endanger me, or take me off the island.”

The pride in his smile wasn’t for you, but he beamed it at you, nonetheless.

“Since you’ve been doing so well, I’m sure you can remember a few more rules. Think you can handle that, smarty?”

“Yes, Uncle,” you agreed, sending your rage down into the stone beneath you.

“You need to remember that choice is a fucking luxury, Y/N,” he threatened, brushing the hair back from your face while he leaned too close, his cologne filling your lungs. “After the fiasco you could have caused, and after all these years of abusing my patience, you’re lucky I’m letting you play this little game at all.”

His hateful words were drawn out with lazy pleasure, and he kept his fingers in your hair, stroking you like a pet. Like his pretty doll.

“You’re going to give all of your suitors a fair chance. They’re here to enjoy themselves, so I won’t have you chasing anyone off too soon. You’re going to whittle them down slowly, and carefully, and with my approval. Your final two suitors will be offered a deal, and if they don’t accept it, they won’t get my blessing.”

“So…”

“So, do whatever you need to do to convince the men you like the most to take that deal.”

Nodding so you wouldn’t spit, you seethed when he tugged at your chin the way he’d touched your mother’s earlier. Your eyes were forced to his, and the stars above seemed to burn like acid as your face tilted up toward them.

“I’ll do anything to protect this family,” Uncle Cedrick vowed as he rubbed his thumb across your snarling lips. “If there’s a man that can offer a better deal, then he’ll get my blessing, no matter your preference. So get ready to use this smart, little mouth of yours, niece. I wonder if you’re a good enough whore to convince anyone to stay? Though I have to confess, after all of your tantrums, I think my spoiled brat of a niece might deserve a man that can put her in her place.”

He laughed at your stifled hatred, wiggling your face before releasing you.

“Give them all a chance to win you,” Uncle ordered, satisfaction dripping from his parted lips.

He enjoyed watching you suffer. Enjoyed it in a way that made your skin crawl, but you could never fully hide your rage from him, no matter how skilled you became. He could fucking sniff it out.

“If I catch you sabotaging any suitor’s feelings for you before I’ve given the approval to drop them, then I’ll make sure you get some extra special time together. It’s only fair.”

All of the acceptance you’d been building up was crashing down around you, and you held in your tears, not wanting to see the pleasure on his face if he tore them from you.

You wanted to run away.

He found me. He could have had Karai Bari wiped off the fucking map, and Buggy…

“Well, niece, do you understand? Or do I need to—“

“I’ll fuck the one’s I like to make them take your deal,” you growled, almost losing your vision from the rage that was coursing through you. “And I’ll fuck the one’s I hate so you won’t know which piece of shit to trap me with.”

Cedrick Sylvad threw his head back, bellowing his cruel laughter up to the twinkling sky.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” he wheezed, before leaving you there with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Don’t stay up too late, niece.”

He didn’t leave you with a guard. There was no need.

I’ll never get away. These are my choices. Pros and cons.

The silent courtyard felt like a cemetery while you struggled to move, to head off to bed, and end this shitty night. Your fingers found their way to your locket, the touch of warm metal helping to calm your breathing while you stared at all the cold, shining stars above you.

“At least I have all those pretty daydreams,” you whispered, feeling like an empty doll as you floated off to bed.

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🗡️🔴🗡️~~~

“Hawk Eyes.”

It had been a couple of years since Mihawk had stepped foot onto the Red Force, but his body had memorized every step toward the captain’s quarters, and they walked there without a thought.

Until a tall, scowling man blocked his path.

“Good afternoon, Benn. How—“

“How about you get the fuck—“

“Hey now,” Shanks laughed, stepping between his first mate and the swordsman, who’d raised a brow at the threatening tone. “We’re good, Benn! He’s just seeing us off.”

“Well, I’ll see him off a fucking cliff if he makes you—”

Shanks cut him off, pulling Mihawk into his quarters while Benn narrowed his eyes, his arms flexing as he crossed them over his chest.

“If I make him…” Mihawk asked, focusing on the hint of pink that was blossoming on Shanks’ cheeks.

Cute.

“Benn, get the crew ready. We’re heading out soon.”

“Aye, captain,” he agreed, still leaning toward the swordsman through the doorway. Benn jerked his head to the side as unruly strands of long, gray hair escaped his tie, getting in the way of his glare. “If you ever make my captain cry again, I’m gonna turn those pretty, gold eyeballs into pretty, gold earrings, ya hear me?”

“Thanks, Benn,” Shanks shoved the man out, locking himself into his quarters with his wicked, old friend whose mouth was hanging wide open. He might have laughed at the sight if he hadn’t wanted to crawl under the floorboards.

Fuck you, Benn…

“Cry?”

Shanks had watched those lips move. He’d heard that voice speak.

Yet his mind couldn’t connect that trembling word to the deadly rival before him.

The sweetness that had echoed through Mihawk’s bones with every step beside his lover had curdled again, guilt and shame scraping up his throat, strangling the words he’d hoped to share.

I don’t deserve it.

“You’re shaking,” the red haired pirate breathed as he reached for one of those dangerous hands. Everything was unsteady. Nothing in this world fit anymore, but Shanks tried to laugh it off. “Is Dracule Mihawk feeling jealous? I never had you pegged for the marriage type.”

“No,” he choked a laugh, brittle and stinging as he sat on the bed. The same, old bed they’d shared countless times. “I’m so sorry, Shanks.”

Those words again.

This “vacation” of his had felt like the most outrageous, delicious dream held hostage by a nightmare, and Shanks felt a sudden terror that he was about to wake up to find it was all gone.

In case it was about to disappear, Shanks sat beside his vicious, old friend, and pressed a kiss to the man’s temple. Mihawk wrapped his arms around him, clinging, feeding into the unreality of this soft, lovely dream.

“Are you alright, Hawk,” Shanks breathed.

Instincts would have sent the swordsman out the door by now. Every thought pushed him out, guilt, and fear, and lies, no longer strong enough to outweigh the need to keep holding Shanks against him, to keep inhaling his comforting scent.

The need to run was fueled by his new piles of shame. An unconscious demand to leave. Leave. Leave.

“I’m done…”

“What’s that,” Shanks tensed at the whisper. He fought his rising dread, tracing his fingers through that pretty, black hair. As they always had, Mihawk’s hypnotic eyes made his world pause, yet in this moment they seemed like true magic. The swordsman had once been blank, unknowable, giving no depth, though Shanks had reached and delved as far as his old rival would let him.

Now those golden eyes were hypnotizing not for their blankness, but for the swirling depths that pulled him in. Pools of molten metal, pain, and need, and other things Shanks couldn’t think clearly enough to try to understand.

Mihawk couldn’t understand how this beautiful, glorious man could still stand to look at him, let alone offer him comfort. He almost talked himself out of the room again, but vowed that he was done being a coward. He would fight. He would never run.

Never again.

“I know I…” Mihawk started, losing his train of thought while he stared at his old friend that could have been something so much more.

What’s the point of being safe if I can’t even…

“Hawk?”

“I love you. I know it’s too late. I’m sorry, I–mmn!”

All that dread exploded, leaving Shanks absolutely fucking high. None of this could be real, but what a dream.

“Took you long enough, old friend,” he purred. Mihawk whimpered beneath him, shaking under his touch after Shanks had pushed him onto his back, kissing him as though he’d disappear if he stopped.

“I’m s-sorry, Sha–”

“Are you lying? Manipulating me?”

He gripped Mihawk’s face, wanting to throw this fear off the ship. Gods, he wanted to believe it, to feel it.

Mihawk let out a breath, a weak sob, as the gold of his eyes was dressed with diamonds. The monster was even more hypnotizing when he cried.

“I’m not lying,” he confessed. Memories flooded the swordsman now, filling the air around him with regret, and with the hope he was fighting to keep. He reached up, cupping Shanks’ face while he blinked away his salty fear. “You loved a coward, old friend, but I’m done running. I love you. I’m so sor–”

Shanks couldn’t tell if he was laughing, or crying as he fell onto the wicked, intoxicating man beneath him.

“I love you too, Hawk. I still love you. Could never stop.”

“Shanks…”

“Say it again,” Shanks breathed while he kissed along Mihawk’s throat, dizzy while one of his dearest fantasies played out before him.

“I love you, Shanks.” Mihawk shivered, clinging, reaching, falling to pieces. Shameful parts of him still screamed to run, still thought so many cruel, ungrateful things, but there was nothing like the satisfied sounds his lover made when he said those words. “I have loved you in my cowardly heart. I’m sorry I– fuck!”

The red haired pirate fisted his hair with vicious force while he rutted his clothed cock against him, chuckling as he watched those hypnotizing eyes flutter with need.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I…”

Mihawk was already lost in him, and Shanks let that sweetness pour over his body, his breath relaxing as he decided how to take care of his lover.

“You’re sorry because you didn’t say you love me, right,” he purred, kissing tingles into Mihawk’s skin as he breathed along his temple to his jaw. The swordsman gave a weak nod, and a little whine, so Shanks nibbled at his ear, telling his boy how to please him.

“I don’t wanna hear another ‘sorry,' you hear me,” he threatened, tracing his thumb along Mihawk’s hip, dipping down into those low riding pants. “You’d better keep telling me what you should have back then.”

“Shanks,” Mihawk moaned, undoing the lacings of his own clothes before clawing at Shanks’, desperate beneath the sway of that crooked smile. “I love you.”

The Emperor of the Sea forgot.

Nothing to do. Nowhere to be.

Shanks just had to make this man say those words again and again. It had been so fucking long. They touched and kissed every inch of each other in their mad rush to claim every moment before the dream faded away, until the swordsman looked over his shoulder, begging so pretty. So perfect.

“I need you, daddy,” Mihawk relaxed, ready. “Need you, love you, want… mm, please…”

“I need you too, bright eyes,” Shanks hummed, fingers finding their way in, cool lube easing the stretch while he made his lover moan into the wrinkled sheets. “I need my pretty boy to let me love him. You finally gonna let me, Hawk?”

“Please,” he begged. The press of Shanks’ cock teasing at him was too much, and he writhed, shoving himself back until he cried out, earning the full force of that powerful body.

“Look at you. Knew you’d be so good for me, baby.”

His fingers caressed while he pressed that pale skin into the mattress, and Shanks let everything go, praising, taking, and hurting his lover until they both went fucking mad. Mihawk let himself feel safe in the pleasure and the pain.

Safe.

His lover made him cry, and bleed, and come, before laying his own claim. Shanks’ heavy cock filled him, on and on, leaving Mihawk twitching and whining. There they stayed, breathing, sweating, and whispering those words until they remembered.

“I’ve gotta go, Hawk... Will you still love me when I come back,” Shanks asked as reality returned, failing to hide all the true fear in his voice.

“My lover gone away to sea. I shall await thee,” Mihawk hummed, moaning when Shanks pulled away, his body still craving his touch.

“Are you writing love poems already?”

Mihawk could have stayed in that bed for days, but she was there in his mind. Still trembling from love and pleasure, fear followed him while he helped Shanks clean the evidence of their selfish lust, low chuckles still warming the air around them through it all.

“I’ll write poetry for you, my love,” he breathed, eyes fluttering at the new touches he’d earned. “But you’re right. You need to leave.”

Demands felt wrong, so the swordsman finished drying and dressing his lover, until the Emperor pulled him close, their foreheads pressed together while he tried not to succumb to his own selfish terror.

“I love you, Hawk Eyes,” Shanks let out one more time, while the memory of empty eyes burned through his soul. Y/N had helped both of his lovers, had helped him find them again, to hold them again, had helped them open up.

I owe her everything.

“I love you too, Red Hair,” Mihawk gave a true smile, shaky though it was. The voice calling for him to run was easily ignored with the gratitude and desperation rolling through him now. “Please–”

“Don’t worry, baby,” Shanks laughed, kissing those lips again before leading his deadly lover off the ship. “If I can win over Dracule Mihawk’s icy heart, then there’s no beast I can’t charm.”

~~~🔴🗡️🔴🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

Kat managed to pull a laugh from you while servants buzzed around, swarming like bees as you waited in the courtyard for your new life to begin.

Whenever a big tree fell on Sylvad property, it would be easy to cart it away, to sell it into little pieces, but this courtyard was built to show off one of your favorite family traditions.

The last few generations of Sylvad’s had refused to let a fallen tree be scurried away like something to be ashamed of. If a tree fell on a Sylvad estate, it was to be celebrated to honor the hard work and creativity that made your family’s name synonymous with power, wisdom, and enough wealth and status to rival nobility.

You sat on one of those dead trees, the trunk carved into a formidable, layered bench along the base of the manor, while the lantern lit courtyard stretched out toward the forest. On and on the bench seemed to go, covered with lifelike, and even life size animals trying to spring into your world from the fallen wood.

Childhood memories trampled over you for a moment, just like your little body had once tried to climb and claim this wonder of the forest. The obedient bees brought you back to the present, doing some last minute touch ups to your hair and makeup while they fluffed up your giant gown.

Asking why you were in a white dress before your wedding day had sent you into rigid silence once the rest of the ensemble was forced onto you.

Don’t bite the help. Don’t bite the help… Do deer bite people?

“I’ll be right over there all night, okay,” Kat’s voice pushed through the mass of bodies. “Make that face if you need me to step in.”

“There’ll be no need for that, ladies,” Uncle scolded, his presence scattering the hovering pests around you. He beamed at your sister while he patted her cheek, before sending her to sit with your sulking mother. Kat gave you a weak smile, leaving you on that extravagant bench while your uncle managed to sit beside you without mussing your dress.

The music may have been pretty. The lanterns lighting up beneath the golden, darkening sky might have been enchanting.

It was even possible that one of the men in that crowd of guests breaking through the treeline onto the stone pathway would make a lovely husband.

You tried to breathe, tapping nervously against the locket you’d stuffed into the corset of your dress since it hadn’t “fit the theme.”

What a feeling it was to finally know that love was real. Yet, such was your fate that you had to keep killing and burying the futile wish that you could have kept it for yourself.

All of these men are here to own me. Every single one.

“Don’t forget to smile, dear niece,” Uncle taunted, leaning close enough to warm your cheek with his words. He laughed at his little joke, while you tried to obey.

You were the white stag.

You were his helpless prey, whose sole purpose was to be hunted, mounted, and displayed. Nothing more than a tasty trophy.

The stupid, white antlers in your hair felt heavier with each moment while you watched your hunters stalk ever closer. The men had separated from their guests who were being seated so that everyone could watch your uncle’s little show, while the suitors formed a line.

“If you–”

“You already won, Uncle,” you cut him off, eyes scanning the edge of the forest while more figures appeared. “I’ll be well behaved venison from here on… what the f–”

“Smile.”

No fucking way.

Kat had followed your line of sight, and if your face matched the look on hers, you needed to shake it off now. The last thing you needed to do was offend one of these men that could squash you like a bug.

Sis was right. We should have asked for measurements.

Swallowing manic laughter at the thought, you split into pieces, becoming the hunted. The truest part of you watched the show from a deep, dark hole within while you smiled at Uncle Cedrick, although your body couldn’t hide the shivers that broke through.

“Smart girl,” he hummed, curdling your stomach before he pressed your hand into an old man’s wrinkly grip.

Your suitors had arrived.

“Giberson, lovely to see you. Let me introduce you to my niece. She’s—“

“The Cross Guild’s young CFO, if my sources aren’t mistaken? I can’t imagine there’s another Y/N Sylvad gallivanting about.” Giberson caught you off guard, and you were a deer in the headlights when his scratchy, white mustache tickled across your fingers.

His words had left you frozen, and he released your hand, seeming a little wobbly while he balanced with his jewel encrusted cane. The old man adjusted his pin striped hat, making his tall body seem even lankier in the matching suit.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Uncle Cedrick laughed, clapping the old man on the back. “You probably know more about the competition than I do. So, have you decided to join the game, or will you just be staying for the entertainment?”

This old man is one of the Emperors of the Underworld…

Giberson’s dossier had been the lightest you’d received, yet somehow that made him more frightening, along with his epithet; The Concealer.

“Hopefully I’ll have more luck at this wedding than I did at the last one I attended. Bodies just don’t recover the same when you get to be my age,” Giberson chuckled as he tapped his knee with his cane a few times. “Still, I may be old, but I can’t resist the offer to join in such a delightful game.”

“Happy hunting, good man. I’m confident that some time in Y/N’s company will put some pep back in your step,” Uncle encouraged, pulling an intricately carved arrow from a quiver at his back, adding to the vision of the dark hunter he exuded tonight. He handed it to you, giving you the illusion of choice.

You’d been told not to stand unless you absolutely had to, so you looked up at him through your lashes. Your painted doe eyes needed no help looking helpless, but you obeyed just the same. Giberson smelled of whiskey when he leaned down to accept the arrow from your grasp, a satisfied smile on those aged lips.

“Just watch out, little lady. These young boys aren’t done fighting yet,” he stepped back, nodding subtly over his shoulder. “It would be a shame to see such a precious thing get caught up in the crossfire. I’d rather like to avoid that fate myself this time around.”

“Not to worry, Giberson, we’re all here to enjoy a more civilized kind of battle. Although, the betting pools have already added a few extra categories for all the possibilities this month presents.”

The men ignored you now, but you had to keep your face mildly pleasant while you reminded yourself not to scratch it, so as not to risk fucking up the subtle deer makeup across your nose and cheeks.

Humiliating.

You were the only animal at the banquet. The only thing on the menu. Everyone else got to be human.

Well, maybe not everyone…

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

“Are these supposed to be this fucking tight? This can’t be right…”

Shanks tugged and pulled at the dove gray pants he’d been gifted by Sylvad’s attendants, his head snapping up at the choked sound coming from his first mate’s throat.

“What’s wrong?”

Benn had changed quickly, the banquet already getting started when the two of them had stepped foot onto the private island. The older man had lucked out, easily fitting into the borrowed suit that was such a dark blue it was almost black, although he’d rolled up the sleeves, and traded the jacket for his purple cloak. Having some breathing room around his muscular arms made him seem slightly less annoyed since their weapons had to remain on the Red Force.

Benn was too distracted to care about their weapons at the moment though, wheezing while he watched his mighty captain try to stuff all of his bits into those tiny pants.

“Did you try the other pairs?” Benn failed to hide his laughter, having to clear his throat and look away.

“They're all the same size– He can’t really expect me to wear this?”

His eyes were wide, unconsciously shaking his head while he gaped at his reflection.

The tight, gray breeches seemed designed specifically to showcase every curve of his cock and balls. The soft fabric was tucked into black, knee high boots that a certain swordsman would have coveted, but Shanks felt like he was going insane with the urge to light the borrowed clothes on fire.

“No. I’m not going out there like this,” Shanks resisted.

“You said you’d do anything for her, captain. Don’t you wanna get on the uncle’s good side?” Benn’s laughter vanished while he draped a black cloak over his Captain’s shoulders, fastening the high collar around his throat. His thick fingers trailed down over the frilly, white shirt, checking the small, black vest that was little more than a girdle, before tying off his captain's sleeve. “This bunny of yours worth the tight pants?”

“Emperor Shanks, sir,” came a soft voice beyond the door. “The banquet is underway, is there anything I can assist– Oh I– Oh…”

He forgot what he was about to ask this poor girl when he opened the door, because the look on her face gave him everything he needed.

“You doing alright, darlin,” Shanks purred, touching one of the girl’s bright, red cheeks.

Benn chuckled, pushing through the doorway, and onto the stone path, ordering his captain to hurry it up.

“Y-yes, I am, sir,” she trembled, letting out a giggle when Shanks winked, and the sweet sound brought him back.

“Good girl. Why don’t you show us where to go?”

~~~

“You always strut, but I can’t remember the last time I saw you strutting like this,” Benn smirked.

“I can’t help it! These boots have heels.”

Shanks stuck out his tongue before they passed beyond the denser trees.

“You have been invited to join the game, Emperor Shanks.” The servant bowed her head while she gestured toward the center of the decorated courtyard. “I’ll lead your guest to his table now, unless you’d rather not accept the offer?”

“Why not,” Shanks beamed at her, though the sight of his competition made him fight not to sway on those uncomfortable heels.

“Looks like you and your tiny pants might be outmatched, captain,” Benn whispered, patting him on the back before following the pretty girl to a table full of enemies.

Shanks had barely made it here in time, and felt a twinge of guilt return while the last suitors moved out of the way, but the sight of her stopped the blood in his veins.

Twilight had crept into dusk, and the dancing light of the lanterns bathed her painted skin, her white dress, and ethereal antlers, seeming to glow from within. Y/N shone like a wounded star, bleeding out her light for all of these monsters to drink.

