#surrealism beyond borders

[diana-andraste]

Untitled series, Cecilia Porras and Enrique Grau, 1958 from Surrealism Beyond Borders Exhibition

[konigbabe]

pearls before swine

DAY 6 ⇢ Monster-fucking Pairing: kitsune!Satoru Gojo x fem!reader Word count: 2.7k Tags/warnings: no y/n; smut; public sex; p-in-v; exhibitionism; dirty talk; hints of praise kink; manhandling; Gojo has a tale (nine of them altogether) and fangs; mention of blood/bleeding; Japanese mythology and folklore Summary: Visiting the Shinto shrine – somehow – leads to you getting wrecked by a mischievous trickster fox on an open balcony and with no shame. [Part of NSFW Gojo Week 2023]. Divider is mine. Art credit goes to 月刺啾 (@/x2MciyELLRZRhg1) on Twitter [source].

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kitsune 狐 /kɪtˈsuː.neɪ/ noun; a Japanese fox spirit capable of shapeshifting into human form and are known to be cunning and playful, mysterious and malevolent.

You've heard the stories. Read about them. Creatures that use their shape-shifting abilities to take on human form and fool people into doing whatever they want. Tricking their prey into surrendering their deepest emotions and desires – the very essence of life itself.

In the midst of the Azalea festival, when the flowers are in full bloom – teal, lilac, and violet hues painting a pastoral picture – it's hard to find a quiet place. Especially near the main sanctuary of the Shinto shrine. Moving near the offering hall, that was when you first spotted him, towering over everyone.

He was standing beside a fox statue, arm draping over the sculpture's head, fingers as slender and agile as a ballet dancer's tracing the contours of the fox's snout. Your senses felt as though they were playing tricks on you as you watched his eyes – so pale they seemed to shimmer like a frozen lake, its lightness bordering on translucence – glide across the courtyard until they reached your kimono-clad body.

But it wasn't his demeanor – dismissive and blasé, laced with a hint of curiosity – that rendered you speechless. No. Rather, it was his appearance – a fusion of the human and the surreal. Japanese have a word for that: ‘yūgen'.

A shock of silver hair framed his face, its strands made of liquid mercury, catching the faint light of the morning sun. Yet, what truly seized your gaze were the symbols on his face – three sapphire tear-shaped drops gracing the lower edges of his almond-shaped eyes, a matching azure line tracing his waterline, gently extending beyond the corners of his eyes. Two cobalt dots adorned each corner of his upturned mouth, while another trio of sapphire lines adorned his forehead, with the middle one flowing onto the bridge of his sharp nose – reminiscent of the wind's delicate patterns. His skin porcelain-smooth and pale, accentuating the ethereal quality of his appearance.

And for some inexplicable reason, you appeared to be the only one capable of seeing him – it. Coming to a halt beneath the torii gate, he turned his head slightly, a strand of silvery hair cascading down over his left eye. The world around you seemed to hush, a stillness setting in; time itself stilling when his eyes locked onto yours from afar, leaving your lips parted in both awe and intrigue.

"You look so pretty," he murmurs, lips gliding over your neck, "when you're at my mercy."

The sharp sting of his fangs gliding under your ear, tracing the probing vein, causes goosebumps to form and travel along the spines of your arms and legs. You feel the warm hiss of his breath, the hot roughness of his tongue against your neck. Toes curling, feet dirty from the ground as the fox pounds into you. Hands gripping the wooden railing of the small balcony that overlooks a pond with koi fish swimming peacefully in.

You're not sure if someone has seen you yet. Seen the lewd image of getting fucked by someone – something – not entirely humane.

The sharp edges of his claws dig into your hips, kimono long discarded on the floor. Naked body swaying in the rhythm to the sharp thrusts. Softness melting into hardness. Satoru – his name echoed in your mind when his hand first touched your skin; as if you were already familiar with the fox – pulls you back to meet his hips, bare body dressed only in his haori, the same sapphire shade as his eyes, draped over his shoulders, arms hidden underneath the silken jacket.

