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olive-treeeee · 3 months ago

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Not Forever, But Close - 9th Doctor x Reader

Hey! This was a request from @iminyoursockdrawer who asked: “Hello! I’ve got a request for either the tenth or ninth doctor (whichever you prefer to write the prompt for)I was thinking about a reader who unlike most other companions actually doesn’t like Earth. They love their own planet but they’re very okay with leaving it indefinitely simply because of the constant threat of war aka our world right now (totally not projecting). They don’t request to take time off to visit family (or maybe they don’t have any that they’re close with) and if it does come to trips on Earth they prefer them to not be anywhere near their own time because it just reminds them of the life they want to forget. I’m cool with any direction you want to take it, just thought I’d send some inspo. Love your work xx”

I hope you like this! It went a different direction than anticipated but it was still tons of fun to write this!

“And that is why we NEVER go to Colossouine during their rainy period.” The Doctor announced as he strode back into the TARDIS, his coat dripping, hair plastered to his forehead, and a grimace twisting his face like he’d just bitten into a lemon. You followed a few steps behind, soaked to the bone and utterly miserable.

He gave a full-body shudder at the memory as he headed for the console. “Blimey. Acid rain, carnivorous pigeons, and that old woman with the knives for teeth… Honestly, could’ve warned us. Could’ve left a note.” He muttered, prodding a button with the back of his knuckle.

Then, just as quick, he spun on his heel to face you, a grin flickering onto his face. “Right. We’ve had quite a run lately, haven’t we? Smashing good adventures, if I do say so myself. But even the TARDIS needs a breather now and again, and between you and me, she’s getting a bit… cranky.” He gave the console a fond pat, as if she might overhear.

“I was thinking…” he continued, leaning back against the railing. “Might be time for a little R&R. Put our feet up. You could nip home for a bit, see your lot, raid the fridge, have a proper cup of tea not brewed by homicidal robots.”

“No. That's okay. I can help,” you blurted out, a little too fast.

The Doctor stilled. Cocked his head. One brow rose in that way you’d come to dread, the one that said he’d caught a scent of something off and was already circling.

“No?”

You hesitated, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I just… don’t feel like going home.”

There it was. Out in the air. The words hung between you, brittle and sharp.

His eyes narrowed slightly. That intense look he got sometimes, like he was peering right through your skin to see what you were really made of underneath. You hated when he did that. Hated how easily he could see you when no one else ever seemed to bother trying.

“You’ve been more and more reluctant lately,” he murmured. “Come to think of it… can’t recall you asking to go home. Not even once.”

He stepped closer, arms folding loosely. “What’s the issue?”

“There’s no issue,” you said, too quickly, the words practically tripping over themselves.

The Doctor didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you with those stormy eyes, ancient and kind and utterly relentless.

Then, without a word, he turned back to the console, flicked a switch. The TARDIS gave a sharp lurch, sending you stumbling against the railing.

“Where are we going?” you asked, heart pounding.

He didn’t answer. Just fiddled with a dial, pressed another button, and then stilled. The engines quieted.

“Alright then,” he said, voice deceptively light. “If everything’s fine, no problem. You can head home for a bit, yeah? Get some rest. I’ll come back round when I find somewhere interesting again. Commanding you, in fact.” He shot you a crooked grin, but there was steel beneath it.

Silence. Thick, heavy.

You swallowed. Knew you were backed into a corner now, and he wasn’t going to let this go.

“I… I don’t want to go home.” The words escaped before you could stop them, soft, frayed at the edges.

The Doctor didn’t gloat. Didn’t smirk. Just nodded, quiet. “I know.”

“Yeah, but it’s like—” you faltered, trying to find the words. “It’s not just ‘don’t want to,’ it’s… I can’t. I physically can’t do it. I get near it and I just—” you gestured helplessly. “It’s all too loud. Too much. And there’s nothing for me there, not anymore. Not like there was. It’s all gone to shit and I don’t want to pretend it hasn’t. I don’t want to be part of it.”

Your throat was tight now, voice cracking at the end. You hated this. Hated how small you sounded.

The Doctor took a step closer, his face softening in a way that made your chest ache.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me. You don’t owe that place anything. You don’t owe anyone. You want to run, you run. I get it.” A shadow passed over his face, brief, but there.

“But you’ve got me now. And this old box.” He gave the TARDIS a fond slap. “As long as you want it.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt the knot in your chest loosen. “Doctor-”

“I can’t have you stay with me forever.” The Doctor cut in, voice soft, but there was no mistaking the finality in it. “The universe wouldn’t allow it. Nothing lasts forever; not people, not planets, not me. Much as I’d like to pretend otherwise sometimes.”

He let out a breath, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and glanced up at you with those ancient, tired eyes.

“But listen,” he said, taking a step closer. “Whatever you’re feeling right now… whatever mess the world’s in, whatever noise it’s making, however dark it feels… it won’t stay that way. Not forever. Not even close.”

He paused, his gaze drifting to the TARDIS walls, as if searching for the right words in the hum of her engines.

“The universe — this brilliant, bonkers, ridiculous universe — it’s a rollercoaster. Always has been, always will be. Full of ups and downs. Moments that take your breath away, and moments that punch you in the gut and leave you gasping. It’s unfair. It’s cruel. It’s beautiful. It’s miraculous. It makes us laugh, it makes us cry, it makes us angry, and it makes us feel so alive we can hardly stand it. And you–” he gestured at you, one hand cutting the air. “You’re right in the middle of one of those bits that hurts. And yeah… it hurts like hell.”

He gave a lopsided, sad sort of smile. “Thing is… it passes. Always does. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even next year. But it will. Because that’s what time does. It moves. It’s relentless. You blink and the world changes. New people come, old ones leave. Bad times end. Good times surprise you when you least expect it. That ache in your chest won’t be there forever. The war outside your door, the fear, the loneliness. I promise, it’s not permanent.”

He took another step, close enough now that his voice dropped to something just for you.

“I’ve seen the end of worlds. I’ve watched suns burn out and galaxies crumble, and I’ve seen life crawl out of the ashes and start all over again. Every time. Because life is stubborn like that. Hope’s a funny thing, sneaks up on you, even when you think it’s long gone. Especially then.”

He hesitated, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face.

“I’m not promising it’ll be easy. I’m not promising it won’t hurt. I’m just saying it won’t always be like this. You’ll laugh again. You’ll see something so beautiful it’ll make your chest ache in a good way. You’ll wake up one morning and realise the weight you’ve been carrying isn’t quite so heavy. And you’ll keep moving, just like the universe does. Because it never stops. And neither do we, not really.”

He offered a crooked smile then, warm and a little sad. “You’ve got me for as long as you need. I’ll outrun the stars with you, if that’s what it takes. But one day – and I don’t know when – you’ll look back and see how far you’ve come. And you’ll be alright. Better than alright.”

He gave you a wink. “Now, you trust me, yeah?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, managed a nod. “Always.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

#fanfic #doctor who #doctor who x reader #9th doctor #9th doctor x reader #x reader #doctor who fanfiction #fanfiction

200 notes · View notes

inseobts · 2 months ago

Note

Pretty please could I request a scenario/imagine with Ace where the reader is from Drum Island and lost someone or something during Blackbeards raid and the reader swore vengeance vengeance on the guy.

So when she's tracking Blackbeard down, she keeps running into Ace and it grows into a friendly rivalry to see who's gonna get Blackbeard first and they compare notes and information

How this all ends on Banaro id leave up to you, I'm not pressed on a happy or angsty ending and I'd like to see your spin on this! I like your writing a lot.

Chasing Fire and Shadows

portgas d. ace x fem!reader

part 2

a/n: the islands I name are random tho lmao loved writing this so much btw

words count: 4.6k

tags: slow burn, enemies to allies, shared revenge, adventure, angst/drama, light humor

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

Snow falls hard on Drum Island the night Blackbeard attacks.

You remember the fire, the screams, and the way the cold didn’t matter because rage kept you warm. Blackbeard’s crew swept through the town like wolves through a sheep pen, lighting homes, laughing through gunfire. No mercy. No reason.

Your brother had gone to help put out the flames. He never came back.

All they found was part of his coat. Burnt at the edge. Blood at the seam.

That night, in the silent wreckage of your village, you dug your hands into the snow and swore two things:

You would find Marshall D. Teach.

You would kill him yourself.

After all that.

“Vengeance won’t keep you alive.”

That’s what Dr. Kureha says the morning you tell her your plan.

You stand in the snow, fists clenched, scarf whipping in the wind “Then I’ll make sure strength does.”

Kureha narrows her eyes “Strength without control is just chaos. What are you gonna do? Run around with a kitchen knife screaming his name?”

“No,” you say “I’m going to train.”

One of the monks, old and blind, says something you never forget “Pain will make you sharper, girl. But only love will keep you human.”

And you do train, for months, you fight your own limits. Early mornings. Weighted runs in deep snow. Hand-to-hand combat with heavy gloves.

You work under the mountain monks for endurance, under ex-hunters for reflex, and under Wapol’s leftovers for grit.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

You don’t know its name. No one does.

Six months into your training, you find something in the wreckage of a smuggler's den near the coast.

A Devil Fruit. Rotating, pale silver with jagged navy streaks, looking like a storm frozen mid-sky. You remember your breath catching, your hands shaking.

But you eat it anyway.

It tastes like battery acid and regret.

Three days later, lightning shoots from your fingertips during a sparring match. You black out. Nearly burn down a hut. But you feel the power, deep and electric, coiled in your blood like a storm waiting for a trigger.

They start calling you the Thunderborn after that.

You learn to control it, piece by piece:

Charging your body to move faster than the eye.

Electrocuting your punches for impact.

Using static fields to sense motion behind you.

Eventually, you learn to “blink” short-range lightning jumps.

Now — Alabasta

You walk into the Nanohana bar in a sand-stained cloak, hair still carrying bits of static.

And there he is again.

Portgas D. Ace.

At the counter. Shirt open, freckles out, drinking like he owns the damn place.

He doesn’t see you at first, but you don’t say anything.

You just sit beside him and order something cheap.

Then he turns “Well, well, if it isn’t Drum Island’s sparkplug.”

You smirk “If you call me that again, I’ll fry your eyebrows off.”

Ace laughs “You’ve gotten funnier. And sparky. Did I hear lightning outside earlier?”

You sip your drink “Might’ve been me.”

“Figured. You light up when you’re mad.”

You glance sideways “Why are you always ahead of me?”

“Because I don’t stop to make dramatic entrances.”

“Jerk.”

“Aw, come on. You missed me.”

You roll your eyes “Only thing I miss is good intel. Got any?”

Ace shrugs “He’s headed west. Some say Jaya. Others say farther.”

You slam your notebook on the counter.

He lifts a brow “Still writing everything down?”

You flip through pages of hand-drawn maps, bounties, and coded rumors “Unlike you, I don’t rely on luck.”

Ace grins “I rely on fire.”

“You rely on being reckless.”

“You rely on overthinking.”

The two of you stare at each other. Then both laugh just a little.

There’s something about him you can’t hate, no matter how frustrating he is.

He taps your notebook “We should compare notes.”

You raise an eyebrow “Are we teaming up now?”

He smirks “Nah. Just wanna beat you to him fair and square.”

You lean in “Then good luck keeping up, Hothead. I’m faster now.”

Ace tilts his head “I like a challenge.”

He finishes his drink, drops some coins, and walks away, but then he pauses at the door.

“I’ll see you at the next dead end, Lightning Bug.”

“Say that again and I’ll roast you.”

He laughs and disappears into the heat.

You stare after him, heart thudding like thunder in your chest.

You're not here to cause trouble. You're just passing through Scorpio Island, a busy port with cheap food and a decent information network.

It’s humid. Loud. Smells like salted fish and sweet rice. You’ve just finished questioning a dockworker who “might’ve seen a man with a weird black beard” which isn’t helpful at all.

Then the air shifts.

You pause mid-step. Hair lifts slightly from your skin. Not from your powers but from instinct.

You’re being watched.

When you look up, Marines start stepping out from the alleys. One, two, six, then ten. Boots clinking. Guns half-drawn.

You blink.

“What…?”

The nearest officer, a man with a square jaw and too many medals, steps forward.

“Y/N, right?” he says like he already knows “You’re coming with us.”