“The clothes suit you well, Emperor,” Cedrick purred, making his niece flinch. She hid herself away before Shanks could decipher what he’d seen behind her mesmerizing eyes.

“I had no idea that fashionable friends could be so generous,” he charmed, stalking closer and closer until he caught her cold hand in his. “Or that I’d have the pleasure of meeting such a gorgeous, little bunny again so soon. Sorry, you're a gorgeous, little doe, aren’t you?”

She stared while he pressed his lips to her knuckles, and he took in every detail, wishing he could just grab her and run.

She’s not wearing Buggy’s locket…

Before new anxiety could set in, Shanks had to swallow his rage at the sound of that voice.

“Either would make for a good hunt. The nice Emperor asked you a question, Y/N,” Sylvad taunted, tapping her thigh with a decorative arrow.

“It’s alright, bunny.” He gave her a crooked smile while she gave him nothing, so he turned to the smirking piece of shit by her side. “From what I’ve gathered, we might get to spend some more time together soon. Do I have that right, new friend?”

“I treat my friends very well, but family is everything,” Cedrick vowed. “There'll be plenty of time to discuss details later, but if you’d like to accept the offer to join this little game, then you may get to enjoy more than just our famous Sylvad hospitality.”

Shanks bought himself some time by letting his eyes rake over her again.

I’m a villain. I’m not here to rescue her.

“How could I resist?”

“Go on,” her uncle beamed with triumph, shoving the arrow into her hand.

The woman that had captured the hearts of the only two people Shanks had ever truly loved met her Uncle’s cruel gaze before looking back up at the Emperor of the Sea. Her eyes fluttered while she offered him the arrow, keeping her hands close to her face so that he felt her breath on his fingers as pulled the symbolic weapon from her grip.

His lips parted as he became trapped in her eyes again, although that haunting pull had been replaced by a desire so hot, it rivaled the stars. Y/N's bare need felt like a gift from the heavens.

“Thank you,” he breathed, twirling the arrow in his fingers while he bowed his head at that fallen star, before winking at her captor.

“Happy hunting, Shanks.”

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

Giberson had finally stopped gossiping with Uncle Cedrick, so you became the prey again, smiling up at your next suitor.

Suitors.

You couldn’t help glancing toward Kat while her favorite pick stepped up alongside his brothers.

These men should have been intimidating, and they had been, for a moment.

Yet now, the three princes of the Germa Kingdom were all staring down at you like hungry puppies.

What the fuck?

“Welcome, Ichiji, Niji, Yonji. This is my niece, Y/N. It is an honor to welcome you to our humble estate.”

“The honor is ours,” one of the princes crooned, laying a kiss with almost too much pressure against your knuckles.

Ichiji. The red head is Ichiji.

Your mind rattled through everything you could recall while his green and blue haired brothers took their turns, their loose shirts and billowing capes moving prettily in the light breeze.

Somehow the word “prince” had made their blatant lust seem shocking, and you almost laughed at how fucking naive that was.

They were here to buy you, just like all the rest, and their royal hands lingered on your skin when they accepted their arrows.

~~~

“There you are, old friend!”

“Cedrick. It’s good to see you.”

“Mr. Iceburg?”

Excitement tore through you, and you almost leapt to your feet so you could hug your dad’s old friend.

Your uncle’s old friend…

Iceburg, the Mayor of Water 7, and the CEO of Galley-La.

You’d had an embarrassing crush on the man, even before he brought all of those shipbuilding companies under one name seven years ago, creating his own empire. Water 7 was your company’s most powerful, and profitable connection, so you’d spent a lot of your childhood on that watery island while your dad made deals with this handsome entrepreneur.

He’d always been kind, and funny, and had never ignored or patronized you like so many of the other business contacts dad had made you spend time with.

“Well, Y/N, don’t you look stunning,” Iceburg hummed, leaning down close to kiss your cheek. It was something he’d done many times, but your skin still flushed with heat as it always had. “I hardly recognized my little numbers girl.”

With your mouth hanging open, you felt like a child come face to face with her dream, only to find that the dream carried a bitter aftertaste.

But it still looked fucking good.

Your eyes traveled up and down his tall frame, snagging on the black, leather pants tucked into knee length boots. He had rarely buttoned his shirts all the way before, but now the loose fabric of his rust-colored tunic hung wide open, and you found yourself blinking up at the lovely frame it made around his tanned skin, and dark, blue chest hair.

“Don’t keep our dear friend waiting, Y/N,” Uncle Cedrick urged, tapping your hands with the arrow until you snapped out of your teenage fantasy.

“May I,” Iceburg asked, his eyebrow raising just a bit while he watched you nod.

He’s here to buy me. He wants to buy his friend’s daughter. Wants to…

His thumb traced over your wrist before he pulled away, the rough touch of a carpenter's hand making you shiver.

“See ya, girlie,” Iceburg winked, wrecking you for the next hopeful.

~~~

Luckily the next hopeful didn’t matter, although it felt like you’d just lost a safety net.

“I do apologize,” whined the most ‘boring’ candidate, Mr. Halvens. “I’m afraid I will have to decline. There are certain elements here that I cannot have my name associated with.”

“Not to worry,” Uncle laughed. “You’re welcome to stay for the banquet, although I'd recommend keeping your voice down if you plan to disparage my other guests again.”

The poor man went pale, and you were disgusted with your urge to laugh at his pathetic scrambling when your uncle’s laughter rolled over you first.

~~~

“Prince Fukaboshi,” you projected, staring up at the massive merman. There was a ring of what looked like a bubble around his waist, and his blue, spotted tail seemed to float just slightly above the ground.

You had prepared yourself for a merman.

Not for a fucking giant.

“I am looking forward to winning your heart, Miss Sylvad,” he charmed, although the effect was strange from almost two stories up. Fukaboshi's regal voice rushed toward you when he leaned down, and you tried to smile under that sharp face, that cloud of light, blue hair.

The arrow seemed to shrink once his fingers pulled it so carefully from yours, before he joined his guests at the edge of the courtyard. You could still feel the prince's gaze, like a cool weight over your skin.

~~~

How the fuck…

The fact that the next suitors weren’t even the tallest people you’d met tonight was insane, and you had to fight not to let panicked laughter escape while you were introduced to these two brothers.

“Thank you so much for coming. This is my niece, Y/N. I know she’s been looking forward to meeting you both, Cracker, and Katakuri.” Uncle Cedrick smiled at the frightening brothers, seeming almost giddy when he handed you their arrows.

Cracker leaned down first, and he had to be a couple of feet taller than… He also carried a fierce scar on his face, scraping across his right eye. When he grinned, his bright, pink irises seemed to eat you up, a near manic look behind them.

You couldn’t make sense of his clothes, so you tried not to look at the giant fucking crackers hanging around his belt, or at his light, purple hair that was tied into long buns that seemed to be crackling with fire.

Katakuri was even taller, almost as tall as the merman prince, but he went to a knee to get closer to you. His clothes were all leather with scratches and spikes artfully placed to look even more ready for violence. Pink tattoos kissed along his bare chest and arms, and the color went well with his crimson hair and eyes, but you couldn’t see more of his face below the fur scarf he had wrapped up to the bridge of his nose.

His eyes were intense, knowing, and the sheer size of him amplified his frightening, but lovely, features.

“Pleasure to meet you, Y/N. I hope that our families can join their strengths soon.”