Each stroke of his cock massages your walls, spreading apart the tender flesh between your legs. The ridge of his head presses up against that sweet spot deep inside you. Your thighs press together so you can feel it again. Little sparks of pleasure shoot through your body, making you moan as he brushes over everything that feels good.

"Huh–," his nails, razor-sharp and dangerous, rake over your abdomen. The palm presses flat against the contour of your tummy – hard – as if he's trying to feel how the tip of his cock bruises the opening of your cervix with each thrust. "Eeaasy now," his voice silky smooth just like his skin, "shush, we don't want anyone seeing you like this, right?"

A particularly loud moan emanates from your chest; his words drawn out by the pleasure surging through your veins. Mind feeling too good to be inhibited by anything else.

"Or do you want your friends to see you getting fucked by the devil like me," Satoru's tone lingers in the back of your head. The hand on your abdomen moving downward, toying with your clit. Rubbing circles before pressing against its sides.

You can feel him smile against your neck as he continues to thrust deep into you, each movement harder and faster than the last. His claws dig into your hips, biting into the skin there in a way that's both abrasive and soothing.

"I can't," the breath rushes out of you, leaving your head spinning and the earth swimming as Satoru pulls back to watch you clutch the railing. You're sure you're going to collapse at any moment, but you can feel him watching as your knuckles grind into the wood. Until he’s leaning in again, lips exploring your shoudlerblades,, "I can't–Satoru–hngh."

He's warm. The skin of his chest presses flat against your arching back.He turns his hips into you; the pressure mounts at your core, building up to a burning coil. Lewd sounds of skin slapping skin heating up your cheeks, burning your ears as shame tickles at the edges of your mind.

It's blaring. Flashy.

Loud.

"Hehe," he chuckles against your shoulder and you feel his teeth sink into the flesh there, careful not to puncture the delicate skin, "what pretty sounds we make."

And for a moment, you allow yourself to drown. To have the fox ravage you. Cock thrusting deep inside and with each withdrawal, your slickness sloshing out of you. Messy and wet. Coating your thighs in it. And yet it urges Satoru to go harder. Deeper.

Leaning over your body, his hands press along your ribcage before coming to rest on the tops of your shoulders. The weight of him feels like it's anchoring you in place – even though all he’s doing is encircling you with his arms and keeping no distance between your two bodies.

Thick white lashes that frame his eyes hide his true feelings while the half-smile playing on his lips remains unchanged.

His thumbs make tiny circles beneath your breasts, brushing across their undersides. A whimper escapes your lips when he pulls away, pulls out. The sudden emptiness prompting a muffled sound from the back of your throat – which earns you a playful slap on the curve of your ass.

"You're very loud, you know that?"

Satoru turns you around, hands remaining on your ribcage as he lifts you up effortlessly. Legs reflectively wrapping around his narrow hips, feeling his hipbones dig into the fat of your thighs. His presence suffocating the air from your lungs with a humid heat.

Your arms strain as you grip the railing behind you, body in the air while Satoru's arm supports your back, the other hand gripping his slick cock.

"It's not–agh," he pats your aching nub before gliding the tip over your slit, collecting the leaking wetness, "not like that."

He grins at you, eyes staring into yours with twinkles of mischief – or lust? – while smearing prespend over your swollen, empty hole.

"So you're not enjoying this," bending over you, kisses your nerves awake, his cheek nudges your head to the side so his lips can nibble at the taut skin of your jawline. And your eyes widen in shock.

People. More than a dozen people walking towards the chōzuya, a water well adjacent to the worship hall right next to the small sightseeing open building on which's balcony you're currently are in. Naked, legs wrapped around a kitsune, body completely exposed.

Just one look to the left is all anyone needs to do.

"Your body's burning," Satoru's breath scorches your ear. His cock, hard and pulsing, teases your entrance until it aches sweetly, "heh��want me to stop, pretty?"

"Ngh–" you shake your head, "don't stop."