You take a step back, palms up “I don’t want any trouble. I’m not a pirate or anything—”

He tosses something at you.

A bounty poster.

It floats through the air and lands at your feet, face-up.

“What the—?” You crouch to pick it up. Your fingers spark from the shock of touching your own damn bounty “This has to be a mistake. I didn’t do anything.”

Your face. Your name.

Wanted: 82,000,000 Berries.

Alive or dead.

“You took down the Captain of the Blackjaw Pirates in Loguetown. Witnesses saw lightning. Saw you.”

Your jaw drops “I wasn’t—! That was self-defense! He tried to rob a ship I was on!”

“You blew a hole in the harbor.”

You groan “He exploded first! I exploded back! It wasn’t like I was trying to—!”

“Doesn’t matter. You attacked a pirate with a bounty. You fought on public ground. That makes you a threat.”

You clench your fists. Static dances around your knuckles.

“I don’t want to fight you,” you say again, slower, sharper “I’m not your enemy.”

But they don’t listen.

They raise rifles. They step forward.

And you flinch, not from fear, but from frustration.

“DAMN it,” you mutter “Why is everyone so STUPID—”

Suddenly, there’s a gust of hot wind and a blur of orange and freckles.

“Oi” says a voice you recognize, just before your feet leave the ground.

“What the—!”

You're lifted off the street in a flash of fire, bridal style, and the world tilts.

Portgas D. Ace is grinning, even as flames flicker at his shoulders.

“She said she doesn’t want a fight,” he calls to the stunned Marines, like he’s announcing a party “So back off.”

And then he’s like flying. No, blasting forward in a burst of flame, carrying you over rooftops, streets, and screaming civilians until the port becomes a blur beneath you.

After making sure you got far enough, he sets you down gently. Too gently.

You slap his arm.

“What the hell, Ace?”

“Ow.”

“You could’ve dropped me!”

“Sure, but then I’d have to carry you again. This way saves time.”

You glare. Sparks flicker from your hands “I had that under control!”

“Yeah, I saw,” he says, flopping onto a patch of dry grass like this was a walk in the park “Totally calm. Not shouting at all.”

You kick a rock “They’re saying I’m some kind of threat now. I didn’t even mean to take that guy down! He attacked me!”

Ace lifts a brow “Big guy, metal jaw, kinda ugly?”

“That’s the one.”

“You melted his sword.”

“It was instinct!”

Ace whistles low “That’s why your bounty’s that high. Not many people take down a guy like that without trying.”

You fold your arms, seething “This is so stupid.”

Ace looks at you for a long moment “You okay?”

You sit beside him “No. I’m not. I’m not even close.”

“...You’re not gonna cry, are you?”

You shove his shoulder “I will electrocute you.”

He laughs “There she is.”

You look out toward the ocean, your anger slowly cracking “I didn’t sign up for all this. I just wanted to find Blackbeard.”

Ace’s smile fades “Yeah. Me too.”

You don’t say anything for a while. The wind brushes past, carrying sand and silence.

Finally, you ask, “So. What now?”

Ace stretches his arms behind his head “We keep chasing. And maybe next time, I’ll let you save me for a change.”

You side-eye him “...You just want to get carried.”

“I’m just saying it’s only fair.”

It’s late afternoon on Mira Island, a laid-back little place known for its wind chimes, lazy bars, and fishermen who talk too much.

You’ve been here two hours and already heard five versions of “a pirate with a black beard stole someone’s boat.”

Typical.

You’re sitting outside a bar near the water, boots up on the railing, pretending to enjoy a bland cocktail. The sun hits the sea just right, and for a second, you forget the bounty, the chase, the Marines...

"Nice poster, Sparkplug."

You freeze mid-sip. That voice again.

You lower the glass slowly and turn.

Ace stands there, grinning like always, flipping something between his fingers.

He slaps it down on your table.

Your new bounty poster.

It’s the same damn thing from Scorpio Island… but worse.

Now it says:

And the picture?

WANTED — Y/N

Dead or Alive — 142,000,000 Berries

You groan “Where the hell did they even get this photo?”

Ace leans on the table, chin on hand “Looks like a surveillance shot. Pretty high quality for Marines, honestly.”

You glare “I look good in it. That’s suspicious.”

He snorts “Right? I mean, hair’s all dramatic in the wind, eyes glowing. You look like you're about to declare war on God.”

You squint at him “Did you come here to bully me?”

“Nah,” he says “Came here to drink. Saw your face first thing at the port. Figured I’d come ruin your day.”

You grab your glass “Too late, it was already ruined.”

Ace sits across from you and signals the bartender “Then let’s make it worse.”

Two drinks later you're both laughing. You’ve moved on to shots.

It turned into a challenge somewhere between the third insult and the first real smile.

You’re trying not to slur. He’s trying not to fall off his stool.

“This island’s too quiet” you mutter, pouring another.

“You’re just mad it doesn’t have Marines to shock.”

“You’re mad I can outdrink you.”

Ace points at you “That’s not true. You’re just shortcircuiting, so the alcohol hits faster.”

You gasp “Did you just insult me?”

He nods “Twice, actually. You missed the first one.”

You slam your glass down “One more round.”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

You roll your eyes “Fine. One more round… idiot.”

He grins “There it is.”

Later on, you're both quieter. Buzzed, but not spinning.

You stare out at the sea, feeling the calm before the next storm. Because there’s always another storm.

You speak first “You know… maybe we should just make it official.”

Ace lifts a brow “What?”

You look at him, serious now “An alliance. You and me. Find Blackbeard together.”

He pauses.

Then he shakes his head, just once “Can’t.”

You frown “Why not?”

“He’s dangerous.”

You sit up straighter “You think I don’t know that?”

“He killed someone I cared about.”

Your breath catches “...Same.”

Ace doesn’t look at you when he says, “I can’t risk someone else.”

You stare at him, heart suddenly heavier “So what, all this time… you were just playing nice?”

He blinks “No.”

“Then were you feeding me fake info? Sending me in the wrong direction to keep me out of it?”

His expression hardens “I don’t do that.”

You cross your arms “Really? Because it kinda feels like I’m chasing a shadow and you’re chasing the real thing.”

“I gave you everything I had. Every rumor, every tip. That’s my style. I don’t lie to people I respect.”

You scoff “Respect?”

Ace leans in a little, face calm but serious “Yeah. You’re strong. Smart. Brave. You deserve better than chasing a monster into hell.”

You meet his eyes.

“I’m already in hell beacuse of him” you say.

Ace doesn’t respond. Just looks at you for a long time.

The silence between you is sharp. Electric.

And then he says, “...I’ll see you around, Sparkplug.”

He leaves before you can say anything else.

You sit there, staring at the table, fingers twitching.

The poster flutters in the wind, your own face looking back at you.

Wanted. Alone. Again.

It’s too damn hot.

You're holed up in an abandoned fishing shack on Gulliver Island, nursing a half-broken fan and peeling off your jacket like it’s trying to kill you.

Outside, the jungle hums with heat and insects. Inside, it’s just you, a damp rag, and one tall, shirtless idiot leaning against the doorway.

“Thought you’d be gone by now” you mutter.

Ace smirks. He’s barefoot, towel slung over his shoulder, sunburnt collarbone on full display.

“I was,” he says, stepping in like he owns the floor “But then I heard about a lightning girl terrorizing a squad of Marines a few miles up the coast.”

“I didn’t terrorize them,” you snap “They cornered me. Again.”

He raises both hands “Hey, I believe you. I just figured you might need a break.”

You glare “So you brought yourself?”

He grins “Thought you’d enjoy the view.”

Your eyes flick over his bare chest before you can stop yourself “Please.”

“Caught that.”

You toss your rag at his head. He catches it with one hand and chuckles.

Later, you sit across from each other at a short wooden table. There's barely enough space for two people, and your knees touch every time one of you shifts. You blame the heat for the sweat on your neck, not the way Ace’s eyes linger too long when you lean forward.

He slides something across the table.

Your bounty poster. Again.

You groan.

“They upped it,” he says casually “You’re at 170 mil now. Guess the lightning show made an impression.”

You snatch the paper “Why do they keep using this photo?”

“You look too good in it. Makes you more dangerous.”

You shoot him a look “I’m already dangerous.”

“Oh, I know.”

His tone is low. Too low. You feel it in your spine.

You set the poster down.

“So,” he says after a beat “What now?”

You shrug “Still chasing him. Still alone.”

Ace’s fingers tap the table. His knee bumps yours again and doesn’t move.

You meet his gaze. It’s hot in here, and not just because of the island.

“You ever get tired of being on your own?” you ask, voice soft.

He doesn’t answer right away.

“I’ve got reasons” he says eventually.

“I know. You told me.” You lean in a little “Doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

Ace watches you for a long moment. There’s tension now, real and pulsing. It builds between you like a charge in the air, like your own devil fruit is reacting to something deeper.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt” he says, quietly.

You look down, then back up at him “I don’t want to see you die chasing him alone.”

Your foot brushes against his under the table. Neither of you moves this time.

You could lean in. He could close the gap.

But neither of you does.

Instead, he stands, too quickly. His hand runs through his hair, like he’s shaking off whatever just passed between you.

“I’m sleeping on the roof,” he says “Too hot in here.”

You watch him leave, jaw tight, pulse racing.

The door creaks shut behind him.

You're left alone with the heat… and a storm you’re not sure you can keep holding back.

Weeks later.

The storm rolls in fast.

One second you're arguing with a stubborn trader about a Blackbeard sighting, the next you're sprinting through sheets of rain, your jacket clinging to your skin like a second, colder version of yourself.

Lightning flashes above. Loud. Familiar. Yours, or maybe not.

You duck under a hanging sign and shake out your soaked sleeves. Behind you, heavy footsteps squish through the mud.

“I told you to wait” Ace says, breathless.

You turn, rain dripping from your hair “I told you to keep up.”

His freckles are speckled with raindrops. His hair’s a mess. He looks unfairly good for someone drenched head to toe.

“Nice weather” you mutter.

“I swear, you summon this stuff on purpose.”

You smirk “Oh? Fireboy scared of a little water?”

He gives you a look “I’m not scared. I just respect the enemy.”

“What's that even supposed to mean.”

Thunder cracks above. You flinch slightly, but Ace notices. He steps closer, that infuriating grin back on his lips.

“Shouldn’t you be used to this?”

“Not when I’m stuck in it with you.”

He gestures to a shed nearby, half-hidden behind a fruit stand “There. Shelter.”

You glance at it. Small. Barely big enough for one of you.

“Great” you deadpan.

Inside the shelter it’s even worse than expected.

Dark, creaky, barely more than a shack. But it’s dry. Mostly. Except the roof drips in two places.

You stand awkwardly close. Too close. The space smells like rain and sweat and wood. His arm brushes yours when he adjusts his belt. You try not to react, but your skin’s already warm from the charge of the lightning earlier.

“You’re shivering” he says quietly.

“No, I’m not.”

He looks at you. Long. Serious.

“Come here.”

You stare “What?”

“I’m warm,” he says, and yeah, his Devil Fruit does give him an advantage here...

You hesitate. Just a second.

Then you sigh and step closer. He pulls you in gently, an arm around your waist, casual like it means nothing. But it does.

His skin radiates heat. His breath brushes your temple. You stand there, half-mad from how close his mouth is to your ear.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, voice low “Yeah. It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

You feel his smile before you see it.

Then, softer “You know… I wasn’t trying to push you away. Lat time we met.”

You glance up.

“We’re not allies” you say.

“We’re more than that,” he answers “Aren’t we?”

The silence grows thick. Your heart pounds so loud it nearly drowns out the rain.

You tilt your head “You always this forward when you’re wet?”

He chuckles, low and slow “Only when I like the person I’m stuck with.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your lips are inches apart.

And still… neither of you moves.

Not yet.

But the storm isn’t the only thing building.

The rain pounds the roof, wild and heavy. The wind howls through the cracks in the walls, but inside the shack it’s still.

Your breath hitches.

Ace hasn’t moved and neither have you.

Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. He’s too warm. Too close. Too good at looking at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Say something” you whisper.

His voice is rough “You want honesty?”

You nod.

“I think about you too much.”

You blink “That wasn’t the kind of honesty I was expecting.”

He grins but it's softer than usual “Then maybe you should stop expecting the worst from me.”

You don’t have a smart reply this time.