The Charlotte brothers left you breathless while the courtyard buzzed with the sounds of guests enjoying their drinks as they waited for dinner to start, celebrating the thought of you being claimed by one of these lucky suitors.

~~~

Twilight had crept into dusk, and you let yourself take a breath, knowing that the line must be coming to an end. Everyone in your mom’s book was already here, plus Iceburg, and there couldn’t be too many last minute…

Shanks?

The Emperor of the Sea stood framed by the growing night, dressed like a wicked horseman on the hunt. He stared at you as though he were surprised to find you there.

As though this fucking traitor hadn’t broken his promise as soon as Uncle Cedrick had shown up. The image of Shanks leaning close, smiling, and flirting with your uncle at the Cross Guild’s party felt like molten metal through your gut. Then he’d run away. You’d seen him, that stupid, red hair slipping through the crowd, fleeing the vow he’d made to you.

Liar. Liar. LIAR!

Somehow you stayed very deep inside yourself after Uncle’s voice made you flinch, even while this filthy leech touched your hand. You couldn’t hear what he was saying while he talked to his new best friend.

You’re just another bitch for my uncle’s money, aren’t you? Disgusting trash.

You almost laughed. Almost let it out.

Uncle Cedrick tapped your thigh with the arrow, and the visceral image of shoving it into one of Shanks' poisonous, “soft,” brown eyes felt intoxicating.

Pathetic. You’re just like all the rest. The Great Red Haired Shanks is no hero. Just another piece of shit that would betray his love for some berry.

Rage and nausea battled for more space within you, until your uncle shoved the arrow into your hand, and you remembered.

I can't let Uncle see how much I hate him.

A wave of desire and power burned through you, and you let yourself feel nothing but need while you offered Shanks that weapon instead of using it against him. It felt as though you were possessed, but you welcomed the chaos of mindless lust, relishing in it when those soft eyes went dark before he finally got the fuck away from you.

Did he just fucking thank me?

Uncle started to address the crowd, and you knew you should be listening. You tried to be here, to survive.

Traitor. Liar. Leech. Trash.

Breathing felt impossible. Your corset seemed tighter now, making the hidden locket dig into your skin, reminding you that Buggy was all alone.

There had never been a chance for you to have true love in your life. Not the cursed heiress of Sylvad’s. Not with your Uncle’s plans.

Your sweet, lovely clown deserved better.

But Shanks betrayed you both. He'd abandoned Buggy after one conversation with Cedrick Sylvad, just as weak and worthless as your first two "loves."

Uncle offered you his hand, and you stood without knowing what was next, but all that came next was applause. Happy, little vultures excited for their next meal.

“Did you hear me,” he hissed at you before shrugging for the crowd. “I think our white stag is feeling a bit skittish, but that's nothing a little chase can't fix. The first hunter to catch her claims the first date!”

Chase?

“Run along now, niece,” Uncle Cedrick smirked, nodding toward the trees. Night had officially fallen as he led you down that stone path, the eyes of all the hunters following your every step toward the darkened forest. “You’ve got a ten minute head start, Y/N. Better decide which arrow you'd rather be pieced with tonight.”

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

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

Author's Note: Yes, I dressed Shanks up like Jareth the Goblin King. No, I am not sorry 😅

Who do you think is going to catch our white stag? I'm having so much fun with this game! 🥰🏹 Check out the poll below, or you can just tell me what you think about our lineup! I've been going crazy over it, especially since I try to stick as close to canon possibility as I can for some weird reason, lol.

Part 32

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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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

Text

The Dollhouse 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as fear, coercion, violence, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Five girls move into a shared residence for the upcoming school year but not all is as it seems.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, Captain Syverson, Steve Abnesti, Lloyd Hansen, and Peter Parker

This fic features five named readers; Ann, Lulu, Polly, Barbie, and Molly. This chapter features Ann and Lulu. Please note that characters may switch but will maintain second-person POV.

Note: It's thirstday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all until you can’t stand it. Take care. 💖

You’ve been waiting all summer to come back. Campus is like paradise to you. Sure, it’s fun to party but there’s also all the clubs and the general sense of community. You always manage to find your way right into the heart of it all.

You’re a bit disappointed to not be living on campus itself but you found an alternative not too far away, and in a nice neighbourhood too. Not to mention, your best friend ever, Polly, will be living with you!

The uber pulls up to the front of the idyllic building and your cheeks bloom with excitement. You spent the extra money to haul all your bags from the station, and it was worth it. You couldn’t have dragged it all that way, even on the bus.

The driver helps you get everything onto the curb. You thank him and tip him on the app. He looks at you with that fogginess that a lot of guys get. He asks if you need anything else and you assure him you’re just fine. He seems almost reluctant to go. His spindly fingers twiddle at his side as he slinks around the hood.

You stand with your bags and take out your phone. Polly said she was on her way. You don’t want to go in without her. You send her a message asking how close she is.

“Hey, what’re ya standing in the middle of the sidewalk for, bitch?”

You wince as you spin to face the grizzly snarl. You harrumph and scowl at Polly as she cackles. It’s funny to think she could do such a scary voice considering she always looks so dainty and perfect. Even then, she wears a blouse and skirt, with a scarf that reminds you of an Audrey classic. Never a stitch out of place with her.

“You sure are dressed for moving day,” you remark dryly.

“Mm, don’t talk to me Barbie Doll,” she tosses the derisive nickname at you, “I see you have on the classic Mattel shade today.”

You pout your pinkened lips at her and roll your eyes, “whatever! Pol! We’re gonna be roommates!”

You squeal together and she lifts her bag over the lip of the pavement, “hell yeah.”

You giggle and look up at the house. You went there once before for the walkthrough and it’s even more perfect than you remember. You bend to take your smallest bag and Polly shakes her head.

“Really? You brought all that? I hope you don’t think I’m gonna be your personal camel and carry it.”

“Don’t be such a downer,” you stick your tongue out.

“Excuse me,” a deep timbre rolls over as the front gate squeaks. You and Polly share a startled look then turn to the large blond man as he steps through. That isn’t Jonathan... “Are you girls here for moving day?”

“Uhhhhh,” you drone out and once more glance at your BFF, “we are.”

“Oh, let me explain, Jonathan can’t make it. He has an emergency at another property. He left your keys with me to deliver,” he stirs around in the pocket of his blazers as he stands across the pavement.

He's taller than the building manager you met in July, broader too. He’s bigger in every way and just as blond. He wears a pair of square glasses and only a plain tee under his suit jacket. He fishes out two key rings and shakes them.

“Here we are,” he grins. He steps forward and offers you one of the fobs. “Front door is a censor. All new system.” He gives Polly the other dongle. “By the way, I’m Steve. I help Jonathan with security. I’ll be popping in for routine measures but I shouldn’t bother you too much.”

“Oh thanks. I’m Barbie, this is Polly,” you squeeze the fob and smile at the grand facade of the building. “Awesome.”

Polly toys with her keyring and stays quiet. She’s usually a riot but around men, you’ve noticed she gets a bit shy. You don’t blame her. Steve is a big guy and his gaze doesn’t falter for a single second.

“Well, that’s great,” you continue, “good to be safe.”

“Yeah, especially with a house full of girls. You never know,” he says.

You blink at the subtlety of his suggestion. Obviously, there’s always those who will have the worst intentions but you try not to think of that. Besides, you’ve been around the block and it all looks very ordinary to you.

“Anyway, let me show you inside. You’ve already got a roommate waiting on your girls,” he announces and claps his hands. “Can I help you with some of this?”

He nods to your bags and you shimmy as you laugh at yourself, “oh, yeah, aha. I wanted to make sure I had everything.”

“No problem, think I can handle it,” he bends and picks up your two largest bags. He doesn’t struggle at all. You gather up the three smaller ones and Polly rolls her suitcase with her.

He stands inside the gate as he waits for you to enter. You lead the way up the walk as Polly clicks behind you. You climb the steps and strut across the porch.

“Go on in,” Steve calls from behind.

You do as he says and set your bags to the side of the entryway. You pause to take off your shoes as you see another pair on the mat. A pair of round-toed flats with bows.

“You two are upstairs,” Steve says, “at the top, rooms at the end of the hall. Do you want me to bring your bags up?”

“Oh, no, you can leave them at the door,” you face him again. “This is so lovely. Will you let Jonathan know we got here or should I call him?”

“I can take care of it,” he says. “I’ll be headed to him once the rest of you show up. My partner’s out of town so we’re short right now.”

“Your partner?”

“Like I said, security.”

“Ah, right, ha,” you rock your shoulders and he puts your bags down lightly.

“Sure you don’t want some help,” he peers upstairs.

“Really, we’re all good, right Polly?”

“Mhmm,” she nods and looks past him.

“Right, I’ll be outside. There's three more coming.” He nods and turns to go.

You wait until he’s out the door to proceed upstairs. As you do, Polly sighs.

“He was nice,” you say.

“I guess,” she agrees dully.

“He’s just doing his job.”

“I know, it’s just, boys, guys, or whatever, standing next to you with them is like being invisible sometimes,” she mutters. “Not your fault but... yeah.”

“Whatever. He’s a bit old for me,” you scoff as you get to the second-floor hall. You forgot how wide it was. Probably a good thing knowing it will be a full house.

As you come to the end of the hall, a door opens and you see a single eye peer out. You stop short and Polly hits your back. The girl shifts the door and sticks her head out.

“Uh, hi,” she squeaks, “I’m Lulu.”

“Hey, uh, we’re... Barbie,” you point to yourself, “and Polly.”

Polly leans around to wave with her free hands, “hi, Lulu.”

Lulu lets the door go and steps out, “it’s been so quiet around here. I got here last week. It’s so nice to have people around.”

“Oh, really?” You wonder.

“I’m on exchange so... yeah, had to fly in,” she smiles sheepishly. “Anyway, sorry to bug you. Just wanted to say hi.”

“You’re not bugging us at all! We were just chatting with Steve--”

“Steve?” She frowns, “oh, the big bald guy? That’s Sy.”

You frown and look at Polly, “no, Steve. Blond hair. Big.” You make yourself wide as you say the last word.

“Ohhhh, sorry, I haven’t been out of my room. I’ve been so nervous,” she giggles and it sounds like a tinkling bell.

“He’s the security guy or something,” Polly says.

“Right,” Lulu’s lips tremble, “cool. Um, anyway, if you need me to show you around...”

“Um, sure. We’ll drop out things off then I want to have a look at the kitchen. I was thinking of having some drinks once the rest got here. Maybe we can do a housewarming,” you chirp.

“Oh, that sounds fun,” Lulu laughs again and it seems to clog her throat. She clears it and blinks, “sorry. Nervous.”

You smile. You like meeting new people and the most exciting part for you, is all the different personalities coming together. And there’s still three more girls on the way.

New things are always scary. For you, even the familiar is frightening. Sometimes what you know is the most dangerous. Like the bullies you went to school with for years.

Transferring to a new college is enough stress on its own but moving to a whole new city, that’s another beast on its own. Just like a dragon on its hoard. You clutch your worn novel to your chest as you walk down the street, your bag bouncing on the cracks in the sidewalk.

You should’ve written this down. You think you’re going in the right direction. After the greyhound, you counter the city transit into the core and from there, you’ve been walking in circles. Finally, you recognise a street name and stop to turn on your data and spend a few MBs on confirming your destination. Just at the end. Phew.

That gate was in the photos, those hedges too. Wow, it looks so much better IRL. You slow down in disbelief as you stare up at the siding. This can’t be. For the price you’re paying, you have to have taken a wrong turn.

“Moving in?” A chipper voice asks as a shadow skews over the pavement next to yours.

You blanch and look over at a boy about your age with reddish brown hair and warm amber eyes. He grins as you lower your chin then turn back to the house, “uh, yeah?”

“Me too,” he says. “Peter. It’s a pretty cool building, huh? My aunt knows the owner.”

“Mr. Pine,” you murmur.

“I call him Jonathan but, yeah,” he chuckles. “You’re a Thrones fan?”

You furrow your brow and glance over again. Then you check the book in your hand.

“I’ve only read the books,” you say.

“Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Molly,” you answer and sniff. You stare up at the house as it sinks in. You’ll be sharing a space with him. Not only him, but four others.

“Should we go in together?” He offers.

“Sure, why not,” you clutch your phone against the book and drag your bag forward. “Um, Mr. Pine said we should call--”

“Yeah, that’s whatever. Like I said, I know him,” he insists as he goes ahead of you and unlatches the gate. “Come on.”

You come forward as he hitches up his duffle bag. Your suitcase rattles over the threshold as another figure appears from the porch, “Pete, didn’t say you were bringing your girlfriend.”

A large blond man, built like a warrior in a fantasy novel, descends the steps, “don’t think the roommates will be very happy about that.” “Whatever, Steve. She’s one of them. We just met.”

“Ah, another one,” the man says, “great, just one more then.” The man digs in his pocket, “Jonathan left the keys.” He takes out two fobs and doles them out between you and Peter, “I’m Steve. Security.” He explains.

“Oh, uh, nice to meet you,” you eke out.

“This is Molly,” Peter intones and you give a bashful look. Oops, you forgot that.

“Right, you two are on the first floor,” Steve says, “you wanna show her around, Pete?”

Peter clucks, “Peter,” he corrects, “Steven.”

The large man chortles and nods at you, “let me know if he gives you any trouble. It is my job to deal with the rabble.”

You smile tightly and Peter waves off the other man, “come on. I’m sure you don’t wanna stand out in the sun with this lump head.”

You show your teeth apologetically before you follow Peter. He strides down the walk and up the steps. You’re a few feet behind him.

As you enter the house, you hear voices. They hush and you listen for them as they seem to do the same. Peter stands on the mat as you unlace your sneakers.

“Hello?” He calls out, “anybody here?”

There’s some noise before footsteps come from somewhere deep in the house. You look up to the top of the stairs as a figure appears above. The girl bounds down as two others loom behind her.

“Helloooooo!” She trills, “I’m Barbie!”

“Barbie,” Peter says, “hey. I love your lipstick.”

“It’s gloss, actually, honey,” she winks, “you two are moving in? You’re friends too?”

“Oh, uh no,” you shake your head, “we just...”

“Good timing,” Peter says, “Peter, Molly.” He points in tandem with his introductions.

“So cute, Molly, well up there is Polly. That rhymes! Polly and Molly, and that’s Lulu,” she gestures up behind her as the girls wave, “think there’s only one room left.”

“What are we thinking?” Peter asks. “Party tonight? Ice breakers?”

“Something like that. Drinks?” Barbie suggests.

“You’re my kinda girl, Barbs.”

“Barbie, hon,” she chides with a wag of her finger, “anywho, I’ll let you two get cozy while we wait on the last one.”

“I hope it’s a dude,” Peter mutters as he turns away.

You smile at Barbie then follow him. You’re not sure where your room is but he seems to know exactly where he’s going. You wouldn’t mind a door to hide behind.

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cinematicnomad · 6 months ago

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cinematicnomad's steddie fic recs

i've been reading a lot of stranger things steddie fics over the past 2 months so i've decided it's time for me to make one of my requisite fic reclists, both for myself, and for anyone else interested. here's my usual reminder that i prefer lengthy fics, and that i am also a sucker for canon divergent fics (which basically all of these are bc eddie is alive post s4 obviously unless it's a time loop fic—if i tag a fic as "canon divergent eddie lives", assume this means the fic is compliant through the end of s4 except for eddie's death) and happy endings. all these fics are complete, though it's possible that if the fic is part of a series the series may not be complete. i will try to always add appropriate tags!

T = teen M = mature Ex = explicit NR = not rated

bracing for impact by writersagainstwritersblock (1/1 | 9k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; wayne POV; steve has bad parents; outsider POV

wayne watches as eddie falls hopelessly in love, with of all people, goddamn steve harrington.

it's not a big deal by aidaronan (1/1 | 11k+ | M) canon divergent eddie lives; alternating POV; mutual pining; angst w/ a happy ending

eddie survives, but his entire life is locked away in the upside down forever (his books, his dnd stuff, his guitar.) everything that wasn't on eddie when steve carried him into the ER, gone. so naturally steve starts giving him things. handing eddie back those little outward markers of who he is.

you oughta know by thisapplepielife / @thisapplepielife (1/1 | 12k+ | M) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; future fic; angst w/ a happy ending

days stretch out, long and slow. steve tries to ignore the only thing he’s sure of: eddie ran. he ran from him, ran from all of them. or: steve's having a rough couple of years, thanks for asking. compliant fic: i'm brave, but i'm chicken shit (1/1 | 13k+ | M) eddie POV; eddie centric; 1990s; recreational drug use

introduced me to my mind by alchemystique (2/2 | 16k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; mutual pining; getting together; happy ending

"eddie," wayne says, and eddie fights the urge to scream, or laugh, or cry. "i'm not running," eddie tells him, even though that is a fucking lie. "you should call him more," wayne says, and eddie rubs the meat of his palm into his eyeballs until he sees stars. doesn’t think about what 'call him more' means in context—do they talk about him? series: sweet leaf (4/4 | 16k+ | T) outsider POVs; rockstar!eddie; period typical homophobia

steve harrington's guide to making it work by eggbertsheggbert (8/8 | 23k+ | NR) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; bad harrington parents; steve is kicked out; angst w/ a happy ending

steve harrington has never been good at asking for help. especially not since he started being seen as the protector of the group. so, when his parents kick him out after discovering his sexuality, he figures he can get extra shifts, save up, and get a place before anyone realizes anything is wrong. join steve as he takes on the weight of the world. he's got it figured out, he's definitely NOT struggling, and—above all else—he can make this work.

the power of love by lacerta26 (8/8 | 27k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; outsider POVs; series; post-canon; coming out

jim gets mostly to the end of the house and then someone speaks. "i came out here for a smoke," eddie, his voice low, hushed. "yeah, but this is much more fun," steve now, almost laughing but not quite. * jim had only stepped out for a cigarette when he learns something new about steve and eddie and if this was one of the boys bringing home a girl, he’d have the exact stern words to make sure they were being a gentleman but his usual shovel talk isn't quite going to cut it because he has to let them know it's fine, more than fine, for them to be who they are, here.

hands where i can see them by SolarMorrigan / @solarmorrigan (12/12 | 29k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; multiple POV; established relationship; emotional hurt/comfort

eddie thinks that he and steve have a good thing going; being friends with benefits is honestly a pretty sweet deal. steve is a great friend, the sex is great, everything is great. except for the fact that steve hadn't realized they were only friends with benefits. except for the fact that steve thought they were in a relationship. except for the fact that eddie doesn't realize how much he'd valued that relationship until it's gone (and he's trying his damnedest to get it back).

it's alright if you love me by alivingfire (7/7 | 31k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; outsider POV; character study; 5+1; steve-centric; hurt/comfort

"oh, haven't you heard? steve harrington doesn't cry." in which steve harrington breaks up, breaks a few hearts (including his own), breaks free, and finally gets to break down. or: 5 times steve didn't cry, and 1 time he did.

off the beaten path by pukner (6/6 | 34k+ | M) canon divergent post s3; alternating POV; queer awakenings; cliffhanger ending (must read sequels)*

"i'm saying this," says steve, loudly, cutting him off, "because someone i love is, uh, gay. and i love them, but like, platonically. and also me calling you a queer might've been a little hypocritical, in retrospect." there is a long, baffled pause. "what," says jonathan, "steve, are you—are you coming out to me?" steve frowns, "oh, yeah, i guess i am. cool." or, post season 3, steve manages to figure out that he's bisexual, despite his best efforts to repress it, comes out to robin and jonathan byers of all people, and figures himself out. also, there's a cute guy who might be actually insane running the kids' dnd club and he's got his eye on him. and his bandana. too bad eddie munson hasn't had a similar revelation. he's still under the impression that he's a straight man obsessing over steve harrington for normal, extremely heterosexual reasons. OR: steve figures out he's bi before eddie figures out that he's gay. eddie still manages to fall first. series: *off-script (2/2 | 67k+ | Ex) eddie POV; internalized homophobia; mutual pining

a tattoo is worth a thousand words by writersagainstwritersblock (18/18 | 40k+ | M) canon divergent post s3; eddie POV; babysitter steve harrington; getting together

"ambidextrous, princess, it’s what makes me so good with my hands." eddie wiggled his fingers. "you mean for guitar?" steve asked, completely missing the innuendo, and also nearly knocking eddie flat at the thought that steve harrington knew he played guitar. "you stalking me or something?" eddie asked. steve frowned. "uh, no, but your band played in the middle school talent show, it's pretty hard to forget a thirteen year old screaming death metal before his voice dropped." eddie almost laughed at that. almost. "you saying i'm unforgettable, princess?" "if that’s how you want to take it, munson." eddie realized this was turning towards something far more dangerous than taunting a boy known for getting into fights, like flirting with a very, very straight boy known for getting into fights. OR after the events of season three steve shows up on eddie's doorstep asking for a tattoo... and then keeps showing up much to the dismay of eddie's traitorous heart. sequel: visible ink (12/12 | 57k+ | M) outsider POVs; firefighter!steve; tattoo artist!eddie; found family

the one in which a time loop is fucking exhausting. by badpancake (12/12 | 41k+ | T) canon compliant; time loop; steve POV; temporary character death; suicide; angst w/ a happy ending

it’s the first time in a while that he doesn’t know what comes next. he’s dove into the water hundreds of times. screamed as his flesh was torn apart, heard master of puppets in the distance and held back tears. felt max’s cold, small hand in his as she laid in the hospital bed. there are things that always happen, no matter how hard he tries: el doesn’t arrive in time. eddie dies. max is put in a coma. steve fails. they lose. "steve, how many loops have you been through?" his head is nodding, and his eyes are watery, and eddie has approached him like a spooked animal. "i lost count.” AKA: the one where steve harrington is stuck in a time loop, and eddie munson is really fucking hard to save, or: fuck volume 2, these bitches are in love.

steve the reluctant by rachtay13 (7/7 | 46k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; oblivious steve; steve plays dnd

robin raised her brows. "you know what, harrington?" she nodded her head. "yeah, you know what? i dare you to make a friend. i dare you." read for steve in denial, excessive d&d gameplay, robin as a mermaid, and eddie's glinting rings. as one reader said "the most frustratingly dense version of steve i have ever read and i am HERE for it."

you're so fucked up and i love it by genericfanatic (18/18 | 54k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; eddie POV; accidental relationship; hurt/comfort

eddie munson hated steve harrington. he'd apparently saved his life, dragged him out of hell and got him to a hospital while nancy rushed behind him working on alibis and half truths to prove he couldn’t have murdered chrissy. and here he was, doomed to live for the foreseeable future, in debt forever to steve fucking harrington. but eddie really hated how normal steve fucking was.

where do we go from here? (quietly fading away) by allandmore (9/9 | 60k+ | M) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; angst w/ a happy ending; non-graphic violence

"what's scarier than saving the world? figuring out what to do afterwards. i get it," eddie turns on his side, one shoulder on the wall, and grips the front of steve's shirt. His face is so close steve can feel the warmth of his breath. "but we've got time now. right, steve? we bought us all time. time to figure all our shit out. isn’t that what matters?" OR steve harrington struggles to find purpose after the upside down. (but maybe purpose doesn't have to be big. maybe it's helping dustin navigate sophomore year. maybe it's reminding robin to send in college admission letters. maybe it's eddie munson. maybe).

star of the masquerade by glorious_spoon (6/6 | 64k+ | M) canon compliant; eddie POV; time loop; temporary character death; angst w/ a happy ending

steve jerks awake, sitting up so quickly that robin almost topples over and staring wildly around the room. when his gaze lands on eddie, he blanches visibly. "oh, shit," he mutters. "come on, no. come on. not again." "harrington?" eddie asks slowly. he does not love the way that steve is staring at him right now. he really doesn’t. steve looks like he’s staring at a ghost, a bloodied monster, like eddie is something that should not exist in the light of day. "you good, dude?"

one size fits all by entanglednow (10/10 | 65k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; fake/pretend relationship; misunderstandings; slow burn

steve just wanted to do something nice for a friend, he doesn't mean to get eddie's ring stuck on his finger, and it's definitely not his fault that everyone he knows is jumping to conclusions.

renegades (leave a light on) by queerofthedagger (13/13 | 66k+ | Ex) canon divergent s2; eddie POV; road trip; slow burn; strangers to lovers

eddie doesn't expect to get into trouble for his recent drug business, although he probably should have. even less does he expect steve harrington of all people to save his sorry ass with a nail bat that looks awfully at home in his hands. least of all, though, does he expect harrington to insist on skipping town for a while to avoid the fallout. the winter holidays of '84 seem intent on proving him wrong on all fronts. thrown into a spontaneous road trip-slash-cut-and-run to san francisco—just until things back home blow over, munson—eddie has all the time in the world to confront such questions as: why would harrington care to help him? why does he wake up from nightmares more often than not? and, maybe most importantly, why is the former king so ready to leave hawkins behind on a whim? or: idiot boys make impulsive idiot decisions, and along the way—reluctantly but inevitably—they fall in love. a story of endless winter streets, finding family, and leaving home to find a new one.

falling without caution (people watching) by super_skam310 (10/10 | 66k+ | NR) canon divergent eddie lives; eddie POV; slow burn; eventual happy ending

steve harrington is a man that demands your attention; whether your give it willingly or not is inconsequential. eddie's camp tended to be in the latter category. OR eddie's borderline obsessive watching of steve spanning from steve's freshman year to season 4, culminating in the unfortunate realization that the king had been dethroned the moment nail bat hit monster flesh and that maybe steve harrington was lovable all along.

in the margins by foxy_mulder (4/4 | 70k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; angst w/ a happy ending; suicidal thoughts; hurt/comfort

steve is having a hard time adjusting to the new normal, after everything that went down. he doesn't want to bother his friends with his problems, though, when they've got so much weight on their shoulders already. steve stumbles on an alternate version of hawkins, where none of it ever happened. everyone’s alive, his headaches are gone, his friends actually want to hang out with him, and he’s…happy. (the party has to fight another monster. but this one doesn't prey on people's fears. it preys on their deepest desires.)

skull rock era by chattrekisses (11/11 | 71k+ | Ex) canon divergent s2; steve POV; slow burn; internalized homophobia; fix-it

steve harrington never planned for eddie munson. steve was supposed to marry his high school sweetheart, have 2.5 children, and take over the family business. he was supposed to live a blissful life on a nondescript cul-de-sac, complete with a white picket fence and a closet full of tasteful polo shirts. he was supposed to make a graceful transition between being the golden boy and being the american dream. mediocrity was what destiny had designed for steve. reality had other plans. (or, steve and eddie, against all odds, fall in love.)

roll for seduction by spikeisthebigbad (37/37 | 74k+ | Ex) canon divergent post s3; steve POV; steve plays dnd; fix-it

when steve reluctantly agreed to play dungeons and dragons with the hellfire club he expected to hate every second. he did not expect to spend his friday nights flirting with eddie munson. what if eddie and steve were dating during season 4? starts after season 3, and eventually ventures into season 4. not canon compliant.

in over my head by staymagical (16/16 | 75k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; alternating POV; head trauma; temporary amnesia

one moment, steve is entering his room, ready for bed, and the next he's in forest hills staring at a very confused very concerned eddie and the run-down remains of the old munson trailer. three hours later. thus begins a secret shared between friends, steve leaning on eddie as they try and understand and navigate this new terrifying post-concussion symptom of steve's. with vecna dead and the gates closed, it can only be steve's own scrambled brain giving up on reality. it's a race against the unknown, trying to find answers and search for solutions before it happens again and steve isn't sure how long he can keep pretending he is alright when he is anything but.

leave the light on sometimes all night by anniebibananie (7/7 | 78k+ | M) au—no upside down; steve POV; hurt/comfort; slow burn; eventual smut

june 1986 steve is lonely. he’s always been lonely, honestly. an empty house, absent parents, friends that didn’t really know him. frankly, he probably doesn’t really know himself, either. it used to be easier to ignore—between sports and parties and searching for the next girl to hang around with. then nancy wheeler told him he was bullshit. in the wreckage of the storm, he realized she probably hadn’t been that off base to call his life bullshit. [life in hawkins, indiana is boring, ordinary, no supernatural entities. steve still changes. luckily, he still makes some new friends, too. certain people are simply meant to be in the same story.]

the lathe by palmviolet (13/13 | 82k+ | M) canon compliant; steve POV; time loop; fix-it; angst w/ a happy ending; implied self-harm

"this time, do it right. this time eddie won’t bleed out in his arms, in anyone’s arms. this time, steve will do it right." — or, steve relives the day they try to kill vecna over and over, and eddie just can't seem to stop dying. steve finds this totally unacceptable. sequel: disaster / lucky (1/1 | 7k+ | M) coda; eddie POV; implied/referenced self-harm; trauma recovery

it's got what it takes by rose235b (20/20 | 83k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; friends to lovers; slow burn

“i can walk you to your car if you need to go though.” eddie’s hand stopped moving. robin’s eyes snapped towards steve as if it wasn’t a nice thing to offer. “i’ll just maybe grab the vest so i can leave it for tomorrow.” he was undeterred though. if he could help eddie munson after the worst period of his life by literally just walking, steve would walk across the entire state of indiana. eddie looked back at him, his eyes narrowing slightly as he seemed to search for something on steve’s face. “okay.” it came out softer than steve was used to eddie being. steve's on his never ending quest to make up for past mistakes. eddie's post-vecna mess of a life seems like the perfect place to start. - or, two idiots fall in love very slowly to the tune of 80s music.