"Good, now–," his lips graze yours the moment he slides the tip of his cock inside. Chest rambling with a sound distinctively similar to purring, "be a good girl and let me fuck you."

With that, he snaps his hips until he's buried inside of your cunt, filling you to the brink. Lowering his mouth to your skin, his fangs once again graze your shoulder blade; move alongside your clavicles until he reaches your sternum. Every deep exhale through his nose leaves an imprint on your flesh. It makes you feel like you're burning. Hot coals pressed against your skin.

His hands grip your ass. Kneading the flesh as he sets a relentless pace. Sinking deep inside with each drive of his hips.

Pushing yourself off the railing, you carefully swing your arms over his shoulders. Chest flush against his, you moan when your sensitive nipples graze the hard muscle of his torso.

"Ahh, Satoru–," your face buries in the mop of his hair when you feel his lips encircle your nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue over the mound as he drives his cock in and out of your cunt; so slick and dripping that you feel almost no friction altogether, "feels so good."

His teeth nip at the soft meat of your breast, nipple glossy with saliva as he moves his attention to the other one. You feel it then – or maybe it's been there the whole time – a brush against your thigh; initially thinking it to be his hand. Only they both lay flat against your ass. It's soft. Thick. Bushy. And it wasn't there before, yet it moves around you, slithers until it rests along the length of your thigh.

"You're taking me so well, pretty," his pelvis rubs your clit each time he bottoms out, moving you to sit on the old, creaky wooden railing, allowing his heads to roam your body – which he takes full advantage of – and only tightening the band inside your abdomen, "makes me not wanna feed."

His words fly over your head. Mind fuzzy and empty. Instead, you gasp for breath, the need for air becoming desperate as you clutch onto Satoru, whose relentless thrusts show no signs of faltering.

Toes twitching, your legs tremble around his hips. Moan after moan escaping your throat as your hips grind against his, a pathetic attempt to meet his harsh thrust and grind on his pelvis – to feel at least a tiny slither of pressure against your swollen bud – to which Satoru takes notice. Hand moving to your hip, he squeezes the flesh before moving his thumb over your clit, toying with it.

You feel another bushy tail slither onto your other thigh; it makes your eyes open. That's when you finally take notice of his full nature. He doesn't have actual tails. Instead, something vaguely resembling tails slithers from behind his back. Translucent with blueish hue. You're capable of seeing through them all. The same hue radiates from his skin, from the patterns decorating his face–

Satoru's lips continue their assault on your nipples as curiosity floods your veins.

–it's almost like small clouds taking shape, flying over his body. It's –

"Beautiful," you whimper, feeling him stir underneath your palms. The fox looks up, hips stilling with his full cock warm inside you.

"What did you say," he asks. Eyes leaving the image before you, you cup his face with one hand, locking your gaze onto his – fire meeting ice.

"I said that you're beautiful," your lips trace his nose, the tear-shaped drops underneath his eyes. The dot on the corner of his lips before grazing the soft plumpness of his mouth. It sends tingles through you. A jolt. As if you were touching a sacred artifact, fingers cautiously exploring every curve and contour of his face left behind.

Satoru's breath catches, and he closes his eyes, allowing your exploration to continue for a while.

"Hah," his lips catch yours, an arm sneaking around your middle to bring you closer, the thumb on your clit rubbing and flicking against the nerve, making you whimper into his mouth, "you're the pretty one," he mumbles against your mouth.

Slowly moving his hips back, you feel every ridge and contour of his cock against your insides until only the head remains locked in. Then he snaps. Pushes forward with a newfound fervor.

Satoru's tongue flicks over yours. Sweetness tinges your senses. Like ripe berries on a warm summer day.

"The tasty one," he pulls away, forehead resting against yours as he feels your cunt flutter.

The tension inside your abdomen grows. Coiling around your insides like a tautly wound spring, ready to snap at any moment. Every deliberate movement from him tightens the invisible band.