You tilt your face up. You’re done pretending the heat between you is just because of your devil fruits, or the jungle, or the shared goal of revenge.

This is different. And it’s real.

You lean in.

So does he.

The kiss is slow at first. Testing. His lips brush yours like a question.

Then it deepens.

Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt. His hand finds the back of your neck, thumb grazing your skin in a way that sends a sharp bolt of need straight through you.

You shift, pressing closer... hips brushing, mouths moving. The shack feels smaller. The air tighter.

You gasp when his teeth graze your lower lip.

He pulls back just enough to speak, voice hoarse.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the first island we met at.”

“You’re late” you murmur, tugging him back down.

This time, the kiss is rougher. More desperate. His hands on your waist now, yours sliding up under his shirt, fingers trailing over warm skin. He swears under his breath when you do.

You only break apart when a roll of thunder shakes the shack.

Your foreheads stay pressed together.

You’re both breathing hard.

Still wrapped around each other.

“Storm’s not letting up” he says.

“Guess we’re stuck.”

A small smile “Yeah. Real shame.”

Time pass and you’re curled up beside him, his jacket draped over you both like a blanket.

You trace a small burn scar on his shoulder lazily with one finger.

“You still want to find Blackbeard alone?”

Ace’s jaw tightens for a second.

Then he exhales “I don’t know anymore.”

You nod. You understand.

But for now, in this moment, neither of you are alone.

Weeks pass.

You and Ace keep crossing paths. At first, by accident. Now? You’re not so sure.

You bicker like rivals. Fight like friends. Flirt like something more.

“Lightning for brains” he mutters when you zap open a locked door instead of picking it.

“Matches-for-hands” you snap back, shoving past him.

But you don’t go separate ways this time.

It’s hot again. The island of Kota is all red dust and thick air. You’re sitting outside a half-crumbled tavern, nursing something too bitter to drink, when a kid, skinny, sunburned, eyes too sharp for his age, runs up to your table.

“You’re the lightning girl, right?”

You pause “Who’s asking?”

He glances around, then whispers, “I got news. About the man you’re hunting.”

That gets your full attention.

Ace looks up from his drink across the table. His whole body shifts, not much, but you feel it. Tension behind the ease. He’s worried, and trying to hide it.

“What kind of news?” you ask the boy.

“Blackbeard passed through Southshore two days ago. They say he’s headed to the mountains on Harka Isle. Big crew. Real big.”

The kid slips a folded paper into your hand and bolts before you can ask more.

You stare down at the message. Your pulse picks up. The handwriting is frantic. Names you recognize. Places that weren’t supposed to exist anymore.

“Let me see.” Ace says, reaching for it.

You snatch it away “No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know if it’s real—”

“I’ll decide that.”

He leans back in his chair, jaw tight “You’re not thinking straight.”

You stand “And you’re not listening.”

The fight doesn't end when the sun sets.

You’re pacing your rented room above the tavern, lightning buzzing faintly under your skin.

Ace leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You’re acting like you’ve already decided to die.”

You spin “And you’re acting like I don’t have a reason!”

He walks toward you “I never said that.”

“But you think it.”

Silence.

His voice drops “I think you’re carrying something too heavy. Alone.”

You look at him.

And something breaks open.

“You want to know exactly why I’m doing all this? Fine.”

You walk to him close, but not touching.

“He killed my brother,” you say “During the raid on Drum Island. Not with his own hands... Blackbeard’s a coward. But it was his chaos. His madness. My brother bled out in the snow, calling for me, and I was too far to reach him.”

Ace’s eyes darken. He doesn’t move.

“I don’t care what it costs,” you whisper “I don’t care if I burn out, or if I die with him. As long as I take that bastard down into hell with me.”

He exhales slowly, like your words hit something deep.

And then he steps forward.

“I hate this,” he says quietly “Because I get it.”

You don't say anything else.

You just reach for him.

Later on, the sheets are twisted. Your skin still hums, but not from lightning. You’re pressed against Ace, legs tangled, his hand stroking slow circles on your spine.

Neither of you says much.

You don't need to.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast. Not this time.

It was everything unsaid, poured out in touches and breath and the way he looked at you like you were more than vengeance.

You break the silence.

“You really think I can’t do it?”

“I think you can,” he says softly “I just don’t want you to lose yourself doing it.”

You stare at the ceiling.

Too late for that. But you don’t say it.

You just stay there, in the dark, skin on skin.

Storms can wait. But not forever.

The sun is cruel when it wakes you.

You turn over, reaching across the bed.

Cold, empty sheets.

Your stomach drops.

You sit up, frowning “Ace?”

No answer.

You scan the room. His shirt is gone. So are his boots. His dagger. His hat.

You rush downstairs barefoot, wild with sleep and fear “Ace?!”

The barkeep doesn’t even look up “Left before sunrise. Didn’t say much.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears “Left where?”

No answer.

You push out into the sun-drenched street. A headache builds behind your eyes “Damn it. Damn it, Ace—”

“Hey” a voice says. It’s the kid from yesterday, standing near the edge of the alley. Same nervous energy. Same sharp stare “He left you something.”

You rush over “Where is he?!”

The boy just hands you a folded piece of paper.

You open it with shaking hands.

I had to go ahead. I know you’ll try to follow me. I hope you don’t. If I can end this, maybe you won’t have to. Don’t hate me for this. I’m not trying to leave you. I’m trying to save you.

You reread the words five times.

They don't sink in.

You press the page to your chest, breath shaking. But your mind grabs onto one thing.

He didn’t say goodbye.

He didn’t say he wouldn’t come back.

You chase every whisper. Every rumor.

Lightning burns under your skin as you cross sea after sea.

Someone saw smoke on Banaro Island.

Two men, one made of fire, one of darkness.

You go there.

You go to Banaro.

The island is scorched, like lightning and death danced a waltz across its surface.

Ash coats the wind. Trees splintered, rocks cracked down the middle.

Your stomach twists but your hope is louder.

“Ace won,” you whisper to yourself “He had to.”

There’s no body.

No blood.

You search until your knees ache. You find his hat, not burned, just buried under some rubble. You hold it to your chest and close your eyes.

Maybe he left it on purpose.

Maybe he’s coming back for it.

You smile.

You believe that.

You have to.

Three Days Later

You're in a small port town, hair damp from rain, scarf pulled tight as you sit in a dusty inn with a cup of bitter coffee.

There’s a newspaper crumpled on the table beside you. You’re not even looking at it.

Until you see the name.

“Portgas D. Ace: Captured. Now held in Impel Down.”

Your chest goes cold.

The mug slips from your fingers and shatters.

People glance over, but you don’t notice.

You just stare.

Captured.

Alive.

But for how long?

The newspaper says nothing about the fight. Nothing about what’s coming next.

But you know.

The World Government has him.

They’re going to make an example out of him.

You press your palms to your face and sit still for a long time.

Hope is still in your chest... But now it’s shaped more like panic.

You have to get to him.

You have to do something.

You will.

Because you can't be too late this time.

But you might be, if you don’t move... now.

368 notes · View notes

demilypyro · 25 days ago

Text

Making plans for self-improvement All for slightest forward movement Stubborn, fighting through the pain Trying to grow in acid rain With every patch and every pill I bend my body to my will In pride worship the self, divine Raid the temple, take what's mine

#lyrics that don't exist

121 notes · View notes

dilatorywriting · 1 year ago

Text

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 1.5]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: There is a little, annoying human trapped in this bay with him. And he's going to eat them. (Vil's POV)

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

There was a little, raggedy human staring up at him from the sand, and Vil had never felt so miserably persecuted in all his years.

The thing had been bound to him in a mess of ropes and frantic, bipedal flailing, and he’d honestly thought that it had drowned. Hoped that it had drowned. But no, apparently he couldn’t be quite so lucky. None of his pod’s raids had ever gone so terribly, and normally he was better able to keep his head about him. But it had been Epel’s first attempt at sneaking on board one of the grand, creaking, human vessels, and maybe he’d been a touch concerned about it. Like a fretting parent sending their guppy off to the deep for their first solo-swim. And perhaps he’d struck a bit too quick and sharp when he saw things headed South. Not taking the normal care he would to assess for traps, or weapons, or stupid humans and their equally stupid, fraying ropes.

But none of that mattered. It was hardly a crime to want to protect your family. It had happened, that was the end of it. There was no changing things. And now he was here. In this cove. With that thing.

You pedaled backward in the sand like those two legs of yours hardly worked at all, and even though it looked like you were retreating (rightfully so, at least you were smart enough to realize this was a lost battle), Vil still bared his teeth in a challenge. Because he was angry, and sore, and at the moment you were the cause of every, single one of his problems in the world. He tossed his tail in the surf, splattering stinging bits of ice water into your face.

“Stop! Stop!” you squawked, wheeling away like he was dousing you in acid rain rather than a bit of pissy water warfare. “I get it! I won’t come near you, jeesh! I wasn’t planning on it to begin with!”

“Of course you weren’t,” he spat. “From the looks of you, you don’t plan much of anything at all.”

You didn’t respond to his scathing insult, only kept scooting yourself back against the sand on legs that still apparently refused to work. Or maybe you’d simply forgotten about them. You seemed like you could be the type.

He ground his talons into the damp sand at his hips and felt the ridges of the fins along his spine prickling tight and painful, trying to puff out in a predatory display that they simply couldn’t because he was still bound in the godforsaken rope.

“I don’t know what your little plan was,” he hissed, “but you’ve done both of us a disservice. And while I’m sure you’re used to disappointment, I am not going to tolerate this.”

More silence. You looked—not confused, per se. But definitely not particularly keen on following his very justified rant against your person. Your gaze kept darting from his vicious glare, to his claws digging up the shoreline, and then to his lips. He could see your own mouth moving a bit alongside his, like you were trying to echo the shape of the insults flying off his tongue.

“Listen here, you fleshy rat,” he snapped, jabbing a black talon in your direction. “You’re going to tell me the course that your ridiculous ship had set so that I can return to my pod at once. Do you understand? And if you’re lucky, I won’t crawl my way up there to bite off your fingers one by one. How’s that sound?”

You blinked back at him with no comprehension, like his marvelous depiction of having your bones gnawed on for snacks just wasn’t a vivid enough picture.

The rage in his chest bubbled bright and hot, and the age-old magics in his veins zipped through his blood like a stroke of lightening.

Insolent brat.

Fine. He’d make you listen then.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” you said, and oh, you were a nuisance. He was going to rip your nerves out from the depths of your useless, human limbs. Feast on your bones until the marrow had been picked clean and leave the scraps for the gulls—

He parted his lips and sang loud and sharp—letting that familiar lull roll off his tongue like the sweetest poison. His Call had always been the strongest in his pod, after all. That’s why it was his job to keep them safe, to ensure that no one was lost in a hunt that was meant to be so simple just because they couldn’t keep their purple-headed curiosity under wraps long enough to not to be caught—

Vil turned his sneer back your way, fully prepared to see you kowtowed before him with your nose buried in the sand. And—

You were just sitting there. Butt in the muck and just as wide-eyed and brainless as before. Staring back at him with a startled sort of expression on your face and nothing else. Normally there was a sort of tether between him and his victims. A call, an answer. Simple principles. And while he could never see the tangible net of his influence tightening around their brains, he could always sense it. Or at least something like it. But this time, there was just… nothing.

Vil snarled, swallowing around the spiky pinch of something in his gut that he refused to call panic, and canted his head back to sing louder.

The shallow dregs of the cove rippled at his hips with the force of it, and he could feel the swell of his influence curling out further and further. Digging its claws into anything and everything it could reach. He could feel one tether spooling out and grabbing after the other, feel the familiar pull of subservience from the very sea itself. And—

“I can’t hear you!”

Oh, you mocking piece of—

He widened his mouth until his jaw was creaking and his tongue was going numb from the sharp bursts of arcana snapping from throat.

“It’s not a challenge!” you wailed, hands cupped over your mouth to try and shout over his howling song. “My ears literally, actually, do not work, you fucking overgrown anchovy!”

His mouth fell closed all at once, the Call cutting off so abruptly that the returning wave of snapping magics almost made his head spin. The power of it hung along his nerves like the zipping prickle of electric eels, and the water at his hips churned and bubbled.