(something happens and i'm) head over heels by gibbouslunation (11/11 | 94k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; alternating POV; head trauma; angst w/ a happy ending

eddie made a strangled disbelieving noise, expression flickering. "you are not apologizing to me right now, for like, feeling a normal way about stuff. i can’t believe you." steve pushed a shaking hand through his hair. his heart rate no longer in his ears meant he felt he could at least think a little more clearly. "maybe it was the heat. doesn’t always have to be something messed up, right?" eddie gave him a placating nod. "sure, heat exhaustion is a helluva thing." it had been happening a lot recently. the…forgetting. zonking out. whatever. he was pretty sure he was just extra exhausted, it had been a few weeks since everything but it might have just been the adrenaline or something finally wearing off. sometimes it was like he just forgot someone was speaking, or couldn’t remember for a moment what they’d been talking about. like blinking out of a fog maybe. it does not get better, in fact, it actually continues to get worse.

water closet by stillmadaboutpetra (7/7 | 103k+ | M) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; found family; slow burn; character study

steve's heard that a lot of life changing conversations usually happen in the kitchen or on the porch, but in his experience, it's the bathroom. a series of bathroom conversations (plus a whole lot of everything else) that slowly change steve, and his little world, in the wake of surviving vecna.

burned on the pyre by oklahoma (13/13 | 105k+ | Ex) canon compliant; steve POV; time loop; temporary character death; angst w/ a happy ending

"i’m gonna save your life, eddie munson." - caught in a time loop created by eleven where he is forced to relive the same day over and over, steve has to come up with a plan to kill vecna entirely while also making sure eddie and max don’t lose their lives in the process.

the beat has just begun by forgetthemoon (12/12 | 106k+ | M) canon compliant; steve POV; period-typical homophobia; fix it; slow burn

vecna dies. so does eddie. the world doesn't split open. in the aftermath, steve goes home to an empty house. well. almost empty. steve sighs, hanging his head. one more thing. then he can go to bed. the dirty towel can wait until later. he tosses it towards the bathtub without looking and turns to the sink, grabbing his toothbrush and toothpaste. when he looks in the mirror, eddie's staring back at him.

lonely is the night by intrajanelle (23/23 | 109k+ | T) canon divergent post s2; canon rewrite; eddie POV; hurt steve; angst w/ a happy ending

harrington had fallen, splayed in front of his preppy little beemer, like the jock equivalent of a fallen fucking angel. eddie, not having thought this through, watched harrington’s eyes roll to the back of his head, and said, "well, crap." or: post-season 2, eddie and steve get to know one another.

i can give you a heartbeat by soupbitchin (14/14 | 113k+ | T) canon compliant; eddie POV; ghost!eddie; happy ending; fix-it

being dead isn’t like eddie thought it would be. for starters, he’s a lot more alive than he expected. or, the ghost of eddie munson’s still hanging around, and he’d really appreciate if someone could notice him, thanks.

the end is here (and we do it a hundred times over) by placebythering (13/13 | 125k+ | M) canon compliant; steve POV; time loop; temporary death; suicide; angst w/ a happy ending

steve jolts awake, staring up into the dull beige of the camper’s ceiling. there’s a distinct brown stain, likely from a leak. the cushion of the back seat is hard against his back, and if he strains he could hear yelling and laughing from the outside. he wonders if he’s finally lost his fucking mind. —or, steve relives the day of the end over and over again.

caught in the middle, helpless again by margosfairyeye (14/14 | 131k+ | Ex) canon compliant; eddie POV; time loop; angst w/ a happy ending; canon-typical violence

fuck, eddie has been here before. the deja vu was bad enough but this is like, double, this is like deja deja vu or deja vu vu or something, this is unprecedented shit here. and eddie knows what comes next, knows like the roiling ache in his stomach that they’re going to go in, go though the portal and into the upside fucking down and didn’t they already do this? -- -- eddie loops through the time from lover's lake to his death, over and over again.

blood, love, and rhetoric by sourpastels / @lesbiansidney (18/18 | 143k+ | M) canon compliant; alternating POV; eddie lives; canon typical violence; accidental roommates

eddie believes three core things about the art of performance. 1. all the world's a stage. 2. performance is both a weapon and a shield, he wields it as both. and 3. you can’t act death. to quote stoppard: “it’s not gasps and blood and falling about—that isn’t what makes it death. it’s just a man failing to reappear, that’s all…” and eddie had gasped and bled and fell about, and was foolish enough in that moment to believe that was death. but he forgot a crucial step: he reappeared. or: steve is taking it day by day, flitting between the high school and the hospital and hopper’s cabin, locking any thoughts of eddie munson away at the back of his mind. meanwhile, eddie is just trying to get out of the upside down, with nothing but a nail-shield and the world's worst company.

sleight of hand by smithereen (19/19 | 143k+ | Ex) canon divergent post s2; alternating POV; internalized homophobia; slow burn

steve needs a weed dealer. he gets a bit more than that. (this is an AU set a couple months after the snow ball in season 2.)

take the money and run by thisapplepielife / @thisapplepielife (22/22 |143k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; alternating POV; road trip; getting together; future fic

"rules. like, there’ll be no eating in my car. you're not driving my car. no heavy metal," steve keeps listing, "you’re not picking up women and fucking them in m—" "i'll try to control myself," eddie interrupts with a quip, a smirk. fucking girls in steve’s car, or anywhere else for that matter, isn’t going to be an issue, unless something pretty fundamental shifts in him. steve continues, completely ignoring eddie, "you’ll wipe your feet. you're not dragging dirt all over my car. no hitchhikers. no cutesy road games. no smoking in the car. i'm not paying for all the gas." "ass, gas or grass, got it," eddie says, like he's taking this very seriously. he is not taking this seriously. or: road trip!

if your heart surrenders by asbealthgn (39/39 | 163k+ | Ex) canon divergent pre-s1; alternating POV; slow burn; secret relationship; angst w/ a happy ending

“that one’s on the house, okay?” eddie says, and steve opens his eyes to look back down at him. on his face is the slightest hint of concern, and something else steve can’t place. he’s still holding his hand. "thank you," steve says. he’s not sure exactly which thing he’s thanking eddie for, the weed or the hand in his or the lack of judgment at his fucked up head. he just knows that he’s grateful. eddie gives him a smile, a gentle curve of those pretty lips. "anytime, harrington."

tuesday's gone with the wind by thisapplepielife / @thisapplepielife (9/9 | 184k+ | Ex) alternate universe – no upside down; eddie POV; rock band; drug use; plane crash

corroded coffin's leased plane went down on june 13th, 1995 in the woods of louisiana. ten people on board died. eddie munson survived. before he survived, he really lived. companion series: wildflowers...and all the rest (15/15 | 151k+ | Ex) gareth POV; original female character; one shots; growing old; slice of life

gossip by jcmadgirl (11/11 | 213k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; pre-canon; sexual assault; angst w/ a happy ending

steve's whole life story, told through multiple snapshots of the events that made him into the person that he is today. or, a rewriting of stranger things from steve's POV.

i never did believe in miracles (but i've a feeling it's time to try) by cuoredimuschio (26/26 | 215k+ | M) canon divergent eddie lives; multiple POV; slow burn; mutual pining; getting together

eddie is beginning to think that, somewhere in the helter-skelter of surviving the upside down, being swarmed by possibly rabid but definitely rancid demobats, and charbroiling vecna’s slimy ass, he accidentally tripped through the wrong gate and landed in an alternate dimension. well, a different alternate dimension than the one he was already in. because steve harrington is flirting with him.

vignettes of lost connections by hardlyhalcyon (halcyonfrost) (50/50 | 229k+ | Ex) canon divergent pre-s1; alternating POV; secret relationship; angst w/ a happy ending

steve harrington and eddie munson had met long before dustin henderson dragged steve down to reefer rick's cabin. hawkins wasn't a huge town, and there was only the one high school, but the two were never friends. didn't even like each other. in all their darkest moments however, they somehow found company together. or the one where steve has depression, eddie becomes his safe space, and when eddie encounters battles he can't fight, steve reminds eddie of his own strength. a pre-/peri-/post-s4 fic with steddie before s4 events, continuing through and after.

as the world falls down by daeneryske (36/36 | 245k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; bad harrington parents; period typical homophobia; angst w/ a happy ending

after saving eddie from the upside down, steve hides him at his house while the party concocts a plot to clear eddie's name. what steve doesn't expect is how much he likes hanging out with eddie as they get to know each other. under the looming shadow of the mind flayer threatening to destroy hawkins, steve and eddie realize they're each grappling with their own darkness, from steve's father's impossible expectations to eddie's feelings of worthlessness. their friendship develops into something more even as the party prepares to fight Vecna and his monsters one last time. steve must decide if he's ready to shrug off the rigid roles assigned to him and become his own person. eddie must learn to embrace what steve has been trying to show him every day since nearly dying: that he's worth saving.

nothing else matters by bigskyandthecoldgun (31/31 | 279k+ | Ex) canon divergent post s2; steve POV; secret relationship; period typical attitudes; everybody lives

"you ask a lot of questions about me," steve tells him. "because you're interesting," munson says, quiet and honest. "you're a lot different than what i've heard." steve hums, eyes closed. "yeah," he says, eyes fluttering open when munson takes the joint from him again, "you are, too." or: steve ditches the prom to get high.

since you've gone (i've been lost without a trace) by steddieeddie (7/7 | 300k+ | M) canon divergent s4; multiple POV; comatose steve; grief; angst w/ a happy ending

may 31st 1986, two weeks until graduation. robin, eddie, and nancy are all set to walk across the stage, eddie being given a free pass after the whole ‘almost framed for murder’ thing. the three have been trying to be excited about their graduation, but it feels almost mundane to be excited when steve wouldn’t be there. they would be sat out on a football field in the blistering heat while waiting for their names to be called, with dustin and max in the crowd, cheering them on in steve's place. there would be fake smiles plastered to all their faces, no matter how realistic they tried to make them. none of them have genuinely smiled since steve got vecna'd. sixty-five days. steve had been in a coma for sixty-five days. the doctors keep telling the party that it doesn't look good, that steve's injures had been severe, and that they didn't know if, when, he would wake up. but they refused to lose hope. he'll wake up. it's just a matter of time. OR five times steve harrington didn't wake up, and one time he did.

the most dangerous thing (is to love you) by brokebeatle (21/21 | 304k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; alternating POV; shared trauma; slow burn; period typical homophobia

"i know you care about what those little twerps think of you, and i can assure you they think way too highly of you," eddie says with a wink, and steve gives a half-hearted smirk for just a moment. "but look…i know i can’t ask you to stop worrying about those kids, so how about this? you worry about them, and you let me—actually let me—worry about you." steve pushes his hair back, and yet again, gravity instantly pulls it back down, since he’s looking at his feet. "…i don’t need anyone to worry about me." "too fucking bad. someone’s gotta do it, and it’s gonna be me." "why?" steve replies with a raspy laugh, shaking his head slowly. "why? why." eddie crosses his arms tightly across his chest, knocking his foot into steve’s again with a bit more strength. "because we’re friends, dipshit." —in which eddie's got a reason he's been planning on leaving hawkins since long before the world almost ended. the only thing keeping him in town at this point? his promise to be friends with steve harrington. and eddie doesn't break promises.

the man that i could be by ohstars (26/26 | 325k+ | Ex) canon divergent post s3; steve POV; secret relationship; period typical homophobia; angst w/ a happy ending

"steve harrington isn't straight. it's been a few weeks since he sat on that bathroom floor at starcourt with robin, where she shared her biggest secret with him and unintentionally unlocked an entirely new side of steve. since he’s had to come to terms with being open to exploring that side of him, but he's finally acknowledged that he's most likely, definitely, without a doubt into guys." -- after coming to terms that he may be queer, steve harrington does a little exploration on his own and meets the one and only eddie munson. just as things are going well and accepted the fact he's falling for eddie in their own little bubble, steve's world is shaken by a tragedy he can't quite talk about. and when the dust settles and he's nearly ready to put the pieces back together, his worlds collide when he realizes his eddie is the same eddie playing D&D with the kids. the same eddie who's now wanted for murder thanks to another upside down monster. how will he save the day when he can barely focus watching his ex mingle with his monster fighting team? series: the men we've become (4/4 | 45k+ | M) future fics; alternating POVs; domestic living

#stranger things #steddie #fic rec #steddie fic rec #reclist by cinematicnomad #reclist #steve harrington #eddie munson #i will probably continue to add to this post as time goes on #one of the benefits of a read more #but for now #these are all the fics i've read and loved #updated 6/16/24

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navybrat817 · 1 year ago

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Epinephrine

Summary: Bucky races to win as you watch with anticipation.

Pairing: Motocross!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Word Count: Over 1.5k Warnings: Nerves, K-I-S-S-I-NG, swearing, POV switch, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?). Graphics talent and thanks: Banner by @sgt-seabass. Divider by @saradika. Bucky edit by Nix. Moodboard by yours truly. A/N: My third Connect 4 (C4007 - Square 3) / Into an Alternate Juneiverse for @buckybarnesevents! Set in my Dialed In AU, but can be read as a standalone. Apologies for any inaccuracies, but I'm human and still had fun writing this.❤️ Thank you @targaryenvampireslayer for the POV switch suggestion! Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Epinephrine. Both a hormone and a neurotransmitter, the chemical messenger transmits nerve signals to prepare your body for fight or flight. Most call it adrenaline. Some liken it to pre-race jitters.

Bucky considered it his own personal fuel.

Just breathe.

It amazed him how so many wrote off motocross as just another sport without considering the physical and mental training they put into it or how dangerous it was. Position, weight distribution, and correct form on the bike were all things to consider when practicing and racing. Not to mention no two tracks are alike, the conditions constantly changing. You had to take the hills, jumps, turns, and distance for your own safety and those around you.

He mentally wished Steve and the others a safe race, even Rumlow. Prick or not, he didn’t want the guy to get hurt. He sure as hell didn't want to lose to him either.

"For what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t hit him. Because he would have won and guys like him don’t deserve to win."

No, he doesn't.

His heart raced a little faster, his right palm starting to sweat as the nerves and excitement clashed in his chest. The knot in his stomach settled as he waited for the race to start, his focus on the path in front of him. The rough terrain ahead called to him, urging him to unleash whatever anger, fear, joy, and anything he had built up inside. He would go all out, leaving no regrets in his path.

All leading to you after he crossed the finish line.

"Good luck."

Gave me all the luck I need, Spitfire.

With your voice in his mind, it quieted any doubt that lingered. He knew his strengths and even his limits when it came to the sport. Getting back on the bike after his accident already proved that he was a winner. He didn't need to prove himself to anyone else.

But he hoped you would see his worth.

And as the gate dropped, he smiled behind his helmet.

You grabbed Natasha's arm as the riders took off, keeping an eye out for Bucky. She didn't pull away or make a comment when you dug your nails in. You appreciated her a bit more because of that. You also didn't understand why you were nervous when you weren't the one on the track.

I've seen plenty of races, but I didn't have anything at stake before.

"Sorry," you muttered as you let the redhead go.

"It's okay. He's got this," she assured you.

You nodded, doing your best to give her a smile. A mile and a half long course and likely a twenty to thirty minute race and extra lap, you knew it was standard. But watching the dirt fly as you focused on Bucky's helmet, your heart felt like it was in your throat. You didn't just want him to win, you wanted him safe.

Just breathe. He knows what he's doing.

"If he gets hurt, I'm kicking his ass," you said, sucking in a breath as another rider got close to his back wheel.

"And nurse him back to health," Natasha teased.

"Yeah. With a uniform and all," you teased, actually kind of into the idea.

Down girl.

You got uncharacteristically quiet after that, your stomach dropping when Maddox gained on Bucky. He was still in a good position, his friend, Steve, up there with him. It was almost like witnessing a roller coaster ride, the ups and downs, the twists and drops. Adrenaline pumped through your veins and you could only imagine how the guys out there felt actually experiencing it.

Exhilarating.

As the riders got close to the final lap, you jumped up. You somehow stayed on your feet when your head spun, but you weren't going to miss this. Bucky and Maddox were almost neck-in-neck, but Maddox probably thought he had it in the bag. That kind of cockiness didn't always pay off.

You sure as hell didn’t want it to pay off today.

"Come on, Hothead," you whispered.

While Maddox turned his head to look at Bucky, the latter kept his head facing forward and elbows up. As if he didn't care that his competition was there. He raced smarter, not harder, as you watched with bated breath. He kept his lead toward the finish line as you couldn’t help but smile.

Bucky Barnes won the race.

He won. He fucking won.

"Fuck yes!" you shouted, uncaring of your language as Bucky took first, his left fist pumping in the air. The way everyone else cheered, they probably didn't notice. But you finally felt like you could take a proper breath, the mental ride coming to a stop. "For the record, I'm just happy he made it across the finish line. This has nothing to do with the date."

I can actually smell my own bullshit.

"Wow. You managed to say that with a straight face. Impressive," Natasha said, nodding toward the course as the race wrapped up. "Come on. Let's go congratulate him. And by we I mean you."

"He raced a good race. It was very exciting," you said evenly, but you eagerly pulled her along to get out of the stands and through the crowd.

You weren’t sure if you were actually allowed to go up to greet him, but people moved to let you through. Was it your strut or Natasha’s subtle stare that made everyone jump out of the way? As you got closer to Bucky and the other riders, you felt like your heart was going to race out of your chest when you stopped at the edge of the course. Especially when took off his helmet, a light sheen of sweat on his face as he shook his hair out.

Fuck me in the dirt, please.

“Go,” Natasha encouraged after some of the guys congratulated Bucky, except for Maddox who stood feet away with a glare on his face.

Sore loser doesn’t look good on him, but he’s not why I’m here.

Holding your head high, you locked eyes with Bucky when he looked your way. Seemingly forgetting the others around him, he walked toward you to meet you halfway when you stepped in the dirt. The two of you stood there for a long moment before he smirked. A slight one, but still a smirk.

“Looks like I won,” he said, his voice rough.

“You did. Congratulations,” you said, stepping back to hold out your hand. “And it looks like you get to go out with me, so double congratulations,” you simpered, previous annoyance that he bet a date with you completely forgotten.

“Are we shaking on it?” he chuckled, his gloved hand reaching for yours. A spark of electricity moved up your arm once he took it and you refused to deny your attraction at that moment.

“You could say that,” you smirked, yanking him close. “But I prefer to seal it with a kiss.”

You took a moment to appreciate how soft and warm his lips felt when you initiated the kiss this time. You allowed his tongue to slip inside and explore when you parted your lips, feeling the beat of his heart as he pressed his chest against your body. It wasn’t hard or urgent, but excitement and passion consumed you. It didn’t matter if he got your clothes dirty. Or that a few of the riders whistled and cheered at the display.

He smiled against your lips when you had to take a breath. “I thought you said you weren’t a prize.”

“And I thought you said your ass was all mine after you win,” you reminded him, almost wishing you reached around to squeeze it. Even dirty and sweaty, he still looked and smelled amazing. It was a phenomenon.

“I did and I meant it,” he said, sneaking in another kiss before he had to pull away. “You sticking around?”

“I’ll be with Nat. Go do what you have to,” you said, turning away to back to your friend. She had a smile on her face. You had one on yours, too.

“I still have to get your number, so don’t go anywhere!” Bucky called after you.

“Who said I was giving you my number?” you asked over your shoulder. “I never agreed to that.”

“How am I supposed to take you on a date without it?” he asked.

“You seem like a smart guy. You’ll figure it out, Hothead,” you teased, egging him on just a little.

“Want me to get on my knees, Spitfire?”

Yes and split me open with that talented tongue of yours.

“She’ll give you her number,” Natasha said, waving Bucky on as you laughed. You may have checked his ass out again because he did say it was yours. And he no doubt checked yours out as you walked away. “You are giving him your number before we leave.”

“I will,” you promised, giving her a small smile. “I’m glad you introduced me to him,” you added gently, looking forward to getting to know him more.

“And I’m glad you put a smile back on his face.”

Hearing that felt like a victory.

I guess we’re both winners today, Hothead.

Yay! He won! Was there ever any doubt? More to come. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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tinycozycomfort · 1 year ago

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rest in the cup of my palms (part one)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter one: drawing from life

series masterlist | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: ellie volunteers joel to model for a drawing class on campus. you find someone worth dreaming about.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut (w individual tags to come), unnecessary descriptions of joel being beautiful, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn, joel miller wins girl dad of the century via unanimous vote (for this chapter) -> masturbation (f), intense feelings of loneliness, existential rumination

word count: 7.2k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: some good ol' work up, necessary to explain the rated r plans i have for them. ive been terrified of writing a series but i'm also tired of editing everything down to be one-shot appropriate, so today we try. im full-swing into my fixation era and on my 'i cant be loved + ive known how to love you for 1,000 lifetimes' bullshit. this fic is as self indulgent as they come, but i hope you can enjoy it! and for those of you willing to trudge through this with me, i love you.

read on ao3

“To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed.”

Susan Sontag - On Photography

───────

A halo of hot light falls through the pane of glass above the sink. Joel’s got one eye pinched semi-shut, trying hard to focus on not burning himself while he drains boiling water out of a pot of pasta.

When he woke up this morning, the blinds on every window in the house had been strung up to the lip. He’d barely gotten a hand around one of the strings in the glass frame above the couch before Ellie appeared out of nowhere to literally slap his wrist, ‘I’m drawing’. Still groggy, he tried to challenge her, ‘Do they all have to be open?’, to which she patiently explained—for what she probably feels is the millionth time—that she needed the extra light, and if she had them all open when she started, they’d need to stay that way until she was done.

So he left her to work, knowing she’s got midterms to finish, walking around with his eyes closed until he felt his way back into his bedroom. He came out once for coffee, and not again until dinner. This is their weekend.

Joel spoons out some of the food into bowls, leaving them to stay warm by the stove before he steps into the dining room. He stops himself half-way, hanging back in the archway to give his daughter another minute as the last shreds of strong sunlight start to wane out.

Ellie’s right where he left her: at the table, cross-legged in her chair with an eraser-less pencil held tightly in her fist. She’s hunched over a large pad of paper, the back of it lifted at an angle under a pile of old books and dog-eared tool catalogs. The sketchbook she uses as a reference guide is propped up on the corner of her left knee, leaned against the edge of the table. She rifles between two pages of it, eyeing some of the quick sketches—visual notes, as she puts it—that she took in class to help her navigate the larger, more detailed version with ease. Silent save for her short huffs of breath, she’s concentrated, wrist-corner lifted to not misplace any graphite. Her process is always the same; a little creature of habit.

She’s wearing her headphones, the cord winding dangerously low, threatening to dip into a cup of water she’d placed in the empty triangle between her lap—the same one he’d seen her with six hours ago. She hasn’t even touched it, still full nearly to the brim. He wonders if she’s gotten up at all. The girl works herself a bit too hard, he thinks, always falls head first into whatever project she’s working on, nothing if not like her dad. The corner of his mouth tugs up so tight it hurts. What is he going to do without her?

He just stands there, feet crossed on top of each other and arms in a twist over his chest, and watches her while she’s not looking, knowing she still gets shy sometimes when he catches her like this. She’s the sweetest reminder of everything good Joel’s ever done; another life he’d gladly offer his own for.

It’s always come naturally—to be what someone needs of him—in a way that transcends reward or expectation.

Joel had been his brother’s primary caregiver first, from birth and then well into their adulthood—always around to bail him out of jail or lend him money he didn’t have. Because he cared. Loved him. He couldn’t ever really say it, always had a problem with the wording, but he knew that at least some of what he wanted to explain had come across. He can see it in the way Tommy is with his own family.

His brother has Maria now, and the kids, and seeing how happy Tommy could be in spite of their upbringing was the first time Joel had ever put his priorities into question. Somewhere in all the caring-for he did, he’d forgotten about himself; the possibility of having his own wife and child and home. He’d always ached for that, deep down, but didn’t even know it was an option until he saw it happen. By that point, he wasn’t sure if he could do any of it, or if he even had the time to start. Then came Ellie.

She entered his life when a close friend of Tommy’s had died unexpectedly and no one came forward to claim her, unknowingly giving him a second chance; one he worked to make count. She was tough to crack at first—also like him in that way—but the love had always been there, waiting its turn after all the awkwardness and misunderstanding and adapting before finally showing its face. She’d needed him then, as much as his brother had all those years ago, carrying on the torch of purpose that Joel so feverishly searched for.

He rolls his eyes at himself; he’s been having too many misty-eyed moments about her lately. It’s so unserious, the actuality of it; of being her dad. Going to work and the supermarket and museums, being there to chaperone field-trips and take one-thousand mostly-blurry photos of her graduation. But it’s been everything to him. He’s desperately clung to the five years of her life that she’s shared with him, and he’s so proud to witness it, but he knows she’s getting to a point where she needs to be her own person. He’ll miss her when she’s only home for summers, then only home for Christmas, then only home once in a while—so he holds on to every bit, and tries not to think about what’s next for him.

He walks closer to her, tilting his head to try and steal a glance of what it is she’s working on. He catches a glimpse of the face of a woman, a portrait from shoulders-up. She’s pretty, with a soft and thoughtful expression, looking downward off the side of the pad. From what he could make out between the movements of Ellie’s hand, she even looks a little shy. His daughter rubs at the cheeks and nose of the girl on the paper, imitating the shadow-less areas where light would fall. Joel is mesmerized by the way she creates so effortlessly, like breathing.

Without moving her head, she pulls a tiny white bobble out from her ear, “I know you’re watching me, weirdo.”

Joel laughs, wet and thick in his mouth with the emotion he’s still climbing down from, “Is this how you treat me when I’m trying to feed you?”

She smiles, he can see the fat of her cheek rounding out even from this angle, “You should’ve just said that.”

Ellie leaves her set-up untouched, just getting up and moving down to an empty seat while Joel goes to bring the food out.

She shifts around in her seat, feet folded again on the flat of it, eating too fast—ill-mannered—and it reminds Joel of all the nights they spent at Tommy’s for family dinner, right at the beginning, back when they’d just begun to become close. When she’d push his patience with her behavior to see if he’d say something, to see if he still paid her mind—he always did, still does, “Jesus Christ, kid. Have I taught you nothing?”

She holds back a laugh, mouth full of tomato sauce, “You love it. I’m charming.”

He snorts, the two of them falling into a comfortable quiet for only a few minutes before she breaks it again, “Speaking of how much you love me, I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Oh no,” He jokes, “What now?”

“Remember those drawings I turned in of you last month?” She starts pushing around the last bite of her spaghetti, never a good sign, but he nods anyway for her to continue, “Well my teacher really liked them. And there’s been an issue with finding people to sit for the drawings. Sooo,” she really drags it out, “I signed you up.”

“What do you mean, you signed me up? For what?”

“To model,” Joel’s mouth pops open in an immediate attempt to oppose, but Ellie’s quicker, “Didn’t you say you’d always support me in school?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Joel finishes his plate and then they’re both just clinking their forks against porcelain for a heavy eightnineten seconds before she gives it another shot.

“C’mon, seriously. I’ll get extra credit if you do it,” She lets out a long sigh like she can’t believe she has to explain anything more than that, “My professor teaches a Monday session for the master’s program and they need people. It’s just one time.”

“Ellie. It’s Sunday. How are you gonna tell me this now?”

“Please, you just sit there for, like, two hours while they draw you and you don’t have to talk. That’s two of your favorite things. Three if you consider that you’d be helping me out.” she looks at him with a sticky-sweet smile, eyes crinkled—like she knows she’s getting away with it.

She might be.

“Why don’t you ask one of your friends to do it?” Joel gathers up their plates from the table to carry them into the kitchen. Ellie picks up their still half-full glasses as an excuse to follow him.

“Because we all have class together tomorrow on the other side of campus. Plus, you’re easy to draw and—”

“Hey.”

She ignores the flat look he shoots her, flipping on the sink, “That’s a compliment, by the way. But really, it’s no effort and you’d be getting me into a good place with my professor ‘cause she’ll be super grateful. The budget’s kinda tight this semester.”

“Then what am I payin’ for, if you’re gonna make me do this stuff myself?” It’s a half-hearted dig—he’s mostly annoyed because she probably already figured out he’s going to agree.

Her little smirk graduates to a shit-eating grin, she knows it, “Best dad ever.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, y’know that?”

“Just because I knew you were gonna say that, I actually signed you up for two.”

───────