With each flick of his thumb, your breath hitches, body quivers in response, cunt tightening around him. Each stroke of his cock. Sharp tongue tracing a searing path over your fevered skin, igniting your senses with each pass. Satoru's focus shifts – from your jaw to your neck, to your sternum, leaving no inch untouched by his maddening touch.

His hand squeezes the pliant flesh of your ass, giving it a gentle slap every once in a while when his cock brushes your cervix. You plead for release, voice a breathless whisper against his mouth. His response a flicker of dominance, fingers teasing your clit, pushing you closer to the edge.

"Satoru–mmph–so close," your lips seal over his marking, eyes squeezing shut to contain the overwhelming sensations, "m'gonna cum."

"Then cum," he encourages, his voice a seductive purr as he flicks your swollen clit, "wanna see the face you make, pretty."

The tension reaches its breaking point with the roll of his tongue over your lower lip. The invisible band stretched to its limit. Every sensation, every touch, and every word weaves together into a pool of desire. Making you teeter on the edge, held captive by his electrifying presence, until finally, with one last snap, the tension shatters like glass. The band snaps.

"Ah, Satoru–"

"Ugh–there we go," pain mixes with pleasure. Fangs sinking into your shoulder, his claws dig into the meat on your hips. It stings when your skin is raptured. Crimson beads trail down towards his pivoting hips, fucking you through the orgasm. Through the overwhelming pleasure. Through your body spasming, cunt contracting against his cock.

He doesn't stop.

Not until the world fades away.

(Guess you should have seen that coming. What is the saying? Never trust a fox.)

"Hey, c'mon. Wake up."

You sense hands on your shoulders, shaking you vigorously. As you reluctantly open your eyes, a familiar face hovers above you, bathed in a soft, afternoon light, accompanied by a group of others. Your friend gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, grounding you as you blink away the remnants of slumber.

Oh no.

Hastily lowering your gaze, relief washes over you when you realise you're fully dressed. But if you're fully dressed…

"What happened?" you croak, voice tinged with confusion, the world still hazy around the edges.

Nothing seems to add up right now.

"You tell me," your friend grins, their features coming into sharper focus as the surrounding crowd gradually dissolves. "You told me you were gonna buy some shinsen for the offering hall but you disappeared. An employee found you here," you scan your surroundings, recognizing the familiar balcony in front of you, "sleeping on a bench. Completely passed out. Out of it. She couldn't even wake you up."

Sleeping on a bench.

"Sorry," you mutter, fingers instinctively rubbing your eyes, senses now fully awakened.

Was it all a dream? "Guess I got tired."

It couldn't be a dream. Not when you push yourself to stand up and feel the strain in your legs. Stickiness. Slickness between your thighs.

"What's that?" your friend points towards your clenched fist. Opening your hand, palm up, both of you gaze at a small, iridescent bead with barely discernible sapphire swirls dancing across its smooth surface.

"Don't know."

"Looks like a fox's pearl. They sell those at the charm shop," your friend nods their head towards a nearby charm shop before both of you start walking. Time to go home.

[latinasforace]

Crimson Petals in the Night ( Giyuu x Blood Hashira F! Reader )

n/a: hiii i’m starting a new series!!! hope you all r interested. This is just the introduction but I will have the first chapter ready by tmr (hopefully…)

:3 enjoy!

reader is female coded!!!! & the blood hashira. Abilities will be explained later on. oh and i’m hsing she/they for reader.

& pls keep in mind, this is taking place 2 YEARS BEFORE CANON EVENTS. so 2 years before tanjiro’s family was attacked & nezuko turned.

INTRO CHAPTER

The moon hung low in the night sky, its silver light spilling over the quiet garden like a gentle kiss from the heavens. The world was draped in a cloak of darkness, with only the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional song of a nightingale breaking the stillness.

The garden, though dirty and wild with untamed plants and broke pottery, abandoned, held a certain charm���a promise of what it could be with tender care, bathed in the soft glow of the full moon, feeling like a hidden relic from a time long forgotten. The silence is almost palpable, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves as the night wind weaves through the dense, overgrown foliage.