“There,” you huffed, like someone who’d just been horribly inconvenienced by a gust of wind ruining their hair, rather than a human bearing the full weight of a siren’s fury. Brushing off some of the most powerful magics in the ocean like it was nothing worse than a bit of sand in your trousers. It was… unnerving. And it had something uneasy curdling in Vil’s stomach.

He dug his claws into the sand, fins flaring along his sides in a defensive display before he could help himself. Your eyes tracked the way the muck gave way beneath his talons and he watched your throat bob. Good. You should be afraid of him. Because he refused to be afraid of a human like you. No matter how the hair at his nape prickled or the fins at his ears pinned against the sides of his head.

“Well…” you said after a long moment, awkward and stiff. “I should get going, I suppose.”

And then you were stumbling your way to your feet to venture deeper into the crags of the small island. Vil smacked his tail against the surf, loud and sharp. A plaintive ‘good, begone,’ if ever there was one. But you didn’t even flinch, let alone turn around to witness his grand ‘fuck you.’ He wasn’t sure why he was expecting you to.

He watched you crawl your way up a mess of boulders and old shells, eyes narrowed and that same, unpleasant prickle running through his nerves. Once you were well and truly out of sight, he returned to his fins and started doing all he could to assess the damage. The sooner he could deal with this setback and set out into the depths of the ocean, the sooner he could return to his pod. And the sooner he’d be away from you, and all your strange, human ways.

You returned maybe an hour later, only a few minutes after he’d given up on trying to pick the horrid mess of twine from the wounds along his tail. His claws weren’t made for such delicate work, and the poisoned tips of them weren’t doing his shredded fins any favors.

He turned on you with a snarl that would have sent any other sentient creature scurrying for cover, fins pinned and canines on full display. But apparently you had less self-preservation than even the brainless, teeny, rock crabs burrowing hurriedly into the sand.

“Hello,” you said. Like that was any way appropriate.

“Get lost,” he snarled.

You nodded back, simple and sage, and then pointed to the mess of your ropes twined along his fins.

“I can get that off if you promise not to eat me.”

Vil sneered and surged forward to scrape his claws through the muck again, hoping his demonstration of what he would do to your face if you stepped near him was clear enough to get through your head.

“Touch me and you’ll be lucky if all I do is eat you.”

You blinked back, and he watched the way your eyes jumped across his expression. Trailed to his mouth, his brow, his teeth. Reading whatever you could see there. And then you shrugged again, unbothered by his spitting threats as before.

“Alright. Your loss, I suppose.”

There was a keenness to your gaze though, a sharp, pointed consideration that had his hackles rising all over again.

“If you think that you can be rid of me that easily, you’re solely mistaken,” he spat, smacking his fins into the shallows until the water was churning wild and angry. “This is all your fault, and whatever ridiculous plot you’re considering, I’ll gladly return it tenfold.”

Your face pinched like you had any right to be annoyed by this at all, and then promptly turned away from him like you’d lost all interest in his theatrics. You meandered around the shore, scooping up the battered remains of some of the fish that had stranded themselves during his failed Call. Then you sat yourself well away from the water’s edge and pulled a knife from your boot, running it along the fish’s scales and clearing out the muck.

“Thanks for the food!” you chirped petulantly, making long, pointed, eye contact as you did so. Like that little blade of yours was supposed to be any sort of a threat. Perhaps he could use it to pick the leftover bits of you out of his teeth.

Vil turned up his nose and returned to carefully grooming the shredded ends of his fins.

“You’re an obnoxious brat,” he growled, wincing as his claws caught over a frayed patch of scales and began to bleed all over again. “And I’m going to drown you.”

Naturally, you did not respond.

The rope burned, and he knew he wasn’t helping himself. The twine of it was frayed, poor quality. And combined with the tacky, salt-sticky damp of the waves, it made the worst sort of web. Vil threw himself around in the shallows like a pup stuck in their first net. And he knew—knew—this wasn’t going to make things better. But the more he worked to free himself and the less progress he made, the angrier he got (Not afraid, angry. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t).

A tight bit of fibers snagged along the delicate mesh of the fins at his hips and gave a shrieking riiip that had him collapsing into the sand bed with a bitten off noise that he refused to call a gasp. But Sevens, it did hurt. He pressed his face into the shallow pool of warm water beneath his chin and forced his breath to calm, to dig his claws into the grit beneath him rather than his own scales. Because this wasn’t working. And he—he needed to fix it. On his own. Because he was on his own. And he was going to manage, just like he always had.

There was a noise off on the shore—the tumbling of pebbles against stone as you shifted around in your little, makeshift hideaway. And he refused to look up to meet your gaze. Because surely you were staring. Humans were always so happy to watch his kind suffer, flailing about in their traps and bound in nets like a garish display. And he wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of knowing he’d been seen like… like this.

So he forced himself to go still and silent, ignoring the pain biting into his sides like the teeth of a shark and the panicked, clawing thing in his gut that kept screaming that he was going to die here.

The next morning, you were wandering the shoreline, scrounging after the remains of various crabs from the day prior. Vil refused to look at you, and spent the time pointedly running his claws through the tangles in his hair and primping himself like he didn’t have a care in the world. Because if a stupid, lowly human fit for nothing but an after-dinner-snack could thrive in these circumstances, than surely he could do even better.

There was the soft, wet sounds of your footsteps behind him, and Vil turned on you with a roaring snarl—fins pinned and spines perked, defensive.

“What?” he snapped, beating his tail.

You awkwardly held up one your pickings—a round, red crab with fat claws.

“I don’t know if you all eat fish or whatever, but…”

Vil fought the urge to gawk. Were you offering him one of—but why would you—

He bit through his surprise with another sneer. “Firstly, crabs are crustaceans, not fish. You’d think any self-respecting creature that spent their days on the ocean would know something as obvious as that. Secondly, why would you even think that I would share a meal with you? Even I didn’t think humans could be that stupid, but you’re certainly setting a new bar.”

Your mouth twitched at his very sharply enunciated ‘stupid’ and he fought a smirk.

“Oh. Know that one, do you?” he cooed, all mocking.

“Look, do you want it or not?” you snapped, irritated, and his fins flared up again—wide and defensive.

Vil crossed his arms on an exaggerated, pointed huff and turned in the other direction. A clear dismissal. “I’d rather starve.”

“Whatever,” you griped, voice canted sharp with your foul temper, and then there was a crack and a yelp.

Vil turned back to see you reeling away, hand over your mouth to catch a mix of blubbering, wincing curses and a shattered crab shell clenched between your fingers in the most obvious show of stupidity he’d perhaps ever seen. He burst out into laughter before he could help himself, and you stormed away with warm cheeks and pieces of jagged, red shell still clinging to the corners of your lips.

That night he fought the ropes even harder, ignoring the way they pulled, and tore, and dug into places that he knew they should not. And maybe it was self-destructive, stupid, but if he didn’t get himself free of this horrible mess his fins would never heal. He’d never be able to swim properly again. And he’d never be able to leave this cove, never return to his pod, his family. Never—

A shell walloped him in the back of the head and Vil turned with a shriek so vicious it nearly startled even him. Because there you were—the bane of his existence. Standing at the edge of the water with that ridiculous, deadpan look on your ridiculous face and already scrounging about in the sands like you were looking for something else to throw at him. He didn’t even know what he was screaming at that point, absolutely brought over the edge in rage, and pain, and fear, and it was all. your. faul—

Then something in your expression snapped and you were storming forward towards the surf—absolutely incensed.

“Look, fish face! You were the one who attacked me! You!” you shrieked, stomping in the sand and nearly pinning the longer, trailing ends of his fins beneath your heels. “So stop acting like I’m some scheming shithead who was planning to trap you like this from the start!”

“You trapped me!” he howled, outraged. “You were going to kill a member of my pod! Who’s barely out of his pup days! And he was my responsibility, and you were going to attack him!”

Magic zipped along his tongue, demanding that you kneel. Show your throat and be done with it. But when you just kept glaring back—absolutely stone-faced and seething with indignation—Vil forced himself to take a breath, and then another.

“Epel,” he spat, low and exaggerated. He saw your eyes flicker to his lips, trace the outline of the word. “Epel,” he said again, sharp and angry. And when your own mouth began to subconsciously follow the shape of it, he was off and running again. “He’s my responsibility. Epel. He—” Vil pointed at the pale, lavender creases at the base of his fins. “His hair is like this. You saw him. You spoke to him. And you were going to tie him up just like you did to me.”

Your eyes narrowed, sharp.

“That kid,” you said after a moment, lips twisting in a frown. “You attacked me because of Purple Head?!”

“Epel,” Vil spat again, smacking his fins into the surf to douse you in a mess of seawater. “Not some kid. A pup. Barely of age. And you were going to—”

“You—” you hissed, scrubbing the salt from your eyes with the back of your hand. “He was still attacking us first! He was going after my friend!” you snapped, kicking your own wave back. It splattered along Vil’s hips, barely a sprinkling in comparison to his own tidal waves. “You don’t get to act all noble and protective, and like any of that makes any difference when you all were going to eat us!”

Vil snarled, and the twist of it left a bitter, rotten taste on his tongue. It wasn’t the same. It didn’t matter what you wanted, because you were just some human. Humans were vile, and cruel, and good for nothing but filling their bellies. And this was his family. So what if you claimed you were just standing up for your own brood? It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t.

So he turned back to dive into the shallows with as much force as his aching, crippled fins could manage. Sinking to the bottom of the cove in a huff of bubbles and clawing his way through the muck until he was well and truly hidden in the murky, sandy depths. He smacked his tail against the mess of pebbles and rocks until every creature beneath was scurrying for safety—fleeing outwith the flailing, destructive force of a Siren’s tantrum.

Was that why he was here, then? Bound and gagged on some hellhole of an island because of his own mistakes? Because you’d just been aligning yourself with the moral high ground he’d been riding this whole time? Saving your kin at the cost of your own, fragile skin. Dragged overboard to fight the monsters trying to devour your family whole. Ridiculous. He wasn’t going to let himself feel bad for the slighted prey in a hunt gone wrong. Sharks certainly didn’t regret the fish they chased, nor did the great black-and-white whales that pursued those sharks in turn. This was just the way of things, the circle of life. And he wasn’t going to feel guilty about the tight, protectivelook on your face as you shouted him down about defending your own pod at all.

You were curled up by the same rock the next morning, sleeping soundly against the rough hewn edge. It looked hideously uncomfortable, with your chin tucked up against your chest and your head pressed against half-a-dozen layered, jagged ridges. Vil had always heard that humans were used to luxury—soft, plush blankets made of foreign fabrics and great, stuffed squares of bedding that could put even the finest woven siren nests to shame. And there you were. Scrunched up with a shell clearly embedded in your cheek.

He frowned, fins rippling awkwardly at his sides where the majority were still knotted up in twine.

He needed to leave this cove. As soon as possible. And get away from… all of this.

It generally wasn’t considered the best of ideas to Call openly across the sea. Lone sirens were prime targets for all sorts of nasty scavengers. Human hunters, rival pods, even other rogues looking for a fight. It was dangerous to mark one’s position so openly, let alone in a manner that made it obvious of the less than stellar situation they had no doubt found themselves in. It was also a nasty toll to try and Call so far for so long, on himself and the environment around him. A screeching, horrible thing that he’d only heard a few times in all his years. It was a terrible idea for everyone involved, himself and his fellow castaway most of all. But, well, desperate times, and all that.

Besides, it wasn’t like you’d be able to hear it anyways.

So began his endless song.

He’d sing, and sing, and sing—feeling the ripples of it carrying across the surface of the water and shivering through the air. And then, after he’d worn his throat ragged, he’d pause. Just long enough to swallow around the sting and tilt his head to listen. His fins would flare out against the side of his head, and he’d wait. And then, when there was no answer to his Calling, he’d circle back and do it again. A part of him hoped there would be none. He’d taught his pod better than to do something so foolish—to put themselves at the mercy of all the monsters of the sea. And… if they didn’t answer, perhaps that just meant they were searching for him. Using his own, ridiculous harping to trace him down. And if not that, then at least that they were off somewhere safe. Somewhere far, and hidden.

He swam and sang until he was too exhausted for either. Bound fins a heavy, leaden weight at his hips and head barely cresting above the water.