Joel stumbles out of the elevator, filing hurriedly through groups of students with a new-found purpose now that he’s managed to make it to the correct floor. Ellie made a point of not mentioning that he had to be at the school at 7:30am until she was saying goodnight to him a few hours ago, because she thought it would dissuade him—she was right—so now he’s running late on top of everything else.

He’s got the little scaled-down, splotchy-printed version of the campus map gripped tightly between his hands. Room 14B is seemingly only two turns and one corner from where he stands—if he’s holding it the right way. He wants to ask for directions, but he feels too out-of-place to set aside his embarrassment. He’s older than at least half the staff, and some of the attendees are even younger, and he doesn’t want to run the risk of looking incapable, as foolish as it is. He wishes Ellie would have just offered to show him where to go before she headed off to her own class.

For someone who prides themselves on their ability to parent, he feels hopeless now without his daughter; not for the first time, but it’s especially harsh considering the circumstances. It hurts something bittersweet, to think about how much more they’ve bonded since he started working less and she decided to live at home her first year of college (though it’s coming to an end sooner than he’d like). Again, too many sad thoughts, and she’s not here, so he trudges on.

He walks in two more circles before he finds the right place—down a fucking hallway and hidden behind a door he didn’t know he was allowed to open, of course. A woman with long, dark blonde hair is sitting at a desk by the door when he enters. She doesn’t look up at him.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sorry I’m late. My—uh. You teach my daughter? I’m here for—”

“Ellie’s dad,” She cocks her head without meeting his eye, “Late? You’re about twenty minutes early, she told me you probably would be.”

She knows me too well, the brat. He chastises her in his mind but outwardly he corrects himself, “Yes, right, sorry. I’m a little turned around.”

“That’s alright. There’s just a waiver you need to sign, and you can get undressed in the bathroom down the hall. I’ll give you a cover-up to wear until I come to grab you.”

Right, he’d have to be naked. He already knew that—sort-of—having seen dozens of Ellie’s sketches from semesters past. He knows the students don’t see it that way, knows that they’ve all drawn the same things so many times they would be desensitized to his nudity. They’d probably all be desensitized to him as well; in their eyes, he was just a reference, as familiar as any of the memorialized piles of fruit or arrangements of glass that Ellie's also brought home.

Still, Joel feels a wash of anxiety come over him. He’s more than comfortable in his body, after putting it through so much, but this degree of vulnerability is severe in comparison to vanity or sex—it’s a state of living he hasn’t participated in for a long time. He doesn’t like to be seen, and being documented—having physical evidence of how he’s interpreted by others—makes his stomach turn. He hasn’t looked in a mirror for more than a moment in months, but it can’t be that bad, right? Ellie’s always given him a favorable light, but he worries she has a bias beyond belief. What if he sees something about himself he doesn’t like? What if everyone’s been able to see it all along?

Caught in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize the woman is still talking, “We have a scheduled break halfway through class. You can leave then. Next week it’ll flip and you can come for the latter half so they can finish.” She slides the form and a swath of black fabric across the table, and almost like she can sense his apprehension, finally raises her head to give him a meaningful look, “Thank you again for doing this. I know it can feel weird, but it makes a difference for them. There’ll be a joint show at the end of the month, too, with Ellie’s class.”

He just offers her a little nod of his head, thank you, signing the form and padding to the bathroom to unceremoniously disrobe in an empty stall.

It’s just two hours.

───────

If they make you take another figure-drawing class, you’re going to scream.

You’d think this far into a second degree, the school board would stop requiring you to take what is essentially the same class every semester. Sincerely, the only thing that changes is how long the session runs and what number follows the class title. It’s getting old.

To be fair, it’s not necessarily that you dislike drawing—it provides a pretty firm foundation for your personal work to stand on—it’s just tedious. Nothing is inspiring about assignment-based work, especially when they’ve decided the only way you can prove your skill-set is to make you draw the same three objects five-thousand ways.

But it’s not up to you.

So here you are again, two weeks from spring break, back in this frigid building after surviving another forty minutes of traffic, body still stiff from fighting the urge to fall asleep at the wheel.

It’s important, you remind yourself, to show up and put your fullest effort into everything, no matter how much you don’t enjoy it. Even if just to prove to yourself you can still finish things.

Coming back to school was an idea you’d toyed with for years after graduating.

There had been a lot of pressure on you to go in the first place, from your parents and your teachers and your nightmare of an ex, because according to them you’d get nowhere without it. After enough pressure and in a need to appease them, you folded and went; suffered every long night and pushed through every period of self-doubt and smiled for every ‘worth-capturing’ moment right up to the end. And then when it was over, gone faster than you could comprehend, you felt like something was taken away from you, even with how low it had made you—the worst kind of stockholm syndrome.

In an attempt to keep some momentum, you were over-eager for more right out of the gate. There was an initial need to continue, because you’d been reliant on academic structure just by the nature of familiarity, and maybe a little ill-prepared to face who you were without guidance. Without the instruction of someone with two degrees and a smoking addiction and no teaching license. Now it sounds silly, but then you spent a few too many nights uncontrollably looking into post-grad institutions or internship programs, googling professors and reading forums for first-hand accounts.

Then, after a year, the thought of continuing got a little less exciting, and you became comfortable in the freedom of nothing after being in school your whole life. So you pretended to research, emailed everyone about how great the options looked, signed up for one-on-ones you didn’t show up for—until people stopped asking.

It was at that point that you finally had the time to process what you were doing and why, and accepted that you didn’t have to have all the answers, despite what everyone had led you to believe. Truthfully, you still had no idea who you wanted to be and that’s okay—living with it and living alongside it weren’t mutually exclusive. You just took time to practice being yourself—sucked up the embarrassment and did the work, little exercises in unleashing yourself onto the world instead of letting every experience be done to you. If you were going to do anything anymore, even something like continuing your education, it had to be on your own terms, to try it all in the effort of self-discovery.

So yes, applying and getting accepted and attending every class—even this one—this time around was for you—to better yourself instead of just filling an expectation. You’re determined to make good on the opportunity.

And it has been better, so far. You even have friends this time around. Okay, two, and one of them is your roommate, but it's more of a support system than what you had going into undergrad.

You say yes now, too; not to everything, but to more than before. Which is maybe how you got roped into getting ‘introductory’ drinks later this evening with everyone, now that more people have joined the program as winter thaws out and it’s easier to commute. It’ll be nice to swap ideas and catch up and maybe even get laid instead of spending hours staring at the ceiling and willing time to pass. That thought alone is enough to keep you here.

It’s just two hours.

The room this semester is a little bigger, at least; probably the only perk that moving up so gracefully from Drawing II to Drawing III had earned you. It’s still unfortunately just another classroom; windowless to protect it from outside influence and drenched in fluorescent light to create a controlled environment. Old, stained art horses form a circle in the center of the space, crowding around a painted-gray wood pallet like an audience. A metal stool sits atop the make-shift stage, providing a seat for the subject. It’s clinical, the way the elements come together; a perfectly disarrayed scene that’s been neatly curated to emulate every ‘socratic seminar’ model you’ve seen in education since you can remember. Always the same.

You’re hoping for someone new today to rest on the chair; the department has been in less-than-preferred financial standing lately, so you’ve seen the same faces interchanged for most of the term.

Your professor is at her desk when you make your way in, greeting you with a grin despite the tired look on her face. A hardworking woman, the shadows under her eyes gave her a beauty you could only explain as determined. You knew she cross-taught for both sections of the department, and you respected her for it. It couldn’t be anything short of a struggle to toggle between those modes of seriousness—to have the patience to answer the younger students’ unending questions and the passion to keep the post-grads engaged.

Moving to get a seat as far on the outskirts of the cluster as possible, you watch as your classmates arrive slowly until all the slots are filled. No one really talks, probably all similarly bogged down by the early start and the cold weather outside. Ian, your friend who’d invited you out tonight, waves at you from four horses down and you halfheartedly nod back at him.

“Good morning everyone, we’ve only got two more classes after this until your week off, so we’ll make this next one a two-parter and have critique on the twenty-first. I want you guys to focus on composition more than anything else,” She turns in her seat to write some names on the board behind her, “We’ll go for two hours then break. If your name’s up here we’ll have a conversation about your thesis. The rest of you can go.”

Thankfully you’ve been spared this time—granted another seven-nights-straight writing the segment of your thesis that was meant to be finished two months ago. Your brain hurts inside of your skull.

You set up your little station, sketchpad raised against the easel, body straddling the drawing horse as you fiddle with some dirty erasers in your pack.

You can hear the slap slap slap of the model’s feet on the concrete floor as they enter—a long gait paired with hard, thudding steps; probably a man by the sound of it. Tall and heavy.

“Okay guys, we’re starting,” She winds up the dial on a plastic kitchen timer and sets it on the edge of her desk, “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be making a few passes throughout and we’ll exchange thoughts.”

You roll your neck, knowing the model tends to take a minute to find a comfortable position, and that people watching didn’t do anything to help. A tempered soundtrack—the poorly contained buzzing of the clock and the moan of the air-conditioning—plays on in the background. Your leg is asleep. It’s cold in here. You count to thirty in your head. That’s enough time, right? You shift again, stretching your arms once more just in case.

Looking up, you peer over the side of the easel to get a quick look at the model’s pose and immediately do a double take.

It is a man.

He’s sitting on the chair, facing the girl a few seats down from you so that you can only see him from a three-quarters view. He has one long, thick leg pushed against the lower bar of the stool, the other one, closest to you, hiked up on the seat, folded so that his knee points towards the ceiling. His arms are crossed, hugging his erect shin with his wide back wrapped over his thigh, effectively shielding the ‘naked’ parts of him from view. He looks shy, but not uncomfortable; either like he’s done this before or he’s accustomed to protecting himself—to hiding.

The frame of his body is captivating; he looks strong but used, little nicks and scars littering his shoulders and hands. Weathered. As you make your way up his torso, you find it’s a similar state of experienced, tan profile and neck bearing the slightest difference in color from the soft of his side, and you can see the faintest curve of a hem-shaped tan-line across the dip in his shoulder. Little wisps of gray-dusted brown curls frame the edges of his face. He’s beautiful in a gentle way, with a dark, heavy brow that leads into the sharp slope of his nose, plush lips pursed like he’s concentrating.

Part of you feels bad about staring, but it’s easy enough to disguise it as working, so you map him with your gaze again and again until you can still see him when you blink. It takes the constant movement of your classmate’s hand sketching something in your periphery to remember you’re being timed.

You choke out a cough, repositioning your body and grabbing some charcoal.

The way you usually approach this task is simple: get down the general gist of the body, careful to keep out the details of the person in favor of capturing light and weight—there’s a graded challenge to be considered, after all.

Yet as you watch him, you decide you can fulfill the requirements in a way that gives him more room to exist. You crop the drawing tighter, paying careful attention to the landscape of his face; the hills of his cheekbones and the valley between his lips. You want to immortalize him.

You’re suddenly deeply concerned with the history that’s woven itself into the shape of him, in what happened to make him look this way. It seems like life has been useful to him, but that he’d had to grow from something to make it so—like he had to work for it. He’s the living manifestation of his own grief and enjoyment and passion, and you want to know all of it.

Countless minutes pass as you take him in and spill him out, fingers moving quickly to recreate the weighted feeling of his posture, exhausted and heavy, muscles held together on the string of bone that runs through the center of his back. You write him down, again and again, flipping to a new page half-way through to get in one last version of him—one for yourself.

You’ve never seen him before, but you see part of yourself in him. He mirrors the anxious peace you’ve been operating under for the last few years, humming with energy but willfully stagnant. It makes you feel seen, less burdened by your recent inability to connect—he makes you want to keep trying.

You wonder if he writes or draws or makes, and if he’d show you. You want to hear him talk. You want to see the other side of him, literally and metaphorically. You want to feel—

The tinny ring of the alarm sounds off, and you’re taken out of the fantasy.

The second drawing is only really half done, but you didn’t make it with the intention of sharing it anyway, so you flip back to the original to hide it..

You try not to watch the man when he stands—remembering that just because he’d been hidden before doesn't mean he wasn't naked the entire time—maybe more for your sake than his. You peek around the room instead, taking a healthy, albeit competitive, glance around for other interpretations of the man; did they see him too, the way you do?

When you look up to take a comparative look, he’s gone. You’re a little disappointed, admittedly, but there’s still one more chance to interact with him, and you can make up for it then. You start to pack up your things in an effort to make it to the parking lot before the crowd. A sudden rise in the volume level in the room tells you that the shock of the early morning has started to burn off. You try to tune it out, so much so that you don’t hear someone walking up behind you.

“Wow.” It’s a man’s voice, deep and smooth. You pivot in your seat.

It’s him, in all his communal-robe wearing glory, even more gorgeous from head on. It’s a pleasant surprise, this reveal; his beauty is evenly distributed, like a handwritten note that extends into the margins or when a movie’s ending is just as good as the start.

“Oh. Hi. Thank you.” You feel exposed, like you got caught doing something bad, even though there are ten other people in the room with even more detailed portraits of him.

“Can I see the other one, too?”

“What?”

“You flipped your page. I didn’t see anyone else do that. Did you make two?”

You just nod, shocked that he was watching you back, peeling back the paper to reveal to him the unfinished drawing. He won’t question it if you don’t give him a reason to.

“Are you gonna finish it?” He asks, eyes rolling over it with an intense curiosity.

“Uh, probably not. I don’t like it as much as the first one.” Maybe lying your way through this would provide better reasoning than ‘I wanted a part of you that no one else could see’.

“Can I have it?”

When you can’t find something to say fast enough, he just continues.

“I’m sorry, is that rude? If you’re just gonna get rid of it, I’ll take it. It just… looks like me. I mean they all do, I’ve been told I have a ‘simple face’,” He coughs awkwardly in acknowledgement of his own tangent, “I just mean to say that it feels a lot like me. If that makes sense.”

“You’re actually very visually interesting.” Is the first thing you can think of, and fuck, did that come out really fucking wrong, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s better if he takes it, if it’ll stop you from fumbling, “But yeah, you can have it.” You pull a little plastic mail-tube out of your bag, ripping the drawing free from its perforated tether and rolling it in on itself.

The edges of his mouth pull up, a cute little thing, free of laughter or judgement, “Thank you. I’m Joel.” One of his hands drapes across his stomach, palm spread over the knot of the wrap—he’s holding himself at length again. Why?

“Hi Joel. You seem to know a fair amount about this whole thing. Not your first time, then?” You offer him your name in return, and he parrots it back—guard still up, still standing too far away.

“It is, actually. The closest I’ve come to this is sitting in the yard for my daughter,” He watches as you slide the drawing into the cylindrical case, “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.” It feels weird to hear the praise twice, “How’d they get you to pose for no money? I heard the department’s a little strapped. I’ve been subbing in for the undergrads too when I can.”

“My daughter volunteered me, she’s on the other side of the program. Your teacher was giving out extra credit.” He takes the roll when you pass it to him, going out of his way to grab it from the middle, his thumb grazing yours. Your skin heats up where he’s touched it, and you look down at the floor, suddenly nervous.

“Wow, this is the first time I’m hearing anything about that.” You continue to pack away items into your bag, “I’m owed quite a lot if that’s true.”

His face falls in on itself in a wince, “Oh. Didn’t mean to do her in like that.” You can feel him looking at you for a few beats too long, and his eyes narrow like he’s about to say more.

In the same moment, as if summoned, your professor turns on her heel, walking over to your bench.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay without it. I’ll see you next week, right?”

He shakes a little, releasing his stare, and throws a thumbs up in your direction with his protective hand, “Yeah, see ya next week. Nice to meet you.”

───────

After another four-hour class and a too-long nap and a break for dinner, everyone from this morning joins together in a few cars to head to a bar downtown. You meet up with Ian, who offered to drive as a bargaining chip, because he knows by now that you’d back out if you had to show up on your own.

The bar is dark and divey and perfect for being overly-observant in secret. You’ve warmed up to this crowd enough, but you’re still on plus-one basis with a lot of them, Ian serving as your invitation. You like to just listen to them at first during these outings, strategically planning your involvement so you don’t feel put on the spot when they give you a turn.

It’s a lot like being in class; the group of you occupying a dimly lit corner, a round-table of bodies, with the person in the center alternating as the topic changes. Tonight you stay at the furthest end.

You cling to the single tequila soda you ordered, watery and flat by now with pea-sized ice chips bobbing around in the center to avoid the heat of your fingers. You watch them swim, tipping your cup to see them swirl in a frenzied circle until they disappear.

Some guy from your English class—Andre or Andrew or who cares—is talking at you, making his best attempt at what you think is supposed to be flirting. It’s really just him asking your opinions on his five favorite books, not hiding his disapproval when you mention you haven’t read one or the other.

You watch Ian, who left you twenty minutes ago in search of the bar-top for another drink. He’s caught now on his third conversation on the way back, maybe thinking he’s doing you a favor by taking his time. You try relentlessly to catch his eye instead, and he bounds over without question when he sees you. The glass of wine in his hand is already half empty, and the English-class-guy spooks at the sight of what he probably thinks is competition. So much for that.

“Having fun?” he prods when he slips in the chair beside you, already aware that you are absolutely very much not having fun.

Ian’s a nice guy, and he means well. You met him a week into your first semester—almost a year ago now—at orientation, because your last names were the beginning and end of the line of their respective letters. He was from somewhere in Canada, studying photography with a minor in painting and drawing. He’s maybe a year or two older than you, though you’ve never asked to confirm; tall and long and pretty, for lack of a better word, with big eyes and a permanent split in the little bangs that cover his forehead. He’s the first man in years you’ve been comfortable around, never initiating anything or pushing too hard for your friendship. All in all, no one’s been as welcoming to you, except the person you literally live with, and you’re happy to let him drag you out if it means he’ll continue to look after you the way he does.

“Of course, when have you ever known me to have a bad time?”

“No luck with Adrian?” Adrian. You were close.

“Just likes to hear himself talk, I think. I wasn’t interested in being an audience.”

He hums, “Someone else on your mind?”

“Like who?” You lean the lip of your cup against your mouth.

“Saw you making eyes at the model today,” He teases, nudging you in your rib when you take a sip of your drink so that you keel over slightly. You sputter, unamused with the tactic to get you to fess up.

Was it that obvious?

“Isn’t that the point of the class?”

“Yeah maybe, smartass, but that’s not what I meant. I saw him talking to you, saw you give him a little gift,” He bobs his eyebrows at you suggestively, “Excited for him to come back next week?”

“So I can stare more, you mean?”

“So you can get his number.”

“Ian.”

“I’m just saying you should try and find someone outside our section of the building. No writers, either, obviously.” He gestures to where Adrian is already trying his shtick on some girl from your class.

“He’s a little too old for me, don’t you think? His daughter goes here.” You muse. He’s mostly right about you needing to expand your reach, but you won’t let him off that easily.

“Maybe. But if you don’t care, and he doesn’t care, what’s it matter? He’s not too old to fuck you.” He makes a face and you roll your eyes.

The thought is nice, but you know forging relationships is unlikely when you’re concerned, at least as of late, “I don’t want to spend my night talking about people I’m not going to fuck.”

“Whatever you say.” He slinks out from his seat, mumbling something about a glass of water. A few steps away, he looks back over his shoulder, “You’re not doomed, by the way,” the asshole can read your mind, “You can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty. You’re allowed to like people.”

And then you’re alone again.

It’s like that for another hour, small attempts at chatter and meetings until you realize you’re too tired to fuck anyone, let alone continue to sit upright. Being up so early this morning took more of a toll than an hour nap could fix, and you're begging Ian to take you home. He agrees, spending the trip trying to plan another outing later in the week before everyone’s gone on vacation.

You give him a sleepy goodbye when he pulls into your apartment complex, making sure he’s still going to class tomorrow before letting him drive away. Once you’re inside, slipping quietly in through the front door, you realize your roommate isn’t home. She’s probably still in a late class or at her boyfriend’s or somewhere else. You enjoy the quiet enough to not think about it too hard.

The five sips of tequila-mostly-water has settled into your stomach by now, making you a quarter-second slower when you strip all your clothes off and climb into bed.

You twist under the sheets, and after a while your skin starts to feel too hot, even in the cold air of your room. Breathing deep, you try to think of something boring to get your mind to still, but when you sense the sleep about to take over, it switches.

You see his face behind your eyelids, the man from today, strong and pretty and delicate, remembering all your favorite details—the length of his fingers and the depth of his voice. You curse yourself for assigning this importance to him. He’s just another page in your portfolio, if you even keep him, yet you can feel a slow heat bubble up at your core when you remember the stretch of his body under the robe. It’s okay to be taken with him, you think, he’s objectively gorgeous.

Your conversation with Ian replays in your head—less about his sincere advice and more about how you need to get laid. It’s been too long; maybe you are just horny, and maybe taking care of it just this once could be enough to stop this hollow interest from growing.

You reach a hand down under your blanket, the tips of your digits pushing into the slit of your cunt. You’re wet, arousal tacky and pooled so much that the light pressure you meant to be exploring with is enough to have you accidentally slipping inside. Okay, he’s really hot. So what? Was it really that bad if you thought so?

You dip a finger further in, timid at first; you’re used to keeping quiet for this kind of activity, and even though your roommate was gone when you got here, it doesn’t mean she hadn’t come in in the thirty minutes of rolling around you’d done before giving into your desire. You lay your free hand over your mouth just in case, teeth biting into the meat at the base of your thumb to keep yourself quiet.

You slide in a second finger to the knuckle to join the first, the light stretch of it enough to make you pant. You see him again, hard and soft and beautiful. You think about what his skin would taste like, if he’d let you sink your teeth into the sinew of his neck. It feels weird to know what he looks like without his clothes, and you’re weirdly proud of yourself for holding back from seeing him fully; it's easier to dream about that way. You wonder how he’d present himself to you, how he’d want to fuck you. You imagine him winding a hand around the hinge of your jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft of your cheeks. Would he be gentle? Would he make it hurt? You suspect either would be too much. You feverishly palm your clit, hips canting in an effort to climax. The pictures flash faster—his cock in your mouth, his tongue in your cunt, the way he’d spit and grip and hold—and you’re coming, drooling over your hand as you hear him say your name in your mind.

You take your hand away after a minute, breath pushing out heavily from your nose. It’s fine, you needed to do it, just one time. No shame in that. It’s out of your system now.

And if you see his face one more time before you fall asleep, it’s probably an afterthought.

───────

By the end of the week, you come to a horrible conclusion.

It starts the next morning when you take your sketchbook out, itching to get a handle on the many writing assignments you’ve been dutifully ignoring, hoping for an outline or a free-flow of ideas. Nothing comes to mind. You draw a little bit to fill the space while you think, just a mess of material on the page, strokes of your hand that leave barely anything behind.

Then on Wednesday you’re at your laptop, typing with one hand while the other one slides against the wood of the dining table, down and around in a loop, mimicking the same shape each time.

And again last night in the shower, letting the shame of a different semi-failed night-out wash over and off of you. You slosh your foot around in the water in the basin below, catching it as it runs down and pools, ankle dragging in a tiny, controlled movement.

It’s not until now that you put it together.

You’re sitting at your desk, with creative materials at your disposal this time, trying to make sense of what it is you’re forming. You find that no matter the medium, your hand automatically makes a single hard line. The same line, from memory. It’s negligible at first, just a light press of pen or pencil or crayon, until it drags down, down, down. It’s not until you lift your utensil that you recognize it. The hook of a nose and the crest of a top lip.

A hard pit forms in your stomach, blood draining from your head to gather in the center of your chest, a blooming sickness of obsession you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re drawing him. You’ve been drawing him. You know this feeling, have participated in this kind of behavior. These are the actions that cause the humiliating dregs of attraction to bleed over into fixation—juvenile and universal and unavoidable. He’s going to be a problem.

#joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fic #joel miller/reader

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microficmay · 8 months ago

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Microfic May 2024

We are back, folks! Join us for our best and biggest year of microfics ever!! Microfic May is an open daily prompt challenge in which participants write a microfic a day in May. Here's the scoop for 2024!

We define microfics as works of fiction that are 50 words or less. However, this limit is merely a suggestion. We accept all lengths!

Open to all HP characters, ships, ratings, topics, and genres (as long as works are tagged and spoilered appropriately).

Participants must be age 18+ and follow DLDR, SALS, and YKINMKATO. (What does this mean?)

All prompts are optional, can be skipped, switched around, or combined. Just have fun and write!

For an extra challenge, try one of our optional ‘Weekly Challenges’ along with the day’s prompt.

To submit a work, add it to our collection on AO3 Microfic May 2024 or mention us on Tumblr @microficmay AND tag #microficmay2024.

Check the Info and FAQ pages for more info! (if the links aren’t working on mobile, try here)

🫶 Prompt list in plain text under the cut! 🫶

Prompts List 2024

Day 1: Create Day 2: Resplendent Day 3: Horizon Day 4: Decision Day 5: Dreams & Reality Day 6: Flare Day 7: Innocuous Day 8: Will Day 9: Agony Day 10: Rise & Fall Day 11: Curse Day 12: Vivid Day 13: Talisman Day 14: Humility Day 15: Nothing & Everything Day 16: Squabble Day 17: Worthy Day 18: Healing Day 19: Impatience Day 20: Push & Pull Day 21: Unhand Day 22: Precious Day 23: Mistake Day 24: Elation Day 25: Day & Night Day 26: Vex Day 27: Dandy Day 28: Fetching Day 29: Thrall Day 30: First & Last Day 31: Fulfilment

Alternate Prompts

Alt 1: Evolve Alt 2: Superfluous Alt 3: Idle Alt 4: Warmth Alt 5: Life & Death

Weekly Challenges (Optional)

Week 1: POV Challenge ↳ Create a microfic using 1st or 2nd person point of view.

Week 2: ‘A/An’ Challenge ↳ Don't use the articles 'a' or 'an' in your microfic.

Week 3: Format Challenge ↳ Create a microfic using a non-traditional format. Examples: epistolary, text fic, dialogue only, poetry, song lyrics, script, etc.

Week 4: Alphabet Challenge ↳ Include all the letters A-Z in your microfic.

BONUS CHALLENGE ↳ To be announced!

#microficmay2024 #microficmay #hp fest #harry potter microfic #microfiction #mod post

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messy-crisantemo · 5 months ago

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Since last week, I wanted to make a

🎴 GenTan fic recommendation list Part 2! 🍉

Don’t forget to check out Part 1 too!

As the last time, this list is based on my personal likes and, ofc, on the fics I’ve read. I tried to include all GenTan flavors ❤️💜 They’re not put in any particular order and most of them are completed fics. I’m adding some of the tags, but not all of them since I don’t want to make this post extra long, so please read them again once you go to the Ao3 link. Anime-onlies, beware of spoilers. Please enjoy!

sliding across the clouded sky by mimimimi (reiiiiii), 179k, WIP

(Figure skating AU, Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn, Aged-Up Character(s), Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining)

The life of a figure skater is short. People expect you to retire at a young age and the moment you have an injury and take a break to recover, you're done for.

Shinazugawa Genya had to deal with it now that he's gotten the biggest injury on his skating career. And the press isn't helping at all, either.

The only light keeping him connected to the figure skating world? Kamado Tanjirou.

Starting with a classic! This beautiful slow burn explores the nature of their relationship as something that makes grow both Genya and Tanjirou. It has lots of funny and tender moments.

Life in plastic, it’s fantastic! by Side_Ponytail, 4k

(Modern Setting, Meet-Cute, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Getting Together, First Kiss, POV Alternating, Fluff and Humor, Scheming)

Tanjiro takes his siblings to see the Barbie movie, Genya’s siblings drag him along, and Parent Trap levels of shenanigans ensue.

No Barbie Movies were spoiled in the making of this fic.