A small, arched bridge stretches across a narrow stream, its wooden planks creaking faintly under the weight of time and neglect. The water below glistens with a silvery sheen, reflecting the moonlight like scattered pearls on a dark canvas.

At the far end of the garden stands a small shed, its wooden walls weathered and darkened by years of exposure. Vines snake up its sides, clinging to the structure like nature’s determined attempt to reclaim what was once hers.

The shed’s roof, once a testament to craftsmanship, now sags slightly, covered in moss and creeping ivy. It blends seamlessly into the surroundings, as if it has always been a part of the garden’s quiet, melancholic beauty.

The flowers, though still vibrant in their hues, grow haphazardly among thick clusters of weeds and vines. Their petals catch the moonlight, giving the garden an otherworldly, almost surreal quality. It’s a place that feels both real and imagined, where the boundaries between the physical and the fantastical blur.

The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint sweetness of blooming flowers, creating a heady mix that lingers with each breath.

In the heart of this quiet abandoned sanctuary, a young woman knelt, her delicate hands cradling a handful of seeds. Wearing a kimono of the finest silk, with a contrast of deep black, adorned with intricate red flowers that seemed to bloom across the fabric like a garden at midnight. Her hair caught the moon’s light, making her appear ethereal—like a spirit of the night, come to bless the earth with new life.

She pressed the seeds gently into the soil, her touch careful, as if she were whispering secrets to the earth. There was a calmness in her actions, a peace that belied the danger lurking in the shadows beyond the garden’s borders.

But peace was not meant to last.

“Why are you out so late at night?”

The voice was stern, edged with authority, cutting through the tranquility like a blade. The young woman did not startle; instead, she looked up slowly, her eyes meeting those of the man who had spoken. He stood at the edge of the garden, his form partially obscured by the shadows, yet the intensity of his gaze was unmistakable. The man wore the attire of a Demon Slayer, his half patterned haori billowing slightly in the breeze, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

The figure in the kimono tilted their head slightly, a confused expectation reflected on their face. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

His eyes narrowed, clearly unamused by the casual response. “There are demons out at this hour—deadly ones. You’re bound to get eaten, standing here so vulnerable.”

��Is that so?” The figure’s voice was soft, yet there was a teasing edge to it that suggested they found his warning more amusing than frightening. “And here I thought the night was for everyone to enjoy.”

He stepped closer, the moonlight revealing the sharp lines of his face and those b. “This isn’t a game. If you stay, you’ll get yourself killed.”

There was a brief pause, and then the figure let out a soft, almost mocking laugh. “Oh, I see… You’re worried about me.” She leaned forward slightly, the red flowers on her black kimono catching the light as they did. “Do you make a habit of rescuing strangers, or am I just special?”

He didn’t answer right away, taken aback by the unexpected response. There was something unsettling about how calm they were—how unafraid. He had expected fear, or at least concern, but instead, they seemed to be toying with him, as if the danger he spoke of was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

“You should leave,” he said, voice hardening as he tried to regain control of the situation. “Now.”

The figure regarded him with a knowing smile, their eyes glinting with something that almost resembled mischief. “Perhaps I will,” she replied, her tone light and unhurried. “Or perhaps I’ll stay a little longer… The night is still young, after all.”

For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. He was used to dealing with fear, with people who needed protection—but this young lady, with this mysterious aura and defiant calmness, was something else entirely. A puzzle he wasn’t sure how to solve.

Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving the figure alone in the garden. Despite his warning, she felt no fear—only the quiet satisfaction of having stood her ground.

As she continued her work, a faint glint of metal caught the moonlight, hidden among the gardening tools and materials by her side. A closer look would have revealed a deep crimson blade, its hilt wrapped in black and red, with a guard shaped like a blooming rose. But the swordsman, now long gone, hadn’t noticed—his attention too focused on the mystery of the woman herself than to notice the subtle hint of her true identity as a slayer.

She watched him disappear into the shadows, her smile lingering as she resumed their task, planting seeds in the dark earth with the same deliberate care as before.