When the sun set over the horizon, Vil let himself roll in alongside the surf to rest in the sand, boneless and sore. His eyes slipped shut with the encroaching darkness, too heavy to hold open at all. He hadn’t seen much of you today. Occasionally you’d wander down to the shoreline, head popping up over a cluster of rocks to shoot him a look that he couldn’t quite decipher, but for the most part you’d stayed hidden away. Out of his hair, at least. Perhaps you’d finally learned what was good for you, and that keeping as far away from the beast lurking in the shallows was the only way you’d be getting out of this alive.

And then his eyes were snapping open to a field of stars overhead and the moon hanging fat and low in the sky like a fruit ripe for the plucking.

And there you were, hovering over him with that laughably small knife of yours.

Carefully and gently working the rope away from his tattered fins.

Your fingers were delicate, precise. Every time those woven fibers tugged in a way that could even begin to hurt, you were softening your touch and muttering reassurances under your breath. He wondered if you realized you were doing that at all—chattering quiet, rambling nonsense like a nervous tick. ‘Ack, don’t twitch so much, it’s just going to cut deeper,’ and ‘sorry! Sorry! I didn’t think that would move like that! Just—just stay still and it will all be done way faster and then you can swim off, and—’ You were exceptionally careful over the areas of rough, beaten scales along the dip of his tail, wincing in sympathy at the raw, raw skin there. The blade never strayed anywhere it wasn’t needed, and you never touched any part of him that wasn’t in an effort to work another tangle of knots free.

Vil kept himself perfectly still and his breaths even and deep. He watched you through the low, golden dip of his lashes, eyes tracking your fluttering hands and quiet mumblings.

The last of the rope fell away with a wet, heavy plap in the sand and when you sighed there was a smile in your voice.

“There,” you muttered, soft. “Now he can swim home again.”

He froze, startled, and something dropped low and tight in his gut.

Because humans were cruel. Humans were food. Humans were nothing more than vermin crawling over the surface of his ocean in their hunkering, wooden vessels and finless feet. They didn’t deserve sympathy, or anything of that ilk. And—

Your gaze met his and the spark of horrified realization didn’t even manage to settle properly in your wide, wide eyes before he had you pinned in the sand.

It was easy—far too easy. Compared to him you were so small, so fragile. No heavy, bulk of muscle and scales to help keep you alive and fighting. Just fragile limbs and lungs that were good for nothing. He dug his claws into your shoulders and felt the warm prick of blood curl up beneath his talons—could see you wince with the first pinch of acrid poison sharpening the wound. He was going to rip you apart, just like he’d said he would. Even if you hadn’t been able to hear him, he’d show you. Because humans were vile, and no matter what you’d claimed, you didn’t deserve anything better than an end beneath the points of his fangs. Fuel for the journey back to his pod and nothing more.

‘There. Now he can swim home again.’

He reeled back, nose scrunching and teeth grinding in his jaw.

You were still beneath him, blinking up in shock but not fighting. Like being flipped onto your back had been startling out of principle, but not unexpected. Like the idea of dying at his claws was just something you’d been expecting from the get-go.

And yet—

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ you’d been rattling. ‘Ah, if you squirm it’s just going to hurt, you stupid, overgrown fish—'

Vil reared back with a snarl that had goosebumps racing all along your arms, and then he was diving back into the shallows—swiping the tip of his fins against your nose as he went in a sharp crack that he hoped would have you yelping and stumbling away from the ocean’s edge.

He paced along the edges of the bay, newly freed fins slowly uncurling in the lull of the tide. And he felt free. Sore, certainly, and aching in ways he never had before, but free.

When he popped his head back out of the water, you were sprawled out in the sand like a dying starfish, absolutely out of your mind and babbling nonsense about ‘captains’ and ‘collars’ under your breath.

‘Good,’ he harumphed, diving back into the shallows to twirl along his unbound tail. ‘Maybe that would teach you to stay out of the water.’

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

@marvelous-maxi, @ilikefanfics4, @jackalope08, @crocwork-clockodile, @cosmicobubisi, @buttplugs-stuff, @pomefleur, @decemebercircus, @ailynyan, @genzombie, @meliade-ot, @sunlightocean, @theofficialantitherapist, @hermiona18, @sailorenthusiast, @fantasy-dating-sim-trash, @thefiasco-onyourblock, @insideous-beez, @its-clockwork-princess

@novaloptr, @imlost-sendhelp, @matcha-berry @preciosayorgullosa @whoretaglia, @kookygirlwholikescookiesandcoke, @nanauedorian, @trixeraptops, @voxnipop, @starkling25, @thedum1, @horcrux-alchemist, @sleepykitty21, @apathicace, @instantregret101, @nekanecorvus, @looney-mori, @re-ducing, @my2phetaliaheadcanons, @naughtybodypillow, @rendy-a, @carmen-404, @candy284, @thealiennamedterry, @their-name-is-fake, @huetolog, @glacticrose, @seraphinariddle, @rabioa, @sn00zl4x, @dreasimping, @jeidoreech, @ai-dev, @galaxyshine24-7, @fatally-incorrect, @juulranch, @camrastuff, @nocteetdie, @stargaryengirl, @warmsmilesandhugs, @01paige01

#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Vil Schoenheit x Reader #Vil x Reader #vil schoenheit #Mermay #Monster Mayhem #My Writing #vil shoenheit #Siren!Vil #Mermaid!Vil #Fantasy AU #Monster Mayhem Vil Part 1.5 #Vil's POV

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fierykitten2 · 10 months ago

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One…

…two…

…three…

…four 7-star raids beaten in one day (in the span of under an hour and a half. I’m not actually sure when I started the Incineroar raid in Scarlet but it was after six o’clock and it was half past seven when I finished the Serperior raid in Violet) which is pretty impressive given there are two games and only one raid event going on (I was not mentally well when the Incineroar raids were active. I’d like to think that’s as good an excuse as doing the Dondozo raids late because I was on holiday)

#incineroar #…the Unrivaled!#serperior #…also the Unrivaled!#pokémon scarlet #pokémon violet #pokémon #clefairy #delphox #yep it’s a jumbo raid update post #I doubt anyone was wondering why I didn’t bring up the Incineroar raids after they ended but it’s bc I was planning on doing them later #all of these I beat on the first try today except the Incineroar raids in Violet #but that’s because I was selected as the one to get taunted the first two times so I had to restart #(both times I had the exact same lineup of teammates (Mudsdale Weavile and Toxapex from left to right) in the exact same places #turns out the Incineroar raids are a lot easier when you take advantage of Incineroar’s Defense buffs with Psych Up #it’s not even that difficult to make the TM #I was planning on doing the Incineroar raids in Violet before doing the Serperior raids in Scarlet #but I didn’t want to keep swapping the game cards around #I nearly ran out of PP on Mystical Fire in Scarlet bc I was instantly targeted by Gastro Acid after using Skill Swap #that wasn’t a problem in Violet bc Slither didn’t realise he could use Gastro Acid until a few turns after Overheat ran out of PP #both the raids in Violet ended in a crit but I don’t think I needed the crit in the Serperior raids #anyway I think Kitsune has made his mother (Ribbon Fox the Unrivaled) proud

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kotonoba · 20 days ago

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You were looking for some requests and i probably have something for you! Beckman x reader comfort. Reader is normally a brave and spirited fighter but during the last battle the red haired pirates had, she witnessed an enemy pirate kill a helpless child and it shook her hard to her core. That she wasnt strong, she wasnt quick, that she was useless. And beckman finds out all this happened when Hongo ran over and said she had suddenly passed out from lack of sleep and it was just really bad. So beckman has to navigate that and comfort her through this. As he is her safe space

Echo Chamber (Beckman/F!Reader)

Summary: After a recent raid, flashbacks of not being able to save a child haunts you.

a/n: I hope I wrote to the degree you wanted, I had to do a lot of research since this is my first time writing for him. Enjoy!

Warning(s): mentions of death, sleep deprivation, comfort, hurt, pushing away help, established relationship, female reader, hallucinations, description of trauma

Posted on AO3

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The pendulum swings backwards. You found yourself collapsed on the road, most taken, the view before you like an attack. Blood stained your hands, normally, it doesn't faze you, but this time, you felt your heart lodge in your throat as a sob choked in your throat. The smell of gunpowder invades your senses, your weakened limbs gently cradle a child gasping for air; a fatal hit to the trachea. Eyes widened with bewilderment, blood gushing out of their mouth as you did your best to stop the bleeding, but it was a clear shot. Fear radiated off the child. If only you were one step faster, you could have deflected the bullet.

If only… You were more useful.

“Hey, the fish is getting away,” you snapped from your trance, following the voice to hear your boyfriend poke fun at the several fish that had hooked on but got away. As he took a closer look, he spotted the dark circles beneath your eyes, “Are you okay, darling?”

Fake it until you make it; that's usually how you deal with your trauma and injuries. You didn't want to worry him, so you said, “I'm alright, just been a bit restless lately, don't worry about it.” You muttered, 'It should pass soon; it's only been three days since the fight.' Your eyes glance past the tall figure in front of you, the crew celebrating over the victory still, but you were hung up on the child who suffocated to death because you were just too weak to protect.

“Dinner is starting, you can fish afterwards,” he left no room to negotiate, pulling your hand as he led you off the spot where you had been planted for hours.

Surrounded by your crew, the idiocy and boisterous atmosphere eased you gently as you sat beside your boyfriend, who kept putting food on your plate. As he nudged you to eat, you glanced down at the medium rare steak, and you felt your stomach churn. The red liquid oozed out as your fork pressed into the tender meat. Flashes of blood on your hands, the child's fearful look, begging you to save them, resurfaced. You felt tears sting your vision as you covered your mouth. Abruptly, you stood up and turned your back to your boyfriend, who noticed the sudden change in demeanor, “Have fun, I'm just a little seasick,” you lied. A weary smile forced its way onto your tired features, the color drained from your face as you glanced one last time at the steak, then your boyfriend, and hurried into your room.

You bent over on the toilet, vomiting what little substance was left in your stomach, a mix of water and gastric acid came up. Burning your throat as you tasted a tinge of metallic liquid lingering on your lips. Tears squeezed past your once brave eyes as you saw droplets of red lingering in the yellow emesis. Your legs shook as you got up from your kneeling position. For a second, everything was okay. As you wiped your mouth of the residual, you saw flashes of red stain your hand. It began pooling with blood, as you recall, trying to patch up a wound that didn't close. You rushed over to the sink, washing your hands desperately, washing the blood you swore you saw stain your calloused hands. You scrubbed beneath the nail beds, between digits, up to your arms, until the skin began to peel from your hands, stinging pain met with hot water; you saw the blood from your wounds and tried to wash it off.

A knock on your door snapped you from your ritual, “Hey, Beckman's worried about you,” Hongo's voice rang. You felt nauseous again. The feeling of being labeled as deadweight gnawed at your sanity. You gritted your teeth as the ship's doctor continued to talk, “Let me take a look, are you not feeling well?”

The knocking continued as you bit the inside of your cheeks, drawing blood out, “I'm okay, I'm just tired,” you lied; your lips trembled as you tasted blood on your lips. “I'm going to bed early, sorry for worrying you all,” you called out, putting on a tough front. You turned off the lights, listening to distant conversations about your health and the shuffling of feet as they moved away from your door. You prayed that sleep would come to you tonight as you lay in bed.

Your heavy lids closed, but you were met with screams and cries for the child's mom and dad. The sound of threats from the enemies telling the kid to shut up, you barely held your own against the enemies. The child was crying out to you for help as you desperately ran for the child, but you were one step too late as the bullet penetrated the trachea and through the back. The child collapsed, blood gushing out of his mouth, with what little breath he had left, the words uttered through pained tears, “I-I don't want to… die.”

Once again, you stood on the field, you glanced around; the crew was doing great. You were just deadweight, a weight that couldn't even save a child. You once again knelt before the child, desperately holding onto the weakening body. You cried for help, but nothing came out of your mouth; you glanced down, and the body melted into blood.

You shot up from your bed, your mind racing as you turned on the lights. The stinging of your ritual burned your hands as you tried to wash the blood that stained your vision.

You decided sleep just wasn't made for you. You grabbed your lance and decided training would help a little more with your uselessness. As you wobbled out of your room like a walking corpse, your mind was preoccupied with the scene of the battlefield. If you had only pivoted to your left, you might have reached the child sooner. If you only twisted your lance a little harder, the enemies would have fallen out of your way. If only you weren’t so useless, the child would still be alive.