One of the funniest and most adorable fics I’ve ever read. If you need a boost of sugar, this is it.

June Bridegroom by 125389, 2k

(Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Fluff and Angst, Established Relationship, Kamado Tanjirou-centric, Horror, Manga Spoilers)

Upon concluding an important day, the boundary between dreams and reality blurs as Tanjirou reveals the true nature of his feelings and whom he's really marrying.

A fic for those who love to suffer and don’t fear to embrace the tragic nature of GenTan.

a checkered haori by DragonsAndCryptids, 2k

(Post-Swordsmith Village Arc, Hurt/Comfort, Scents & Smells, Pre-Relationship, Fluff)

After the confrontation with Sanemi, Genya steals Tanjiro's haori because he likes the way it smells and it helps calm him down.

He doesn't want to address why that is, but when Tanjiro finds out, he doesn't give him much of a choice.

Tanjirou being Genya’s weak point, we all love it.

All Bark, No Bite by Rigmaroler, 92k

(Witch Tanjiro, Werewolf Genya, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Falling in Love, Worldbuilding, Fluff, Action/Adventure, Sharing a Bed)

When Tanjirou first sees the wolf, he only has one thought in his head. He sees it under the light of the moon, just bright enough for the wet blood in its dark gray pelt to shine. Its teeth are bared, white, sharp and long as each of Tanjirou’s fingers. Its growl is a low bass rumble that Tanjirou can practically feel in his bones, rattling his spine. Its muzzle is stained red with blood, and marred with a jagged scar that cuts through its dense fur.

Or: Tanjirou is a witch's apprentice with a bad habit of bringing home strays. Genya is a young man who's been called a monster so many times, he's started to believe it.

Genya letting himself to be loved, Tanjirou learning that he can also want things for himself. Just beautiful.

The hidden stairs (Red velvet flicker) by Wild_Quetzal, 4k

(Alternate Universe - Vampire, Horror, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, vampire!Shinazugawa Genya, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Lovers)

A couple of minutes later, Tanjirou is left in his chambers. The place is big and empty. Despite the cold temperature, Tanjirou pays it no mind. He presses his ear against the heavy wooden door, then he sniffs it. Nothing seems out of place. He’s truly alone.

What the old lady who gave him instructions told him echoes in his mind: “That man is no Count. He’s a thief.”

Tanjirou arrives at the castle looking for answers. His host will only give him more questions. What is Genya hiding?

Yes, it’s the self-promo part. We had werewolf Genya and now we have vampire Genya in some very gothic and dramatic romance.

#again please check out more of all these authors’ works!#I can’t recommend them enough!#gentan #genya shinazugawa #tanjirou kamado #genya x tanjirou #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kny fic #fanfic rec #fic rec #fanfic reccomendation #kny

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sometimes-love-is-enough · 4 months ago

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Every time you talk about giving yourself writing challenges, I think about how it would be fun to have a 'handicap bingo'- where you get a random writing 'handicap' like not being able to say any character's name, and have to write a full story with it. Idk. I think it would be fun

Min's Writing Challenge

Rules: Roll a d20, accept your fate, write a fic of your choosing and follow your fate to the letter. (Creative workarounds encouraged.)

Roll twice; you have to use both. If you roll another 1, the extra challenges compound accordingly.

Pick a single letter, A-Z. You're not allowed to use it for the entire fic. (Bonus challenge: E.)

Every sentence must be under ten words long. (Bonus challenge: five words.)

Pick a poetry/lyric style (sonnet, terza rima, ballad, etc). The whole fic must be written in that form. (Bonus challenge: keep it still obviously a normal fic, with appropriate tropes and narrative conventions.)

You must write in future tense.

You must write in first-person POV.

You must write in second-person POV.

Take your least favorite fanon concept/trope, and make it into something you want to write. (Bonus challenge: play the trope entirely straight - no subversions! - and make it enjoyable anyway.)

No character names allowed. (Bonus challenge: no dialogue tags either; you can't use descriptive phrases like 'the man in the prince costume' to work around it.)

No dialogue allowed. (Bonus challenge: no internal monologues allowed, either.)

Dialogue only - playscripts encouraged.

Epistolary fic - only letters, emails, notes, etc.

Write an AU, but the alternative universe is a profession!AU that you know nothing about. (Bonus challenge: no research allowed.)

Unreliable narrator. (Bonus challenge: the narrator is good at being unreliable, to the point that they might legitimately fool a reader.)

Whatever fic concept you have, you can only write the very ending of it. (Bonus challenge: you aren't allowed to use any exposition to explain how you got to that point.)

Write any AU of your choosing, but you must choose at least one major canonverse event/plot point and adapt it accordingly to your setting of choice. (Bonus challenge: Make the canonverse event and AU of choice absurdly incompatible.)

Must start in medias res, with a 'yep, that's me. Bet you're wondering how I got into this situation!' moment. (Bonus challenge: Don't plan what the in medias res situation is before you write it. Force yourself to resolve whatever bullshit you come up with on the spot. I've definitely never done this in my life, ever.)

You must write in outsider OC POV - no canon characters allowed. (Bonus challenge: No Sanders Shorts/related characters allowed.)

Pick a fairy tale, fable, or myth. The fic must be a retelling or reinterpretation of it. (Bonus challenge: you aren't allowed to reread or reference any version of it while you're writing - from memory only!)

Dealer's choice - pick from any of the above.

Good luck.

#god help you if you nat-one a ten AND eleven #asks #writing challenges #obviously targeted for sanders sides fandom but if anyone else stumbles upon it - go wild

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steddieunderdogfics · 4 months ago

Note

For slow burn theme weekend:

No Vacancy di Hbyrde

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49884613/chapters/125933719

No Vacancy by Hbyrde

@hbyrde36

Rating: Explicit

58,586 words, 12/12 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Friends to Lovers, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Eddie Munson, Oblivious Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Gay Eddie Munson, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Chrissy Cunningham Has a Crush on Robin Buckley, Robin Buckley Has a Crush on Chrissy Cunningham, Forced Cohabitation, Sharing a Bed, POV Alternating, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Lifeguard Steve Harrington, Bartender Eddie Munson, Strangers to Lovers, Lesbian Robin Buckley, Bisexual Chrissy Cunningham, Pining, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn, Smut, Eddie Munson is Bad at Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Feelings Realization, Confessions, Spit As Lube, Steve Harrington Falls First but Eddie Munson Falls Harder

Summary:

When Eddie Munson arrived at the Buckingham Beach Motel to spend the summer with his best friend Chrissy and her business partner Robin, the absolute last person he expected to see hanging around in the lobby was former King of Hawkins High and renowned jock asshole, Steve fucking Harrington. To make matters worse, Eddie found that Steve's presence was just the tip of the iceberg—long story short? Mistakes were made and it turned out the motel was a little overbooked. Absolutely not. Eddie grabbed her by the hand, cutting her off and tugging her across the lobby, as far from Steve and Robin as they could get. “Are you crazy?! You want me to be roommates with King Steve?!” He hissed, throwing his hands around wildly. “Have you completely forgotten what a giant asshole he is?!” “We’re not in high school anymore, Eds. I’ve spent time with the guy. He’s always been nice to me, and if what Robin tells me is true? Then not only is Steve not like that anymore, maybe he never really was.” Eddie's jaw tightened. She could not be serious. Jock’s don’t change their stripes, or whatever.

Thanks for the rec!

This rec is a part of Theme Weekend. The theme this weekend is Slow Burn.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

#steddie #steve harrington #steddie fic recs #eddie munson #steve x eddie #stranger things #steddieunderdogfics #slow burn #theme weekend #rated e #strangers to lovers #forced proximity #sharing a bed #alternative universe #no upside down au #angst with a happy ending #mutual pining #misunderstandings

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whoyacallinyellow · 5 months ago

Note

Could you do an alternative version of borrowed time but it's a happy ending? Like they meet again maybe a couple of months or years later and idk it's super fluffy (idk I loved ur Javier fic it made me cry so hard)

Borrowed Time II (.5)

Javier Escuella x F! reader

Spoilers: RDR1-2 events Content: 18+ mdni, high honor Javier, fluff, loyalty, canon typical events & violence, possible spelling mistakes, some google translated Spanish, (slight angst? sry couldn't help myself) Type: second pov (wc - 3195) / pc: my PS5 a/n: here's my mediocre yapping, anon! I believe someone suggested this to me before, so here we are :) (btw I took some writing inspo from my spotify playlist.)

Summary: Javier is left with nothing after the gang's demise. Enticed with returning to Mexico, he finds redemption within his loyalty to you.

After being chased out of Beaver Hollow by the law, Javier found himself alone with Williamson. Somewhere in the sticks of northern Ambarino, where the risk of a grizzly finding them was higher than any lawman.

Laying low and listening to Bill squaller on about Dutch for a month was about all he could stomach, Javier reckoned he liked Bill a lot more when he didn’t talk.

As each day came to a close, one could guess where Javier’s mind wandered too. His bitter thoughts permeated on losing everything. Money, the gang, and you— Hell, the man didn’t know what to do with himself, considering you an extension of himself at this point.

Where were you? Did you make it out okay? Were you hurt?

These were a couple of the many questions that swam in the sea of Javier’s head.

“Are you still thinkin’ ‘bout that woman?”

Bill’s words of disgust were often displaced through his racing thoughts, but he wouldn’t be wrong. You were all Javier had upon entering these foreign lands, now he possessed nothing but the rocks in his boots.

The days would merge and turn into weeks, it didn’t take long for the plan of fleeing south to form in Bill’s lackluster head. Keen on the protection Javier could potentially bargain in Nuevo Paraiso.

Javier knew he was a dead man returning south, under no circumstances was that a can of worms he wanted to open with—Bill Williamson, out of all folk.

Besides, there was no man’s bidding Javier would consider doing to get the leverage Bill desired. But Bill’s ideas soon evolved into frustrated persuasion.

“How do’ya know that woman wasn’t the rat, anyhow?”

Bill would rant about you, the delusions Dutch fed him would resurface, but soon be swallowed back down with the same loyalty Javier once held so close.

“My chica wouldn’t, I’m telling you, cabrón. She’d save your neck just as much mine.”

Perhaps not completely true, Javier’s apathetic statements held no power over Bill, but at least it stopped his ear from being chewed off.

For all Bill was concerned, you were a coward just as much as the rest who left. Especially for plaguing Javier’s mind.

Bill would resort to not just questioning your loyalty to the gang, but your loyalty to Javier all together. The bold claims would make Javier think back to Clemons Point.

After a particularly nasty fight with Dutch, Molly sat on a nearby log as he sharpened his knife. He never knew what to say in situations like that, it was probably best he stayed out of it.

“The way she looks at you…”

The timid words escaped her. Realizing there was no one else around she could have been talking too, he met her stricken gaze which glistened off the moonlight.

“Huh?”

He wondered, caught off guard by the illusive topic. Molly wiped her rosy cheeks before she tenderly spoke.

“I wish I could look at Dutch the same.”

Javier just stared at the tear-stained woman in pity, unsure what to make of her unanticipated words.

That night's shift would give him plenty of time to think about it. Before eventually settling on giving you some extra attention. If it wasn’t obvious enough, he soon learnt that what you two shared was irreplaceable.

There was no doubt to Javier that you loved him, every lead he went on, you’d listen for the horses. Ready to greet him by his hitching post for a kiss, or with small talk that was exclusive to you both.

Javier would often get teased for the love you shared, perhaps some of it branched into jealousy. Not that he minded, the others knew you were off limits.

So it was safe to say that Bill’s claims was one thing Javier didn’t take lightly. With curses spat, and threats thrown, Bill had no other choice but to eat his words.

“Me ‘nd her go way further back than you and I.”

Javier’s irate words would soon remind Bill where he stood— below you.

That was Bill Williamson’s final straw for him to realize their parting was long overdue.

“If you wasn’t a fool, you’d be comin’ with.”

Was the last thing he spat to Javier one cloudy morning, bedroll and guns thrown on his unkempt steed.

You won't be seeing me again.

Javier thought in vain. Watching Bill’s departure in silence, just as he watched yours— except their time was up.

A cruel nightly cycle would leave Javier somewhere beneath the stars. The same night sky you’d lay him down gently in; he wondered if you were looking up at them too— or maybe you don’t think of him much anymore, just to get by.

Dozing off provided no sort of relief, the same thoughts that ate him alive during the day showed no mercy for a night's rest.

The dreams began after Guarma, and have stuck since. Most nights he would wake up confused, drenched in sweat, and frantically reaching for his gun belt only worn hours prior.

Your sweet voice would unknowingly soothe his hurt, all while he dismissed your attempts of rebuilding the bond you once shared. Javier regrets the distance, but he’s not sure if he would ever be ready to talk about Guarma.

Nonetheless, the terrible dreams always persisted, but managed to worsen after you left. They were so convoluted, Javier wasn’t sure which was a worse way to die; a watery grave, or succumbing to torture in a cage.

Other nights, Javier would dream about the day he returned to you at Beaver Hollow, god only knew how long they were gone for.

It was a rather gloomy day, at the end of the camp path was where he found you by your lonesome, as if you’ve been waiting for any sign of the missing men. Javier had seen better days, unshaven, wounded leg, and tattered garments that barely resembled the botched heist clothing he once wore. Javier approached you with a conflicted feeling of dread and relief, unsure of what to expect of you. But to the man’s horror, you crumbled before him.

You were just as much of a mess as he was. A terrible feeling arose from within his ribcage and drifted up, he momentarily thought he was going to black out from the knot building in his throat. An unmanageable feeling in his legs had already begun to brew throughout the day, vibrating and distorting his ears, blocking out your sobs he created. A near breaking point was threatening to consume him— he didn’t even know what day it was, how could he not know?

“You stupid bastard,”

Fallen at his feet, he cradled you soon after his initial shock dissipated.

“I know, I’m here now.”

Javier could barely recognize the hoarseness of his own voice, the words felt foreign to say after being gone for so long. Hopelessness overflowed from within him, and seeped into your frame that he held. All he could do was shield you from the cruel world he created for you both on that barren dirt path.

Your frantic pleas to leave would go unacknowledged, only to be substituted with soft hushes that were swept away in the trees. He couldn’t have just left, he had already sacrificed too much to quit now. Javier always swore Dutch would change your lives for the better.

—

In the recent nights of Macfarlane’s Ranch, life was still.

Javier’s dreams would evolve into a vessel of his old possession. Through bittersweet nostalgia, a buck would galavant by a stream, only to eventually stop and stand in triumph before fleeing into the distance. Those dreams offered Javier both temporary comfort and the humbling desolate nights he needed to return to you.

While staring off into the plains, Bill’s idea would occasionally infatuate him. The uncut ties of Mexico were beckoning, it was only a day's worth of digging in. Javier wasn’t sure he was built out for the vaquero life anymore, but those old chains around his feet would pull him back down.

Javier would eventually decide he wouldn’t watch the west die out, with false hopes of one last score followed by a life of freedom— he figured he already lost what made life rich.

At the ranch, Javier would chat up the yokels, describing you to the best of his abilities. Which usually stumped him— you... well, you were just you. He’s never been apart from you to have to worry about your description— Javier was always there.

Days passed without trace of you, it was probably best he left before the law caught wind of his excessive presence.

It was hopeless, yet he prayed on the North wind that it would him to you.

You could run the fool around in circles looking for your whereabouts. Hell, you could be in Timbuktu by now. Just like the day you left, the same hopelessness would creep upon Javier in those rare moments of disparity.

Those moments would eat him from the inside out, that discomforting pit forming in his stomach was always enough to empty it on the ground.

—

The aimless paths of New Austin was a place where the souls of saddle tramps go.

Into the horizon of the blazing sun was where you sat, under the only tree seen in miles. Your shire grazed in between you and the lonely road, like a black flag it stood in the orange dirt. Not even it could escape the mourning which life embraced.

You are not sure how much time passed you there, perched up under the tree, you’d watch the road. Studying the little silhouettes of cowpokes slowly growing as they approached periodically, all you thought of was Javier. Hope overturned your grudge until they were near.

Some of these men would simply tip their hat as they passed, others would offer you a ride to town, and a few just stared at you; their forlorn eyes scratched at the walls of your soul. As if they were trying to tell you something.

Just as unfortunate as yourself, the nameless victims would soon be swallowed and spit back out by the blazing desert that awaited them.

It wasn’t until a clear morning for Javier to stumble upon that fork in the road, leading to the tree where you sat; seeking the same retreat you did days ago.

Sickeningly poetic; with no such weight on your shoulders, you seemed to have found the freedom Javier had been chasing all these years. Right front of him this entire time in the devoid lands of New Austin.

Usually well groomed, the man showed a five o'clock shadow, earning a more rugged demeanor his months away from the luxuries of camp.

Lost puppy-dog eyes stared your way, being shielded by his bowler cap. The hair you used to run your fingers through was neatly tied back, and draping over his poncho.

“Javier,”

You greeted solemnly, your tranquil gaze greeting the man from where you sat. The thumping began in his ears as he staggered off Boaz, stiffly trying to shake the sudden feeling that your voice gave him.

“hola amor.”

He uttered awkwardly, approaching your newfound paradise underneath the old shady tree.

“I reckoned you’d be in Tahiti by now.”

You remarked bitterly, eyeing your lover from under the brim of your hat. He gripped the front of his gun belt, knuckles turning white and misshapen after all the years of abuse, the same hands that would be placed around your hips as he guided you through a busy town.

Javier let out a rueful huff as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. It flustered him to be antagonized in such a low moment of his life, especially by you.

But he simply did not possess the words and feelings begging to be shared with you— there were just too many.

Expecting you to continue, there was a deafening silence.

It was more than just the silence that plagued these western lands, but a sadness that often followed Javier everywhere he roamed, you could see it in his smile.

The lands gave Javier a place to duck under his doubts and troubles for a time, like a buck stuck beneath the bottom wire.

“It’s over,”

Javier’s voice came out as a whisper, thumb and finger caressing over the stubble on his chin.

A conclusion which needed no further words, you understood.

He never imagined it not meaning anything, but yet his brothers were reduced to the barrel he pointed.

Small shines of orange bathed through the wilting leaves which provided your gracious shade. As you contemplated his words, a soft breeze accompanied the both of you.

Finally arising to meet his frame, he towered over you slightly— lost along the way but finally found,

you were no longer his partner in crime, nor a part of the Van der Linde gang— but just his chica he met all those years ago in Old Mexico, before the world was big.

Javier knew he couldn’t make up for your lost time together, but for now, being with you would do.

Without a word his arms wrapped around you and trailed down to the small of your back, the smell of rolled tobacco leeched off his poncho, a smell you’ve grown fond of over the years. As his cheek rested on the crown of your head, a different kind of silence was shared.

“Oh Javi,”

Your voice now both sorrowful and tender, it was impossible to hold a grudge against the warm honeypot eyes that yearned for you.

“lo sé,”

Javier murmured softly, giving into the relief that a calmer life brought.

Behind where you rested revealed a testament the tree possessed. A bald spot in the maple-colored wood had bark torn away, faded letters with sap-filled groves were carved by previous visitors of the solitude tree:

‘blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy’

Javier united your lips with a long awaited kiss, your cheeks softly being caressed by his thumbs. To him, it was like falling for you all over again. But this time, he wanted to do everything right.

“Figured the law got you.”

You mumbled one of your many worries after the man pulled away. Javier scrunched up his nose, cringing at your doubts.

“Course not, nunca.”

Eventually bidding your farewell to the tree, you joined Javier at Boaz’s saddlebags for what seemed to be a celebratory smoke.

“They were hangin’ around that ranch, it’s not safe.”

You proclaimed, even the west had reminded you that a quiet cabin life was unrealistic. He hummed against the tobacco in between his lips, considering your words.

“Where does that leave us?”

Javier asked through an exhale. His sharp eyes squinted under the sun, staring at you in devotion.

For the first time in a year, you made that choice together.

With possessions on your shire and the both of you on Boaz, was where Javier liked you best. Feeling your heartbeat on his back always reminded him of Mexico, yet you were his home.

While riding, your hands would instinctively grasp Javier’s gun belt. Marking both the leather and his heart throughout the years you spent together.

Later that day Javier’s buck would graze upon the open fields you crossed, only to scamper off once your horses made way. Its coat bright and shining off the sinking sun, he swore it’s the biggest one he’s ever seen.

Expecting a comment, Javier thought maybe you dozed off, or perhaps he accidentally sipped his flask instead of his canteen.

Aways up north yielded reassurance and prosperity, the man decided that tonight he would sleep instead of keeping watch, an unusual gesture he knew you both needed.

Far away from the lands you once both resided, a comfortable wilderness separated you and any dangers— Maybe tomorrow night he would keep watch, but tonight, he just needed you.

Javier’s shaking hands prepped a small flame, and smoothed out the creases of your bedroll that night. The same hands that would work a revolver effortlessly, and confidently beat in the faces of men in a moment's notice.

but for you? they trembled.

Fingers that had been busted more times than you could count were now fumbling through every button of your shirt, leaving a trail of his lips where his hands once touched.

Nonetheless satisfied with these tasks, the crinkles beside his eyes would reflect off the flame as he flashed you a content smile.

The fire crackled within your cozy makeshift camp, its orange flame lighting up Javier’s torso just enough to highlight the tones and scars on his chest.

Javier was used to catching you staring, never failing to tease you about it. A mere husky chuckle and verbal warning would remind you of his diminutive willpower when it came to you.

Joining you beneath the blankets, his body radiated with the warmth you craved. With a protective arm easing you towards him, your skin colliding with his was enough to wash all his hardships away.

Your lips ghosted down his neck, causing a loose sigh to escape his lips. Javier cooed words of endearment, unsure if he deserved your regained affection.

You felt him tense around you as your lips traveled down to his adam’s apple and the large horizontal scar that covered it.

“lo siento,”

He muttered softly, finally getting the long awaited words out— It was for a lot of things, that scar was just one of them.

His breath hitched and ran down your bare skin, your torso being consumed by his restless large hands. Only you reminded Javier of his scars, usually in a way of gratification, having earned them throughout your time together.

But that healed slit along his throat brought the man waves of embarrassment, Javier was thankful for your love nonetheless, and you for his loyalty.

With belated love and words begging to be said, Javier knew his lips had a lot of catching up to do. But tonight you both needed rest.

As if it was tradition, he ensured you found your peace first, maybe it solaced the man knowing you were safe within his arms.

Gusts of winds whistled through the trees, causing them to sing a song made just for the two of you. His coarse hands ran down your sides before settling at your waist, once again basking in what he could have lost.

Up yonder was where the starry night sky shined just for him to see you. The constellations washed away his most honorable sins, and extended the borrowed time you both had been lent years ago.

The blanket you shared was pulled over your shoulder, ensuring your undisturbed rest. Javier’s gentle lips ghosted over your cheek for just one more kiss goodnight.

You were long asleep, closely tucked within the arms of the man you called home. Yearning to chase the relief your shared nights provided, Javier’s eyes grew heavy. Through a gentle state of somnolent, his prideful buck accompanied him in the meadow it frolicked.

Whispered words slipped into the night and greeted his slumber.

“te amo.”

#rdr2 headcanons #javier escuella #x reader #javier escuella x reader #red dead redemption 2 x reader #rdr2 x reader #rdr x reader #high honor #red dead redemption fandom #this was supposed to be longer but i cut it out to make it flow better #not sure if i like it but i had fun writing #javier is my fav to write i think #save me javier save me :(

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buddierecs · 6 months ago

Text

secret relationship buddie fics

all explicit rating - 18+ only!!!!!! make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

i found love where it wasn't supposed to be (right in front of me) by: finduilas "it’s such a long time coming and still it takes buck by surprise. It takes him by surprise even though he is the one that leans in and finally kisses eddie. his second surprise is that eddie doesn’t push him away, doesn’t even look at him with confusion. or worse, rage. no, eddie kisses him back like buck is a tall drink of water and eddie is severely dehydrated. buck knows the feeling" word count: 13k important tags: anal sex, versatile buddie, getting caught, accidental clothes sharing oh, my dream (never quite as it seems) by: woodchoc_magnum "in which buck and eddie are trying out a friends-with-benefits thing (that's rapidly turning into more) when the world comes crashing down on them. as buck hovers somewhere between life and death, eddie has to deal with their friends, family and the buckley parents." word count: 44k important tags: friends with benefits, whump, season six, sperm donor arc, coma, fluff and smut, bottom!eddie diaz

ours to keep by: brewrosemilk 'buck and eddie pass their single, shared brain-cell back and forth, trying to keep their relationship a secret." word count: 8.9k important tags: blow jobs, porn with feelings, pov alternating, pov outsider, crack treated seriously sideways (incomplete series) by: buddiefanrpnj "what was it buck said to him that night… "you don't need to pretend with me." well, eddie is fucking done pretending. aka eddie makes his choice … this story starts at the end of red flag, 6x9" word count: 325k important tags: pining, love confessions, major character injury, first times, oral sex, rimming, demisexual!eddie diaz my hands are shaking from holding back by: barnesbegin "buck refuses to believe friends look at each other the way he and eddie do. however, eddie is dating ana flores. so buck just gives him space and hopes eddie will come to his senses soon. but after a heated fight between the two, where a confession is unintentionally made, things take a turn." word count: 84k important tags: pining, slow burn, eventual smut, eddie diaz is in denial the kids had sex, chim. by: whiskis "buck and eddie's extra activities got buck's voice all fucked up (pun intended)." word count: 5.3k important tags: oral sex, face-fucking, coming untouched, idiots in love, light dom/sub race to the sun (rest when it's over) by: honestlydarkprincess "buck challenges eddie and eddie takes said challenge. It causes their relationship to be revealed in a rather unique way." word count: 3.5k important tags: come slut!evan buckley, multiple orgasms, manhandling, marking, sir kink, possessive sex, dom!eddie diaz, sub!evan buckley, strength kink loose threads by: daises_and_briars "new to dating and keeping it quiet, buck and eddie get a little carried away on a slower shift at the firehouse. but when the alarm eventually sounds, a spur of the moment mistake leaves them a little mixed up." word count: 3.7k important tags: swapped clothes, blowjobs, pranks a phone call in late december by: brewsrosemilk “i’m so fucking cold without you,” he admits, then - and he’s not only speaking metaphorically; the snow storm is raging outside, screaming around the corners of the house; the room is drafty, and somehow despite the sweat gathering at the base of his spine and his neck - he feels cold. he wants eddie. That’s all he wants. - "me too,” eddie hums, though - immediately soothing the anxiety. “never again. never again, i promise,” he sighs" word count: 4.3k important tags: phone sex, fluff and smut

romance is not dead if you keep it just yours by: weasleyworks "basically eddie and buck are in a relationship but have only told christopher." word count: 3.6k important tags: morning sex, kinda secret relationship, idiots in love your laugh (echoes down the hallway) by princessfbi "the long awaited jeep sex fic" word count: 5.5k important tags jeep (car) sex, semi-public sex, rough sex, blow jobs, praise kink, secret relationship.

and no one knows what goes on behind closed doors by: starlingbite "none of the team knows that after a long shift, when christopher is still at school, eddie follows buck across town to the loft. they don’t know that as soon as the front door is closed behind them eddie pushes buck against it and presses their lips together." word count: 4.6k important tags: plot what plot, anal sex, cock warming, top!eddie diaz, bottom!evan buckley, barebacking

general audience rated secret relationship fics mature rated secret relationship fics

#911 fandom #911 show #911 abc #911 fox #buddie smut #buddie fic #evan buckley #buck x eddie #eddie diaz #buddie fics #buddie recommendations #secret relationship #ao3feed #ao3 link #ao3 #evan buck buckley

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turtletaubwrites · 5 months ago

Text

Numbers Game ~ Part 24

Just a Little More Pretending

Pairings: Cross Guild x Fem!Reader x Shanks

Numbers Game Masterlist

Word Count: 4295

Ao3 Link

Ongoing Series Playlist: Youtube Music Link | Youtube Link

Summary: The party has started, but you are adrift. Can you keep pretending with proof of your lovers' betrayal standing before you?

Author's Note: ⚫ !! IMPORTANT TW !! ⚫ We have had quite a bit of blood and pain in this story so far, but this chapter contains the use of a knife during sex. I have bracketed that section off with these symbols ~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~ and you won't miss the story if you skip it! There's aftercare and more smut after that section, so PLEASE DO NOT READ if self harm, knives, or blood may be triggering for you. EXTRA NOTE: This series is about villains, and was always meant to have blood and violence. I won't be able to section off everything, but I know how triggering a scene like this one can be. Please skip it, and know that you are not alone!! 💜

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, Grief, Swearing, Alcohol, Cigars, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Guilt, Drama, Jealousy, Manipulation, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Cross Guild boys are VILLAINS, Possessive Behavior, Teasing, Threats, Size Difference, Daddy Kink, Masturbation, Blowjobs, Inappropriate Use of Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit Powers, Shameless Shameless Smut, Pain Kink, Knifeplay, Blood Kink, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