The night air was cool and still, but the tension left behind from their exchange hung in the air, like the scent of something yet to bloom.

To be continued…

[feyreslover]

Ours? Ours. A Feysand oneshot ೃ⁀➷

Summary:

Feyre and Rhys take a step in their relationship.

Rating; G

Read on Ao3

As the keys jangled in her hand, a wave of surrealism washed over Feyre, grounding her in the weight of the reality before her.

The wooden door stood before her, a work of art with its intricate floral carvings etched deep into the panels, each petal and vine painstakingly detailed. It was framed by smooth, white columns that seemed almost regal, their surfaces interrupted by the elegant spread of wisteria vines. The tendrils clung tightly to the stone, spiralling upward like nature's delicate lace. The leaves, a mix of vibrant emerald and soft jade, sprawled in unpredictable patterns, while cascades of lavender blooms hung in thick bunches, their fragrance lightly perfuming the air.

Standing on the top step of the townhouse, Feyre felt the once-bustling city behind her recede into a distant hum, the noise melting into an almost reverent hush. The sight of the house—their house—left her breathless.

This house was hers. Truly hers.

She could still feel the weight of the pen pressing against the page, her hand steady as she signed the ownership documents. Her signature, its graceful curves spilling slightly beyond the borders of the box, was the physical mark of her ownership—a symbol no one could take from her. In that moment, the reality of it all settled deep in her bones.

A familiar warmth brushed against her side as an arm slid around her back, his hand gently resting at her waist. Feyre turned to find herself gazing into her husband's almost-violet eyes, those eyes she had once described as a galaxy of constellations, endless and captivating. They held her steady, pulling her into their quiet gravity.

Smiling slightly, feyre leaned into his firm, yet inviting, frame. Placing her head on his shoulder, she turned back to look at the house, bathing herself in their comfortable silence. There were no words, Feyre realised, that could fully capture the magnitude of what she felt. Or what she imagined he was feeling too.

In the stillness, they simply stood there, basking in the quiet knowledge that this moment was theirs.

***

Opening the apartment door, Feyre was met with resistance, the familiar creak and scrape of clutter pressing against the frame. With a frustrated sigh, she braced herself, pushing harder until there was just enough room to squeeze through, her work bag catching slightly on the edge as she slipped inside.

As she cleared the doorway, her eyes immediately landed on the culprit: a haphazard pile of boxes and discarded shoes, remnants of their last frantic attempt to tidy up. It had barely been a week since they'd promised to get more organised, but here it was again—the mess, creeping back into their space like an unwanted guest.

The apartment, small and cramped, felt suffocating. The once-cosy atmosphere of mismatched furniture and overstuffed bookshelves now felt claustrophobic. Every corner was crammed with something: old textbooks, half-packed boxes, laundry that never seemed to make it into the hamper. She weaved through the clutter, narrowly avoiding tripping over a stack of magazines that had toppled onto the floor.

Feyre’s chest tightened as she dropped her bag onto the worn couch, her gaze sweeping over the disarray. This place, once a symbol of their early days together, now felt like a weight pressing down on her. It wasn’t just the mess, though that was part of it—it was the feeling of being stuck, trapped in a space that no longer fit them.

She longed for more than this, for a place where they could breathe without stepping over piles of belongings. She envisioned that escape—a sanctuary where light would pour in through wide windows, where she could walk through open rooms without constantly dodging clutter. Where she could finally feel settled, rather than like they were always on the verge of chaos.

There was a time when she didn’t mind it, when the small apartment had felt like a temporary haven, something charming about its imperfections. But now, after everything they’d been through, after seeing what was possible, the desire to move out, to leave this place behind, had grown into something she could no longer ignore.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind her. She turned to see her husband entering, his eyes tired but warm as they met hers.

“You alright?” he asked, noticing the frustration still etched in her expression.

Feyre gave him a small smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I just… I think I’m ready. For a house. A home.” Her voice was soft but certain.