“You’re hurt! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Hongo’s voice knocked some sense into you as you glanced up at him, dazed. “Come with me,” he pulls you along to the open air, cleaning your wounds that no longer stung you like before. Your eyes trained on the wounds as they disappeared with each bandage wrapped around them, “I knew you would come out of your room eventually. Were you thinking about training? With these wounds?” He monologues, you let him talk. Hearing him talk distracted you from the screams of the battlefield that haunted your sleep without dreams. “Who am I to stop you from training more? Just remember to rest,” you looked up from your hands. He shrugged at you, “No one listens to the ship doctor until they’re ill, but do remember to rest.”

You nodded. He left you be, bathing in the moonlight, left alone to your demons as your mind echoes with the raging battle. Days felt longer, nights were the longest, you trained alone under the moonlight, your mind playing tricks on you, “you’re not doing it right,” you muttered to yourself as training became brutal, “don’t even think about slacking,” your mind sneered as you felt the tireless nights catching up to you. “You’ll never grow if you ask for help,” your demons cackled in your mind. You didn’t deserve help, you can’t possibly ask someone to listen to your woes.

You avoided your boyfriend, your captain, the doctor, your crew, and even yourself. Mirrors shattered in your bathroom, wounds reopened through the harsh training you put yourself through; meals barely touched as your mind replayed how useless you were on the barren battlefield.

You heard whispers turned malicious, so you stopped attending feasts held by your crew. You stopped answering to your name when your captain called for you, and you disregarded your doctor's pleas to eat. You put on a tough front and smiled at your boyfriend to ease his anxieties, “I’m fine, don’t worry.” That was your mantra, and for a while, they all believed you. For a while, you also thought you were okay.

For a while, it didn’t last long, as you saw the child, blood gushing out of his mouth point at you one day on the ship, “it’s your fault I died,” your breath hitched, tears stung your vision, you tried to run away, but your feet was planted to the ground, your lungs hyperventilated until the air stopped. Your world faded to black with a loud thud on the deck.

You recall hearing the ship’s doctor call for your name, but you couldn’t move, your legs gave up; you recall the doctor urgently calling for the captain’s right-hand man, you remember, for a moment of your time, warm liquid dripping onto your bruised arm. But it could just be your mind playing tricks on you.

You wandered in your dreamscape, in a dark, lonely world, the battle repeating over and over again, “Why are you slacking?” The child asked, blood pooling out of his wound, “You don’t deserve to rest when I died, how does my mother feel?” You gritted your teeth, tears rolled down your face uncontrollably, “Why me and not you?”

You jolted awake with a shake from your side, bewildered eyes searching for an anchor until it rested on your boyfriend, who hovered over your vision, “Why do you shoulder everything yourself?” You studied him closely; his eyes were red, and there were bags beneath his eyes. You reached up to wipe away the tears. He held onto your bandaged hand, placing a kiss to your palm, “It wasn’t your fault, you’re not deadweight to anyone on the crew, especially not me,” your mouth was agape, you weren’t aware you sleep talk, but the only way he knew, “you were sleep talking, and I’m glad you were. You wouldn’t have told me otherwise, would you?”

“I’m sorry, I–”

“No, I’m sorry for not noticing sooner.” his hold on your hand tightened. Watching you sit up, he assisted you to your feet, leaning you against his chest. “You were crying out for help, and I just didn’t notice. I should have paid more attention,” he whispered. His embrace around you tightened, his digits intertwined with yours as he peppered kisses on your forehead. “You did your best; the outcome would have been the same if I were in your shoes.”

You hesitated for a second, listening to him talk, “...you’re just saying that to make me feel better, I know you would have been fine.”

“That’s not true,” he gritted his teeth, “we can’t win them all, at the end of the day, you’re all that matters to me,” his selfishness was a first for you. You felt his heartbeat faster and harder, “I hate to see you so hurt, so please,” he turned your attention to him, “let me share your burden.” He whispered, pressing his forehead against yours lightly, sharing his warmth with your more incredible body, “let me hurt with you, we carry it together. Even if it’s heavy, please.”

Your heart melted at his words, and tears rolled down your face. As much as it’s hard to let someone in, your heart ached more seeing how desperate he was to be there for you. “Alright, I’m sorry for–”

He tilted your head up, and his lips met yours to stop your apologies. For a second, your burden left you alone, and your eyes fluttered closed. After a bit, he pulls back, “stop apologizing, it’s not your fault.” You sighed at that, but he pressed his hand over your lips gently, “if you can’t sleep, then we’ll stay up together. A relationship isn’t just about the ups, it’s also about the downs.” You nodded in his hold as he withdrew his hand from your mouth.

“Do you think it’s true?” You questioned softly, you already knew his answer, but you wanted to hear him say it, “should it have been me and not the child?”

You didn’t have time to react by the time he slammed his forehead against yours, “don’t be stupid, my love.” You covered over your forehead from the sudden collision, “you think it should’ve been you?” He hissed at your question, “I’d rather have you wounded and broken than buried.”

“But you didn’t have to headbutt me!”

“You wouldn’t have listened!” Despite the tough conversation, he lets out a laugh to see you return a little to your old, joyous self, “we carry it together. Even if it’s heavy.” He repeated, and you nodded in response, leaning against his chest.

The days leading up to today seemed to be long behind you; the wound to your heart and mind was destined to heal with your lover by your side. You should have reached out sooner than letting the demons eat at your confidence. The days would get longer as you begin to heal, but at least you had someone to lean on and share with.

“I’ve been forgotten…” Hongo whispered to himself, a blank expression on his face as he stood by the door of the infirmary.

Today, the pendulum swings forward once again.

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I did a lot of research into how to actually describe this & a lot of research went into reading up on his character; I kindly ignored the sentence in the wiki that said, "he is a playboy and loves women." I don't think the girlies need that in this fanfic right now.

#benn beckman #benn beckman x reader #benn beckman x you #benn beckman x female reader #one piece x you #one piece x reader #one piece benn beckman #op x y/n #op x you #op x reader #canon x reader #x reader

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naxalbari1967 · 22 days ago

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Burqas and Bombs: How the U.S. Used Women to Justify War

The U.S. said it went into Afghanistan in 2001 to save women. That was the story they sold to the public. That they were going to stop the Taliban from abusing women, bring freedom, let girls go to school, and give Afghan women rights. It was bullshit. It was a lie wrapped in just enough truth to look like a moral cause. The U.S. didn’t liberate those women. It bombed them. It tore their homes apart. It backed warlords who raped them. It destroyed their country and called it peace. And when it was all said and done, it walked away and left them right where they started. Actually, worse.

Let’s be clear. The Taliban were monsters. No one’s defending them. They banned girls from school. They beat women in the street for showing skin. They executed women in public. But they didn’t fall from the sky. The U.S. helped create the very mess it claimed to clean up. Back in the 80s, during the Cold War, the U.S. was pumping billions into the mujahideen, the holy warriors fighting the Soviets. These weren’t freedom fighters. They were fanatics. Guys like Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, who threw acid in women’s faces, were getting CIA cash and weapons. Why? Because they hated the Soviets. That was enough for Washington. They didn’t care what these men did to women. They only cared about beating communism. Afghanistan was just a chessboard.

Fast forward to 2001. After 9/11, the U.S. wanted revenge. They wanted to hit back, and Afghanistan was the easiest target. They said they were going after al-Qaeda and the Taliban. But to make it palatable to Americans, they threw in the “saving women” angle. They showed pictures of women in burqas and said, “This is what we’re fighting.” Laura Bush got on the radio and talked about dignity and rights. It was a PR move. It was war with a feminist face. But it was still war.

So what did that war actually look like for Afghan women? It looked like bombs dropping on villages. It looked like drone strikes hitting weddings and killing kids. It looked like night raids where U.S. soldiers kicked down doors and dragged people away. It looked like mothers picking body parts out of rubble. It looked like girls going to school one day and coming home to find their house blown up. It looked like rape. Not just by the Taliban. By U.S.-backed warlords and police. By men who were on America’s payroll. The U.S. called it liberation. Afghan women called it hell.

People love to point to the schools that were built. Yes, some girls got to go to school. Especially in cities like Kabul. But the rural areas, where most Afghans live, didn’t see much change. They were still stuck between Taliban terror and corrupt government forces. And even in cities, that so-called progress was fragile. It depended on foreign aid and foreign troops. It wasn’t built to last. The U.S. threw money at NGOs and called it development. But the system was rotten. Warlords and politicians stole most of it. The ones who spoke up—especially women—were silenced, jailed, or killed.

And let’s talk about the people the U.S. propped up. Men like Abdul Rashid Dostum, who was accused of torturing and killing prisoners, raping rivals, and disappearing critics. This guy wasn’t hiding in the shadows. He was vice president at one point. And he was a close ally of the U.S. military. These were the “good guys.” They were just as brutal as the Taliban, just in suits and with American funding. Afghan women were stuck between war criminals and extremists. No matter who was in charge, they were abused.

In detention centers like Bagram, women were locked up without charges. Some were tortured. Some were raped. Their names were forgotten. No justice. No press. No outrage. And when U.S. soldiers or contractors abused Afghan women, the cases were buried. Covered up. Maybe a slap on the wrist, if that. Because the mission wasn’t really about justice. It was about control. About looking good on CNN. About “winning hearts and minds” while destroying lives.

Then came 2021. The withdrawal. After 20 years of occupation, trillions of dollars spent, and hundreds of thousands of lives lost, the U.S. just bailed. Left in the middle of the night. Left Afghan women behind. The same women they claimed to save. The ones who had become judges, journalists, activists, teachers—now they were targets. The Taliban took over in days. And the U.S.? They had no plan. They didn’t evacuate most of the women at risk. They didn’t protect them. They left them to die or flee or vanish. Some tried to cling to planes. Some were beaten in the streets. The U.S. government just shrugged and moved on.

This wasn’t a mistake. This was how empire works. It uses people. It sells stories. It wraps bombs in the language of human rights. And when it’s done, it leaves. Afghanistan was never about Afghan women. It was about power. About revenge. About controlling a region rich in resources and strategically valuable. Women were a cover story. A distraction. A talking point.

Real liberation doesn’t come from foreign troops. It doesn’t come from airstrikes or occupation. It comes from people fighting for their own freedom, on their own terms. And Afghan women were doing that long before the U.S. showed up. They were organizing in secret, running underground schools, resisting both the Taliban and the warlords. The U.S. didn’t help them. It used them. And then it left them in the rubble.

So next time someone talks about “saving women” as a reason to go to war, remember Afghanistan. Remember the lies. The bodies. The silence that came after. And don’t fall for it again.

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anneapocalypse · 11 months ago

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What is "the occult" in FFXIV?

Ever since I first laid eyes on the EE3 bit about Urianger's parents I have been noodling on one thing in particular. Encyclopedia Eorzea volume 3 refers to "the occult" as Urianger's parents' field of study (and the reason they were so absent from his life). Every since that discovery, I have been curious what that actually means. What is "the occult" in a universe where magic is real, measurable, and a highly legitimate and prestigious field of study?

So, where else is "the occult" referenced in the game?

Thanks to this invaluable searchable transcript, I've found a few other references in MSQ.

The first use of the term "occult" in MSQ that I've found is way back in the Gridania starter quests when some Ixali "Occultists" are trying to summon Garuda at the Guardian Tree. In isolation I'd take this one with a grain of salt since it's very early in ARR, but I think it's consistent with other usages. The description for Whorleater Extreme also uses the term, referencing "the occult knowledge of the Ascians," so from the start there is an association of the occult with Ascian magicks and specifically with summoning.

The only other mention in MSQ comes from Alphinaud in Endwalker, where he and Krile are giving us the tour of Sharlayan, and specifically Phenomenon:

Alphinaud: As the center of what would later become the Studium, it was established to promote the study of aetherological phenomena, hence the name. Alphinaud: Though with aether being a fundamental aspect of nature, its scope expanded to include every conceivable facet of life and even the universe itself. Alphinaud: And then, in the four hundred and thirty-second year of the Sixth Astral Era, Phenomenon was decreed complete and the Studium officially opened as a place of learning. Alphinaud: With a long and storied history, it is without question the world's leading authority in aetherology, the arcane, the occult, astromancy, and countless other fields, standing proud as─ Alisaie and Krile: ...Sharlayan's foremost educational institute!