~~~~~~

“I don’t believe you were on the guest list, Mr. Sylvad.”

Mihawk’s cold, dangerous voice didn’t make sense. Lies. Pretend.

They sold me.

“My apologies,” Uncle Cedrick charmed. Your body turned to ice while he held your hand limply, as if he’d forgotten you were there. “Ambassador Siggins was called away for a last minute family emergency, and he was gracious enough to offer me his ticket. I’ve been looking forward to visiting with my dear niece, and meeting her esteemed employers. Perhaps we can share a nightcap after the party? I’d love to–”

“Get your fucking hands off of her.”

Some wicked part of you felt a thrill at the sight of Uncle Cedrick’s eyes going wide with fear. Your body and mind hadn’t decided on what to feel, or trust, or give a fuck about anymore, but you instinctively put yourself between your uncle, and the seemingly furious ex-warlord whose hook was inching closer to him.

“Don’t make a scene. They’ll all turn on you, and you’ll never make another berry for the rest of your lives.”

You felt the violent stillness from both of the domineering forms at your sides, but neither moved.

“Always so shrewd, niece,” Uncle winked, his breath shifting back to his confident ease. “Besides, you know I never travel without insurance. If I’m not back safe on my ship to make a certain call at a certain time, then my location will be leaked to sooo many friends. You know my friends, don’t you, smarty?”

“I know,” you breathed, voice low while you fought to swallow every horrible feeling flooding your body.

“Of course you do,” he gloated, pulling his hand away before touching your face when he glanced at the men beside you. “You were always so smart. See you inside, dear.”

“Rabbit–”

“Sweetheart–”

“Don’t cause a scene.”

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🗡️🔴⏰~~~

“Was it really necessary to cause a scene? The other tavern had much better wine.”

“I didn’t cause the scene,” Shanks smirked, leaning in close while he teased. “I just beat up the asshole that did. No one messes with my friends… Besides, if you drink enough of the cheap shit, it gets the job done.”

Shanks laughed when Mihawk rolled his eyes in a very different way than he planned on making him later. He walked his fingers across the bar, but the swordsman pulled his hand away before they touched.

“Well, Red Hair,” he challenged, a tiny smirk making Shanks’ breath catch, “how many bottles will you be bringing up to the room? How many will get the job done?”

“How many can you carry,” Shanks rasped, eyes glued to that pretty mouth.

~~~

Shanks was grinning.

Mihawk was trying not to.

How many years? How many times had they ended up like this?

And how many more times would he fucking beg for it?

“Please, daddy,” Mihawk whined, “need…”

“Tell me,” Shanks chuckled, digging his nails into Mihawk’s skin while he gripped his face. “What does my slutty, little boy need, huh? You gonna be a greedy whore? Gonna beg me to do so many, filthy things to you?”

“Please–”

“Knew it, you selfish brat,” Shanks scolded, shoving the side of Mihawk’s face against the wall. “What are you gonna give Daddy in return?”

“Everything, please,” Mihawk begged. He tore off his clothes while Shanks kept his face pinned, these moments with the red haired pirate being the only times he didn’t give a fuck about where his clothes landed. “Take everything, daddy, take–”

“Such a desperate whore for me,” Shanks hummed, an evil grin on his face as he released the other man from his grip. “Tell me what you want, and I might be nice. If I think you deserve it.”

Mihawk’s eyes rolled back, the wicked promise in Shanks’ voice giving him so much pleasure and comfort, he didn’t know what to do with it. He fell to his knees, pleading.

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

“Make me bleed,” he begged, pulling a knife from his pile of pretty clothes. “Please, daddy. Take my blood, let me–”

“My little freak,” Shanks huffed a laugh, following his friend to his knees. “How would you live without me?”

“I– fuck!”

“My pretty boy,” Shanks purred, dropping the bloody knife so he could smear all that red across Mihawk’s perfect chest. “This what you needed?”

“Y-yes, p-please,” Mihawk shook, back arching while he twitched, his eyes rolling white.

“Need your daddy to hurt you?”

Mihawk was shivering, whimpering, moaning when Shanks showed off those red fingers.

“Poor thing. Let me give my little freak what he needs.”

There was nothing like this.

“Such a perfect body, and you want me to rip it to shreds?”

“Gods, yes. Pleeease.”

Shanks would never have thought to do this with a lover, but Mihawk was hypnotizing. How could he not give him what he craved when he begged and whined for it like this? When the “Marine Hunter” would debase himself, would do anything Shanks asked him to, just to feel this?

“Tell you what, selfish brat,” Shanks taunted, just starting to ghost the tip of the blade along Mihawk’s skin. “Lay down, let me watch my little pain slut jack himself off, and I’ll keep ruining this pretty chest of yours until you come.”

Shanks gave a pleased laugh, deep and dark, while Mihawk fell to the floor, his back arching as he let out a pathetic, needy moan.

“Not gonna last long, are you,” he challenged. “Prove how much you want it, whore. Don’t stop touching yourself, or you won’t get any pain at all.”

“Yes, daddy,” the swordsman breathed, getting to work.

Beautiful.

Shanks paused for just a moment, stunned again by his powerful rival turned friend. Stunned by how wickedly perfect he was. Stunned by how much he wanted him. He’d almost forget just how much every time they drifted apart again.

“Da—“

“Don’t be impatient,” Shanks purred as he teased the blade down Mihawk’s side. He hummed at the twitching, near panicked body he had so much control over. “Tell me what you are.”

“I’m your pathetic slut, daddy’s whore, your— fuuck, Shaaanks.”

Mihawk could barely see with his eyes fluttering and rolling, but he caught that look on his friend's face.

Shanks was fucking glorious, the power he exuded like sweet poison. The swordsman would never let another touch his skin with a blade, would never admit this weakness to another soul. Yet, Shanks… He was perfect. Beautiful. Strong.

And he controlled him so well.

The teasing scrape of the blade turned to unreal pleasure as it pressed into his skin. Mihawk didn’t know why he was like this. Didn’t know when it started, but he didn’t fucking care.

That sharp sting of the knife slicing down, and the heat of the blood he could feel tickling along his skin, had him coming in his hand within the same breath. He bucked and moaned as ropes and ropes of come covered his stomach, his chest, the column of his throat.

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

“You did so well,” Shanks rasped, leaning down to taste the weak whimpers and whines still lingering on those lips. “How’s my pretty boy doing?”

“I…” he tried, breathless, with the hint of tears shining in his golden eyes. “Thank you, daddy.”

“You know I’ve always got you,” Shanks promised. He breathed those words along Mihawk’s skin, trailing soft touches, and teasing nails across that magnificent, painted body to bring out more delicious sounds and shakes. “Just relax, baby. Breathe for me.”

Mihawk couldn’t understand. Couldn’t believe the pleasure that Shanks gave him. That he let Shanks give him. There was no one else he could trust. No one else he respected. No one he wanted…

“Shanks…”

The red haired pirate chuckled at Mihawk’s reaching fingers, kissing the man’s temple to soothe that tension.

“Don’t rush, bright eyes. Just feel good for me. We'll get you cleaned up in a bit, then you can show daddy how grateful you are.”

Mihawk could never admit that the weak sound that left his throat was a sob, but he stopped caring when Shanks kept touching him, kissing him, dragging nails down his skin, just enough to make him moan.

He’d never felt safer.

~~~

“Look at you.”

Clean and bandaged, with his black hair still damp from the shower, the swordsman’s breath caught at Shanks’ hushed words, at the way he watched him crawl across the small bed.

Those brown eyes were too soft. Mihawk shivered under that gaze before he found what he was looking for.

“Just like that, baby. So good for me.”

The praise made him dizzy, dizzier than the swollen cock he’d licked and teased before swallowing deep, his watery eyes still locked on the soft, brown ones above him.

“I love it when you do that,” Shanks hummed when Mihawk massaged his balls, still taking that veiny shaft down his throat, so fucking deep. “Such a good boy for daddy. I’m close, keep those lovely eyes on me.”

Mihawk moaned around his cock, and Shanks couldn’t handle the look on his friend's face. He fisted that damp, black hair, and took control, just like his swordsman needed. Fingers gripping tight, demanding, taking and taking as he shoved that pretty face up and down his cock like a beautiful toy.

“Fuck yeah. You love being daddy’s little whore, love taking everything I fucking give you, huh?”

The pleasure of the new pain sent the swordsman to blissful twitching, not caring if he choked, wanting it, wanting to be used.

“Fucking take it. Take daddy’s come, show me how much— fuckin’ hells. You feel so fucking good. Swallow it all like a good boy.”

Those soft eyes and those desperate eyes stayed connected, fighting against the instinct to thrash, to writhe, to look away. They stayed connected until Mihawk’s throat took every last drop of Shanks’ pleasure, the giving and taking between them like another spar, a dance between too-friendly rivals.

“Come here,” Shanks purred, his lovely smile making the swordsman feel the urge to frown. Instead, he moved to sit against the headboard with his friend, hoping the barkeep was still downstairs so he could book another room to sleep in.

The safety Mihawk had felt was dwindling fast, being replaced by the need to leave, to pretend he hadn’t let himself be so weak.

But he supposed a few more minutes of resting by his red haired rival wouldn’t hurt.

~~~

Shanks felt light, almost high, when Mihawk crawled up the bed to lean against him. He was staying. Staying still for once. The red haired pirate let his fingers travel along that perfect skin covered in new and old scars, taking in Mihawk’s intoxicating scent. Taking in every feeling he tried not to carry when they were apart.

“Hey, Hawk?”

“Mm, what is it,” the swordsman drawled, fighting with the exhaustion that was trying to convince him to stay.

The red haired pirate didn’t want to explain, didn’t want to risk losing his courage, so he pulled away just enough to look into those golden eyes.

“I love you.”

Mihawk thought he must have fallen asleep, but it was too real. The scent of their bodies. The sting of the wound on his chest. Those gorgeous, soft eyes.

“Please,” Mihawk laughed. The cruelty in his own voice felt like a storm he couldn’t stop, only watch as it tore through the world. “Love is boring.”

“What?”

Shanks tried to keep that lightness. To pretend he wasn’t hearing this, wasn’t watching those cold eyes go deadly.

“Don’t be boring, Shanks,” Mihawk sighed as he pulled back. The safety he’d felt was a lie, ripped away. He couldn’t think, couldn’t take in whatever that look was on his rival’s face. He just needed to leave.

To be alone. Safe.

“Hawk,” Shanks breathed, staring at the swordsman while he pulled on those fancy clothes. He brought his shaky hand to the sheets, focusing on controlling his breath, his heart, so that his friend wouldn’t hear just how fucking deep he’d wounded him. He didn’t want to feel this, just wanted to shove it down.

“See you next time, Red Hair.”

Shanks couldn’t shove it down. The door closed, and every good feeling he’d ever had seemed to rush out of the room with it. Every good feeling he’d just had in this shitty room turned tortuous as he tried not to suffocate in it. Every word, every touch, every look in those golden eyes.

“Fuck…”

The red haired pirate managed not to yell, not to destroy. He managed not to leave this inn to find another at the risk of running into his friend. He managed to finish all of those opened bottles on the floor while he tried not to choke on the painful heat in his throat.

Shanks managed to drink enough to blame his tears on the liquor, and to lie to himself that he was fine. That he would get over it.

He’s heartless. A pirate without a fucking crew. Dracule Mihawk isn’t capable of love. I should have known he couldn’t love me.

He can’t love anyone.

Those thoughts weren’t as comforting as he wanted them to be.

Mihawk’s thoughts were not as clear as he needed them to be. Not as calm, not as empty, not as safe.

The way he’d fled that room, and avoided that hurt gaze, made him fight to keep steady.

What was he thinking? Ridiculous. Idiotic. How could we even—

Not even worth entertaining. Boring.

Mihawk ran from the feelings within him just as he'd run out of that room, out of that tavern. He ran and shut the door, pretending that it meant nothing.

He stuffed every thought of it away. Every thought of those soft, brown eyes away until he forgot what it was he was truly running from.

Something that couldn’t be real, and could never be safe.

Mihawk could never risk feeling safe.

He could never risk the idiocy, or the blindness, of something as boring as love.

~~~⏰🗡️🔴⏰~~~

~~~~~~

“Welcome, welcome, fine guests, to the Cross Guild’s very first gala affair,” Buggy’s voice boomed, bright and shining on that small stage while he addressed the gathered crowd. “Before our main event, we’ll enjoy a delightful dinner accompanied by the flashiest show you’ve ever seen.”

Buggy winked for the crowd, yet even though you knew it was really for you, you couldn’t feel a thing. Just the ice trailing down your spine.

“For now, please help yourselves to the hors d'oeuvres, enjoy an aperitif, and dance, before we all make too much berry on wicked things.”

Your clown was a bit more reserved than his usual shows, with a mesmerizing lightness to his movements, his body floating just slightly within his clothes. Yet he’d dialed up his dark charm, the tantalizing danger that so many of these bored, high society leeches were hungry for. Just enough to titillate, not enough to scare them away. Buggy had listened to your notes, adjusting his act just enough to still be his, yet still appeal to this privileged group. The excited buzzing of the vultures around you told you that he’d hit his mark.

Galdino nodded at you as you scanned the crowd, his eyes flicking back to watching the select group of pirates they’d deemed appropriate guests to not frighten away the potential backers.

Part of your mind was in work mode, going over every detail, deciding which asshole to shmooze first.

The rest of you was gone. Shaking. You could feel his stare.

Uncle was smirking at you over his drink. He wasn’t paying attention to the leeches at his side that were trying to bask in his glow as if the Sylvad wealth could rub off on people.

They sold me.

“Dance with me, little rabbit.”

Mihawk bowed his head a bit, those dangerous fingers reaching for yours. There were only a handful of couples on the floor, and your employers weren’t supposed to touch you.

He sold me. He’s throwing me away just to line his pockets. Never real, just pretend.

Uncle Cedrick’s charming laugh carried over the music, finally giving the other guests some attention. You could still feel his eyes.

“I’m a terrible dancer.”

“You don’t need to dance,” he smirked, taking your hand in his before leading you toward that gleaming floor. “I’ll do all the work. Just let your body listen to mine. I know you can do that, rabbit.”

Mihawk didn’t give the tease his usual force. It didn’t knock you off your feet, but it was enough to make you sigh, relaxing your shoulders just a bit.

“Breathe with me, love,” the swordsman soothed, and you couldn’t stop yourself from melting as his hypnotic voice washed over you. “No one else exists. Nothing else exists. Just our bodies, our breath, and the music. Will you believe that with me? Will you dance with me, darling?”

“Okay,” you whispered, your body shaking for him now.

Just a little more pretending.

~~~~~~

~~~🐊🔴🐊🔴~~~

Shanks was haunting the corner bar, downing his third aperitif, and trying to ignore the stares he kept getting.

Oh, yeah. I’m Red Haired Shanks.

He chuckled to himself before returning his focus to her, watching Hawk treat her like she was precious, watching him care for her, dance with her. Yet her eyes were still empty.

Y/N. It’s my fault she’s… I thought I was such a good man. So fucking egotistical—

“Red Hair,” came a gruff voice, accompanied by the thud of a golden hook onto the pretty bar top.

“Sir Crocodile,” Shanks replied, still watching her. He finally glanced over after a too-long pause, surprised to find the larger man looking almost pained. “What’s going on?”

Crocodile didn't want to do this. Didn't want to say this.

He wanted to gut this man, then suck the life out of him until all that was left was his stupid, red hair.

I don’t want to be a monster to her. Not to them.

“Will you protect them,” he choked out, forcing the painful words past his lips. It felt like admitting defeat, and his body raged against it. “Will you take care of them?”

Shanks forgot to breathe from the shock of what he thought he’d just heard.

“What—“

“If they choose you, I won’t stop them. If you swear you’ll take care of them, all of them, then I won’t stand in your way.”

…

Crocodile almost lost it, almost reached for the man’s throat. Hesitation was fucking unacceptable.

Shanks felt like he’d plummeted to the bottom of the ocean, dark, heavy thoughts drowning him in a silent death.

This monster, this villain, cares enough to let them all go.

What does that say about me?

“I swear. I’ll protect them. I’ll care for them. I’ll—“

“Good,” Crocodile snarled, holding himself back like a wild beast. Like a monster. “Y/N’s uncle crashed the party, and she won’t let us kill him yet. I’m gonna put you at his table. See what you can find out about him.”

Shanks went to stand from his stool, all those words not fully registering. He stumbled just a bit, and Crocodile let out a vicious growl.

“For fuck’s sake, are you drunk already?”

“Not even close,” Shanks sighed, steadying himself. He couldn’t seem to find his balance in this upside-down world.

“Get your shit together. If you show me you can’t protect them, then I won’t care what they want, I wont care what I want, I’ll just fucking kill you.”

“What do you want?”

Shanks stared up into that frightening face, and couldn’t understand. Couldn’t believe.

“I want them all to be safe and happy. Don’t make me regret trusting you.”

Crocodile felt like his organs were boiling with the need to end this man. To end this man that was taking what’s his. He stared down into stupid, brown eyes, grinding his teeth against his rage.

“I want the same thing.”

“Then prove it,” Crocodile spat, leaving Shanks to sway.

Buggy…

I have to tell him.

The Emperor of the Sea floated through the crowd to sneak backstage again, hoping he could figure out the next right thing to do.

Hoping he could prove it.

~~~🐊🔴🐊🔴~~~

~~~~~~

“You look absolutely enchanting tonight, love.”

“There’s no need to brag about your work.”

The tease left your lips like a miracle, and Mihawk’s eyes filled with that lovely mix of annoyance and pride that you seemed so skilled at drawing out of him.

“My vicious rabbit is always stunning, even when I don’t get my hands on her,” he teased back, still perfectly guiding your body along the dance floor. “Though I certainly enjoy the honor.”

You barely heard the satisfied hum he let out when you shivered, yet his voice was still too much. His voice was a drug, just like his eyes, his scent, and his wicked, wicked fingers.

Mihawk was pleasure, seduction, desire. The pain he added to that intoxicating mix only made you crave him more. He made you feel so many things. Hard things. Soft things. Addictive things. Your eyes fluttered as you fought to stop thinking this way about the man that sold you.

Just for daydreams. Not real.

~~~~~~

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

Perfect.

She’s perfect.

Mihawk wanted to kill every single soul in the room, just so he could hear only her. Hear only her lovely heart, beating against his. He could hear it all, but he needed more, needed her.

He needed to keep that spark in Y/N’s eyes. His breath had caught at that glimpse of her, at her brave, little tease. That attitude he ached to punish and praise, and never go a day without hearing.

Everything. Mihawk wanted everything with her.

“Little rabbit?”

“Mhm?”

The world’s greatest swordsman was bested by this strange, lovely girl. The effort, the bravery it took to keep going was almost insurmountable.

“I’m not pretending.”

Y/N stiffened at those whispered words, and his hands had to control her, carry her even more, forcing her body to follow his dance.

“Please…”

“I know I don’t deserve you, but I’ll do anything, darling. Anything to watch you. To watch how your beautiful mind works, to see you be fierce, to hold you when you’re tired.”

Mihawk felt high. He’d finally forgotten the rest of the world existed. Nothing but Y/N in his arms.

Now that he’d started, he couldn’t seem to stop. When she rested her cheek against his chest for a moment, Mihawk almost fell to his knees. She breathed him in before showing him that tiny spark of her, still burning behind those beautiful eyes.

“You’re not tricking me,” Y/N questioned, her voice hesitant, wounded. It tore his insides to shreds to hear her in pain. To know that he’d been the cause. “You didn’t sell me?”

“Rabbit…”

Why didn’t I see what she was before? She believes I could… would I have?

Guilt almost stole his breath, his courage.

“I am so sorry, Y/N. There are no excuses for a villain like me,” he breathed, lost in her, needing her. “You have taken me over. The thought of losing you…”

“Mihawk?”

His name on her tongue. Lovelier than the rarest of wines. The only thing he wanted to hear.

“I don’t care what you decide, rabbit. I will follow you anywhere, if you would have me.”

The swordsman couldn’t read her. Since she’d fallen apart, Y/N had become impossible to understand, impossible to decipher, her body’s new language from some other world.

A lonely world that he needed to pull her back from.

He needed her back.

“I love you, Y/N,” Mihawk confessed. He noticed that his hands were shaking, almost losing his hold on her. A tiny moment of feeling selfish passed before he breathed her in again. “My little rabbit… I love you more than I can fathom, more and more with every moment. You have woken me up, darling.”

Mihawk tried to reach her, tried to read her, but knew that he couldn’t take from her anymore. All he could do was tell her the truth.

“Y/N, you have brought me to life.”

Her heart.

What does that rhythm mean?

“Mind if I cut in?”

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

It was a miracle that your Uncle hadn’t been vaporized on the spot by the murderous glare Mihawk flung his way. His touch that had been so gentle a moment ago went rigid, your bodies gone still in the middle of that shining dancefloor.

“Come now, it’s just a dance,” Uncle Cedrick prodded, and you wondered if he understood how close to death he was.

Mihawk wanted to kill him. Truly.

He really didn’t sell me?

“It’s fine,” you soothed, pulling away from your lover that had violence radiating off of him in waves. “I’ll be fine. Please, don’t—“

“Alright, love,” he conceded, his eyes somehow even more intense as he studied your face. “I’ll listen to you.”

Mihawk placed your hand in your Uncle’s, his own hand tensing before letting you go.

“Much obliged,” Uncle Cedrick purred as your swordsman walked away, his head jerking subtly at the sound of those words.

“So, dear niece,” he smirked, pulling you into position. “Were they actually able to teach you how to dance? Or do you still require a firm, guiding hand?”

You’d fought so hard against it, knowing it would only break you down. Knowing that all it could do was destroy you.

Yet catching Mihawk’s gaze while he studied your uncle like fresh, new prey did something. You knew you should stomp it out, but the rage in those golden eyes had lit a spark. Just an ember, glowing weakly, but it was there.

Hope.

~~~~~~

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

a/n: !!!!! I am eating, sleeping, and breathing this party 😅 I rarely do more than a vibe outline for a fic, usually just a brain dump, but I wanted this party to come together smoothly. Y'all, the OUTLINE for this party is 23 PAGES 🙃🙃🙃 Lol, get comfy (and, oh gobs, please tell me what you think so far, I've been going bonkers 🙏🏼🙏🏼)

Part 25

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