Okay, so "the occult" clearly falls within the general field of aetherological phenomena and magic, though that we could have guessed already. Something that catches my eye is how in more than one place, "occult" is contrasted with or referenced as distinct from "arcane." This is the case in Alphinaud's speech above, as well as in the Blue Mage quest "Everybody Was Fukumen Fighting," wherein Bluehood says, "No occult tricks or arcane incantations can contend with the all-surpassing might of blue wizardry!"

In the Loporrit Allied Society quests, we also get this odd little quest "Hare-Raising Thrills," in which we're asked to make "Occult Paraphernalia" for a Loporrit called Thrillingway. Depending on crafting job, dialogue with Keepingway will elaborate thus:

"It seems he requires a pair of shears─but not just any pair. No, he desires blades sharp enough to carve fur clean off!"

"He wants a sturdy coil of rope suitable for binding all four limbs of…a 'friend,' allegedly."

"Seems he wants a highly acidic gel for some dubious purpose I did not have the heart to inquire about. Honestly, I think it's best if we don't know."

Which. I mean. Okay. lol. Do what you will with that.

But probably most illuminating is the use of the word "occult" in a couple of Red Mage quests, and in the Sky Pirate raid quests.

In "The Weeping City," Cait Sith says, "Thus did the Mhachi magi construct an occult device that would more securely bind the voidsent to their will..."

And in the Red Mage quests "With Heart and Steel" and "Traced in Blood" we have, respectively:

"The tomes with passages pertaining to the voidsent Lilith are all forbidden occult works..."

and

"...the secrets behind Lambard's occult transformation."

In both contexts, "occult" seems to be connected to voidsent, specifically to Lilith in the case of the Red Mage quests.

And this ties back to the references in ARR as well, since from the beginning Ascians have been connected with the Void, even before we knew what the Void actually was. So it's safe to say at this point, I think, that "occult" can refer to magicks connected to the Void and to Ascians.

There's just one more reference I found that flummoxed me a bit, and that's this description of the Arcanist class, which refers to arcanist weapons as "occult grimoires." I found it odd initially because in most other contexts "occult" seems to refer to magicks seen as illicit, as opposed to the socially acceptable "arcane." But it does make a kind of sense, given that it is from Arcanist that we get Summoner. If summoning of primals is occult, then by extension so is summoning in the arcanist sense, even if it's not truly the same thing. This would seem to be the exception to "arcane" and "occult" being distinct categories, which leads me to believe that the distinction is more cultural than ontological.

So I think from the above, we can consider "occult" to be a fairly broad term that may be used in several distinct but overlapping senses:

Magic related to the summoning of primals.

Magic related to the Void, voidsent, and Ascians.

Magic which is taboo, forbidden, or otherwise outside of that which is socially accepted.

As a footnote, I think this is particularly interesting in the context of Urianger being introduced as our resident expert on primals, despite the fact that that's... really not specifically his field of study but merely adjacent to it. Urianger's primary interest is prophecy, and certainly plenty of prophecy seems to reference primals and Ascians and that's where we see him doing a lot of his research, but it's not the same field, merely overlapping.

Without more information we can't know for certain what his parents were actually studying. Maybe they were interested in primals, or Ascians, or the Void. Maybe they were studying Void-related magics. It's also possibly they were simply arcanists particularly interested in the summoner side and we shouldn't read much more than that into the reference to "the occult." Who knows.

But nonetheless, several of these interpretations would mean that in a way, Urianger has followed in their footsteps despite their making apparently little effort to guide him that way, which I find to be an interesting angle to his character and also profoundly sad in its own way--not that he found his own interests in those areas, but that the Augurelts had a child so naturally inclined toward their own interests and still took so little interest in him.

#urianger augurelt #the augurelts #afk by the aetheryte #encyclopedia eorzea #ffxiv stuff #endwalker spoilers #ffxiv meta

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thecreaturecodex · 4 months ago

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Ryujishin-Mushi

[The earthquake beetle, or jishin-mushi, is a Japanese artistic entity that has undergone significant derangement in English sources. For one thing, the name; most English adaptations call it the jinshin-mushi, which means "humanity beetle", not "earthquake beetle". They can be enormous or small, have dragon-like heads or not, and are in general a wide breed, as befits a monster that existed originally more as a bit of iconography than any established narrative. There's even two of them in 90s D&D! This one was called the earthquake beetle in the basic D&D Creature Catalogue, and is colossal and dragon-headed, and the Kara-Tur Monstrous Compendium had a medium-sized, more beetle like jishin-mushi as well. The name I gave this, meaning "dragon earthquake beetle", is a neologism intended to cover if I ever loop around to covering the Kara-Tur version.]

Ryujishin-mushi CR 18 N Magical Beast This titanic monster has the carapace of a beetle, reddish orange above ten black furry legs ending in scything claws. Its neck is long, and ends in a head like that of a horned dragon.

The ryujishin-mushi, or earth dragon beetles, are enormous creatures with features of arthropods and dragons. They are of animal intelligence and are primarily motivated by their appetites. The bulk of their nutritional needs are supported by consuming metal ore and gemstones, but they occasionally come to the surface to gorge themselves on meat before returning to dig in the depths. Only the strongest armies and boldest adventurers have the ability to fight back against these raids—for everyone else, evacuation and rebuilding are their only hope.

A ryujishin-mushi’s body is so dense that its very movement causes the ground to shake. The tremors that come with its burrowing are often the only warning surface dwellers have before the creature is in their midst. Earth dragon beetles focus their attention on the largest and tastiest looking morsels at first, but will fight back if creatures are capable of actually wounding them. They can punch holes in armor and snap weapons in half with their adamant teeth and claws, and often do so. Ryujishin-mushi possess a powerful acidic breath weapon, but they rarely use it unless reduced to below half hit points; melted flesh and oxidized slag is much less appetizing to them.

The reason for the great size and draconic aspect of the ryujishin-mushi is debated by scholars, and none of the proposed explanations are much comfort. One school of thought holds that ryujishin-mushi are dragon-like as a form of Mullerian mimicry; appearing to be a more magically adept creature to intimidate other monstrous hunters of the Darklands. The other hypothesis is that these creatures are descendants of Festering Ulunat, the first of the Spawn of Rovagug. How ryujishin-mushi reproduce is a mystery, and whether they have sex and lay eggs in the deep like normal beasts, or have stranger and more esoteric ways of replication, may shed light on this mystery.

Ryujishin-mushi CR 18 XP 153,600 N Colossal magical beast Init +7; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +30, tremorsense 120 ft. Aura frightful presence (120 ft., Will DC 23)

Defense AC 29, touch 6, flat-footed 25 (-8 size, +3 Dex, +1 dodge, +23 natural) hp 310 (20d10+200); fast healing 10 Fort +22, Ref +15, Will +16 DR 15/magic; Immune acid, fear; SR 29

Offense Speed 60 ft., burrow 40 ft. Melee bite +24 (4d6+12), 4 claws +24 (1d10+12/19-20) Space 30 ft.; Reach 30 ft. Special Attacks adamantine claws, breath weapon (3/day, 120 foot cone, 20d8 acid damage, Ref DC 30), trample (4d10+18, Ref DC 32), tremor step

Statistics Str 34, Dex 17, Con 31, Int 2, Wis 26, Cha 16 Base Atk +20; CMB +40 (+44 sunder); CMD 54 (56 vs. sunder, 70 vs. trip) Feats Combat Reflexes, Critical Focus, Dodge, Greater Sunder, Improved Critical (claw), Improved Initiative, Improved Sunder, Power Attack, Staggering Critical, Stand Still Skills Climb +16, Perception +30

Ecology Environment any land and underground Organization solitary Treasure standard

Special Abilities Adamantine Claws (Ex) The natural weapons of a ryujishin-mushi are treated as adamantine for the purposes of overcoming damage reduction and hardness. Breath Weapon (Su) A ryujishin-mushi can use its breath weapon three times per day, but must wait 1d4 rounds between uses. Tremor Step (Ex) Whenever a ryujin-mushi moves at least half its speed in a turn, all creatures touching the ground in a 100 foot radius treat the area as difficult terrain and must succeed a DC 32 Reflex save or fall prone. The save DC is Strength based.

#ryujishin-mushi #earthquake beetle #basic d&d #dnd #pathfinder 1e #dragon #beetle #chimera #magical beast #yokai #japanese folklore #naming conventions

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fantasy-anatomy-analyst · 9 months ago

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Quetzalin

my bird folk! I do love info dumping about my own creations. Took a while to make all the art and figure out the best way to present the info!

(image description: under the title "quetzalin worldbuilding", there are two bird-like humanoids flying together. One has blue and black feathers, the other has blue, green, and yellow feathers.)

The quetzalin are a tropical people, found exclusively in one rainforest. Almost all of the quetzalin live in the same central location, in a particular stand of trees that are exceptionally large and sturdy.

They are a peculiar people, having traits of both avians and mammals, and they are the only known species of their kind, though there are known cases of quetzalin producing offspring with elves on rare occasions. These mixed offspring are always infertile and typically take after their quetzalin parent in terms of coloration, and might be mistaken for full quetzalin by those who have never met one, but they have distinct differences in the structure of their bodies that make them stand out from full quetzalin.

(image description: sketch of three bipedal humanoids. from left to right; an elf with monkey-like features and a long tail, a half-elf quetzalin who looks quite bird-like and barely resembles the elf, and a full quetzalin who is distinctly more bird-like and even stands with a different posture and foot position compared to the other two. the main differences between the full quetzalin and the half-elf one are that the half-elf one is a little taller, has a smaller beak and more drooping tail, and stands straighter with flat feet. end description.)

One reason that half-elf quetzalin are so uncommon is just that quetzalin are born from eggs, so any quetzalin with an elf parent, especially a mother, may not develop correctly and is more likely to be miscarried or born prematurely. They're meant to develop within the egg, not a whole womb. The shells of their eggs are quite soft and semi translucent, making them fragile things that require round the clock care. Adult quetzalin communally care for unhatched eggs, so they can be incubated properly and have the best chance of hatching. New hatchlings are helpless, naked, and blind, only able to make a loud peeping sound to beg for food, and they are fed via regurgitation, which can be done by any adult.

They grow downy feathers and open their eyes within their first month, but even as they learn to crawl and walk and speak, they remain quite small until they hit a growth spurt in the early years of puberty, between the ages of 10 and 13. Their flight feathers come in through a series of childhood molts and they can fly proficiently by their teenage years, when they begin to experience the courting season hormone shift and start to grow courting plumage or produce eggs.

(image description: two pages of sketches depicting baby bird people. the first page shows the development from egg to hatchling, as well as two sketches of an adult caring for an egg and an adult feeding a hatchling via regurgitation. the second page shows sketches of a hatchling growing into a fledgling. the initial hatchling looks very scrungly and squinty, the second step is a fluffy baby covered in downy feathers with their eyes open, third is a toddler standing up with stubby wings, and finally is a child crouching as if to leap into the air, with their flight feathers grown in. end description.)

Not all eggs hatch, of course. The majority of eggs laid each courting season are completely unfertilized, especially those produced by young quetzalin still going through puberty. These unfertilized eggs are discarded in a variety of ways. Some are offered up at the temple of their deity, and subsequently made into fertilizer for the trees they all live in. Some are used as a form of emergency food for anyone who is suffering a nutrient deficiency. Many are used to feed the local drake population; a species of flying lizard that spits burning acid and raids nests. The quetzalin have sort of been domesticating them, finding them adorable and feeding them freely.

(image description: a colored drawing of a flying lizard with a crested head. its wings bear resemblance to those of a pterodactyl and its tail also has a wide membrane around it. it is green with stripes and spots of pale yellow and dark orange. next to it is the title "crested drake". below the colored drawing is a sketch of a quetzalin handing an egg to a gleeful looking drake with a wide open mouth. end description.)

Quetzalin are a sexually dimorphic species, but the difference is only clear during their courting season. Half the year, all the male quetzalin grow fancy courting plumage. Some females experiencing menopause also grow similar plumage. Individually, all quetzalin have their own unique coloration, and those who grow courting plumage also have their own unique styles. but for the sake of comparison, I've depicted two quetzalin that look exactly alike so I can show how the courting plumage works.

(image description: two images of matching bird folk with blue and yellow plumage. in the second image, one of them is now sporting many curled orange feathers on their head, wings, and tail, while some of their yellow feathers have also been replaced with orange ones. end description.)

Though they do have a binary form of biological sex, the quetzalin do not identify themselves by their sex. instead, they use genderless pronouns, differing between children and adults, and add a prefix to the adult pronoun to denote their preferred courting role each year.

There are three standard courting roles. Those who Dance, Those who Watch, and Those who Mix. I haven't developed their conlang yet, but these roles will have their own titles. It is most common for Dancers to be males with their courting plumage, while females are most commonly the Watchers. But this is not always the case. Many quetzalin males prefer to watch, many females prefer to dance, and quetzalin of all sorts will take the mixed role, never settling fully on dance or observation.

(image description: digital painting of several bird folks. two in the foreground are perched on large branches, watching three others fly around in the background. they all have colorful and unique plumage. A few of them have flashy courting feathers on display, while others are using flashy props like streamers instead of natural courting feathers. end description.)

(this post got so very long, putting a readmore here)

The role of a Dancer is to show off and be flashy, performing aerial tricks to catch the attention of potential mates. Dancers who don't have natural courting plumage make up for it with flashy props and extra accessories. Dancers avoid each other in the air, as collisions are a common cause of injury to both parties and a detriment to their performances. But they will compete with each other by having dance offs, and many dancers actually flirt with each through paired dances.

(image description: colored drawing of a quetzalin with red and yellow feathers, as well as some darker blue striping. they have a few showy courting feathers on their head and the edges of their wings. they are wearing colored paint on their face and limbs, and wearing a lot of jewelry. end description.)

The role of a Watcher is to perch around the dance arenas and observe the dancers, while also trying to catch the attention of the best and prettiest dancers. They might heckle the dancers, use props or courting plumage to catch the eye of a favored dancer, and compete with each other to gain the best perches and keep their competition away to have a better chance of gaining attention. They may even flirt with each other, bantering playfully.

(image description: colored drawing of a quetzalin with brown and white feathers, striped on the lighter underside of their wings and torso. they are wearing simple dark red accessories and a patterned red and cream skirt, as well as red and cream face paint. they're sitting casually and making a beckoning gesture with one hand, which has a bell tied to the forefinger. end description.)

The mixed role is versatile. It may be someone hiding amongst the watchers, suddenly turning their perch into a dance stage and drawing attention away from the arena. It may be a dancer swooping close to the audience and finding someone to banter with as they hover in place, blocking the view of the arena. They are clever, and flexible, using any means available to them to gain the attention they desire.

(image description: colored drawing of a quetzalin with blue and grey feathers, with their back turned to the viewer. they are wearing purple and white clothing and accessories, including streamers tied to their legs. end description.)

Casual hookups are the most common result of all the courtship performances. Quetzalin find a mate in the arenas and fly off together to have their own private fun. There are also indoor arenas where adult quetzalin hook up in less private ways, performing more explicitly sexual dances and enjoying the voyeurism.

Younger quetzalin going through puberty and experiencing the courting instincts for the first time are kept out of these venues, encouraged to perform only in the public arenas while they are carefully instructed in standard courting etiquette and informed of all the health risks that come with casual hookups.

Young egg layers in particular are at risk as their hormones might spike from sexual interaction and cause problems like excessive egg production, which drains a lot of nutrients and energy from the body. They may also produce malformed eggs, some of which could get stuck. Fully grown quetzalin are less likely to have these problems.

Most long term relationships are built outside of the courting season, established through emotional bonding and platonic intimacy all through the year. Quetzalin who bond in this way may choose to become permanent partners and seal their bond through a ceremony performed in the temple of their deity. Bonded partners often get matching forearm tattoos, depicting intertwined tree branches. They believe these deeper relationships are blessed by their deity, and that they help keep the community strong in the same way that the tangled branches of their sacred trees strengthen their home territory and keep it safe.

Communal preening is one very important form of social bonding, done between friends, family members, and lovers alike. Every quetzalin home has a preening space, and public preening spas are everywhere in their territory. They do have special rules for who can preen which body parts. Young children are preened fully by their caretakers. Casual strangers and acquaintances may preen each other's wings. Close friends and family can preen the feathers of the head. But only lovers and bonded partners can preen each other's whole torso, back, and tail.

(image description: sketches of quetzalin engaging in preening behaviors with each other. on the top, one quetzalin runs their beak gently through the feather on their partner's head, next to the caption "preening with beak = very close relationship. below, one quetzalin uses their hands to preen the feathers of another person's wings, next to the caption "preening with hands = standard politeness". end description.)

For the most part, the quetzalin are an isolated people. In recent generations, they have begun to venture into the world, using their own molted feathers as a major export, but locally they only interact with two groups: elves and centaurs. The elves are their main trade partners, exchanging goods and offering services to each other. The quetzalin mainly consume fish, insects, and other small creatures, though they can eat fruit and nuts as well. Their home trees grow more food than they need for themselves, and they are masterful fishers, so they often trade away food in exchange for things like elf-made cloth and jewelry. They also deal with the drakes that elves consider pests, because they like to raid the coops of domestic birds.

The centaurs are an interesting case. This is a population of centaurs who fled southward when the conflict between their people and the orcish ancestors escalated to war. They are quite at home in the rainforest, being very large herbivores who consume a mixture of leaves and fruit. They have developed a special bond with the quetzalin, allowing the small bird folk to harvest any external parasite or biting insect that find centaur blood to be a tasty meal. The quetzalin appreciate the centaurs' ability to deter predator animals and aid in the care of their home trees. Quetzalin eggs have also become a useful protein source for the centaurs, who do require some level of non-plant food to sustain themselves. This may be the only known case of centaurs openly bonding with a whole population of other people, even crossing the line into a potential symbiotic relationship. It is a very unique situation. For now.

(image description: sketches of a sloth-like ogre, an orc, and a centaur standing together. Both images have a connected caption that reads "bird folk will see megafauna folk and ask 'is anyone gonna perch on that?' and not even wait for an answer." and in the second image, all three of the larger people now have quetzalin perched on their shoulders or backs. end description.)

The quetzalin people believe in just one deity, Ithia. They are a parental deity, depicted as a living tree which crafted the quetzalin out of wood and feathers, beginning only with pairs of solid singular colors. As time went on, of course, the children of each one-color pair mated with each other and gradually mixed their colors more and more with each generation, creating the unique varieties of color and patterns in modern quetzalin. Ithia is believed to have gone dormant after creating the quetzalin, sleeping beneath the earth and giving them their home trees which are sturdy enough to protect them from the region's seasonal storms. In thanks to Ithia and to help maintain the sacred trees, quetzalin offer up their excess eggs for fertilizer and burn molted feathers as well. Every home has a private shrine for Itihia where offerings of food, incense, and trinkets are left in the hopes that Ithia will answer their prayers and grant them aid. More important prayers are given at the temple of Ithia, where various ceremonies are also performed. This includes the bonding ceremony for committed partners, a coming of age ceremony where young quetzalin offer their first eggs or courting feathers, and community prayers pleading for safety whenever the storms come through or other major troubles strike their community.

The quetzalin also have a culture of secret, sacred names. When a quetzalin comes of age, they are to think of their own secret name; a private title for themself which embodies their soul. They perform a private ceremony to give their name to Ithia and the priests, and if they choose to have a bonded partner (or multiple bonded partners) then their secret name may also be used in the bonding ceremony.

"Quetzalin" is itself a public name, while the people actually have another secret name only known to themselves. They learn it when they come of age. No outsiders are told the true name of the quetzalin people. Ithia is also said to have another name, only known to the priests. The quetzalin believe that having a secret name protects their souls. If they die without this name, their soul may be lost and disappear. But with this name, they believe they can make it to the afterlife properly and rest.

The names given to hatchlings are not secret, but they also have a spiritual intention. It is believed that any egg named too early will not hatch, and so they are only named when it is certain that they will survive. As a result, they're usually given names on the day they hatch, to be extra safe. Unhatched eggs are a common occurence, and they are also offered up to Ithia, who will take the lifeless embryos into the earth and give their undeveloped souls another chance.

And now for the truth behind all of these details:

Ithia is no myth. It's just a mispronunciation. The quetzalin cannot pronounce bilabial sounds without great effort, such as M, B, P, F, and V. Ithia's true name is Vivian. Vivian was once a mortal human, and could by modern standards be considered afrolatina. She lived at the peak right before humanity began to fall and go extinct. She studied genetics and evolution and mutations. She was granted the role of an immortal Life entity, one of the last humans to gain this position, one of the only humans to take it while being a highly educated scientist. Vivian was ambitious. She saw the fall of humanity, and she wanted to preserve her people. She aided in tweaking the genetics of the only other hominid species, the dwarves, to ensure that humans could leave some legacy behind through mixed offspring. Then took things a step further and tweaked the genetics of the elves for the same purpose, which was more difficult because elves are primates but not hominids. It worked, though, and this success fueled Vivian's ambitions.

(image description: digital painting of a humanoid woman with brown skin. She has gained extra eyes and has four skeletal arms instead of two living ones. Her hair has been replaced by leaves and flowers. Instead of legs, she only has a skirt of leaves. There are wrinkles on her face, showing her age. Between one pair of hands, she is holding a depiction of the DNA helix. end description.)

She met Death. They were stricken by her passion and they became lovers for a time, though their personalities clashed and they often fought. It was a turbulent relationship. Vivian took advantage of the connection to learn how the afterlife worked, discovering that it was also the source of new souls. When dead souls dissipate, the essence of the creature they once were is sent through the flow of ambient natural magic and latches onto new life as it forms in the womb, creating a soul that matches the creature. Life entities can capture and manipulate this essence a little, influencing the path of evolution. The essence of extinct species is archived in the afterlife, but cannot form a new soul of its type while the species remains extinct.

Vivian decided to extend human kind by crafting a new type of human with their soul essence. Her concept was a little over the top. Humans with wings. But she was determined to go beyond the logical and more reasonable route of making the arms into membranous wings. No, she wanted something more. She wanted to create a people that were truly unique, only possible by the use of her powers now that she was an immortal being. Something mortal science could never have achieved. So she crafted the quetzalin.

(image description: a series of sketches showing the development of the quetzalin as humanoid bird folk. it begins with a more typically human figure that has a pair of feathered wings attached to the back. next, a similar figure but now with a larger wing shoulder making them hunch over and a short tail at the base of their spine. the second image shows the addition of elf genetics followed by a shrinking of the body size and the addition of more bird like features, all of which makes the tail longer and the feet more grabby. the final image shows the quetzalin as they are, with longer tails held more parallel to the ground, raised heels to give them a bent leg posture, a smaller body plan, and much more bird like visual traits. end description.)

It took many attempts. Much to her frustration, Vivian found that she could not make humans with feathered wings that were fully capable of flight without greatly altering their DNA and body shape. She was too ambitious to give up, cobbling together bits and pieces from other creatures. Elf genetics, dinosaur traits, more bird biology, on and on until at last she had the quetzalin. She recycled the souls of her creations by her own power, bypassing the afterlife and disrupting the natural order of things.

(image description: sketches comparing the body shapes of a velociraptor, human, and quetzalin, with the quetzalin in the middle. end description.)

This caused the biggest and final clash between her and Death, and they never spoke again. But Vivian had achieved her goal, even if the end result was much different than her original plan. She rested, going dormant beneath the trees and gradually letting go of the last remnants of her energy to strengthen them and keep her creation safe.

Life entities are not eternal. They cannot be killed or die of natural causes, but they are not eternal. They eventually run out of the power given to them, and their souls dissipate into the ambient magic of the world. Vivian is gone now, though the quetzalin still worship the idea of her. Their knowledge of her has been lost little by little, changing a bit with each generation. This is the origin of most deities in the world. Some grain of truth, some memory of a real Life entity that favored a particular species but eventually faded away, leaving them in the hands of a successor or leaving them on their own.

Death mourned the day they felt Vivian's soul vanish.

And as for the secret name of the quetzalin, it too is a mispronunciation. They know themselves as the Onaxelu. But the name Vivian gave them, the name that embodied their true origin and purpose, was Homo Angelus.

#my designs #fantasy anatomy #worldbuilding #winged humanoid #quetzalin #memento morianon

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