Rhys stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her in a comforting embrace. “We’ll make it happen,” he murmured into her hair. “Soon.”

And as Feyre leaned into his familiar warmth, the cramped apartment around them only solidified her determination. Soon wasn’t soon enough.

Previously, they’d discussed the option of moving, mostly in passing—an idea that hovered between them whenever the clutter became too much or when they both found themselves frustrated by the lack of space. The thought had always been tied to vague notions of the future, of what they wanted their lives to look like in the years to come. A bigger place, they’d say. More room to breathe. More room to grow.

But lately, the idea of moving had taken on a new weight, becoming less of a someday possibility and more of an immediate necessity. Especially as they began to talk more seriously about the future. About their future. 

Feyre had often caught herself imagining it during quiet moments, daydreaming about the future they would build together. They could finally have a proper dining table, not the tiny one currently crammed into the corner of their kitchen, barely big enough for two plates. Maybe they’d even have a room they could turn into a nursery—just in case.

The apartment had been good to them, a symbol of their early days, full of spontaneity and love. But as the days went on, Feyre had started to see it less as a home and more as a cage, the walls feeling like they were inching closer.

 She and Rhys had talked about children, too. 

It was always a soft, hopeful conversation, never rushed, but with each passing month, the idea became more tangible, more real. The thought of raising a child in this cluttered, cramped apartment, where they could barely move without tripping over something, made the idea of a home fit for a family more urgent.

Her husband, Rhys,  had always been more patient, content to take things step by step, but Feyre’s yearning for something more had grown stronger each day. She could feel it in her bones, a pull toward the future they both knew they wanted. They needed more space, more freedom. A place where they could lay down roots, not just for themselves, but for the family they hoped to create.

The thought warmed her, even as she stood in the mess of their apartment. Soon, she reminded herself. Soon, this would all be behind them. The cramped rooms, the clutter, the frustration—they would leave it all behind for something bigger, something better.

A place where they could build the life they’d been dreaming of.

***

“So” Rhys said finally, breaking their silence. “Do you want to open it, or shall I?”

Unable to help the corner of her mouth from upturning, Feyre moved away from her husband, clutching the keys as she pushed the main one into the keyhole, turning it until she heard the lock of the key.

Hesitating for a moment, Feyre felt Rhys’ hand on the small of her back, a reassuring action.

Taking a deep breath, Feyre pushed forwards, opening the door forward to reveal the empty hallway, the afternoon sun leaking from a window above the door, basking the house in its amber glow.

For a moment, Feyre stood there, letting the quiet grandeur of it sink in. The air smelled faintly of wood and fresh paint, untouched and new. It was theirs—this space, this home. Everything they had talked about, dreamed about, was waiting for them here.

Beside her, Rhys slipped his arm around her waist again, drawing her close. “What do you think?” he asked softly, his voice warm with affection.

Feyre's eyes swept over the hallway, the light dancing along the smooth wooden floor, and she felt a swell of emotions rise within her. “I think…” she started, her voice catching for a moment, “this is where we’re supposed to be.”

Before he could stop her, Feyre stumbled forward, laughter spilling from her lips as she darted into the next room. Her footsteps echoed lightly off the empty walls, and her laughter carried through the space, filling it with a sense of life that had been missing just moments ago. Her eyes lit up as she noticed a staircase in the far corner, winding gracefully around two of the walls like a ribbon of polished wood.

It was grand but not imposing, the bannister dark and smooth, beckoning her hands to explore. Without a second thought, Feyre sprinted toward it, her fingers grazing the railing as she ascended, her laughter bubbling up again. Each step echoed with her excitement as she twirled halfway up, her head tilted back to admire the spiral above.

“Come on, slowpoke!” she called back, her voice teasing, eyes sparkling as she glanced over her shoulder at Rhys, who was watching her with an amused grin.

Rhys, with his easy stride, followed her to the base of the staircase, shaking his head. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself, Feyre,” he warned, but his smile gave away his lack of concern. He loved seeing her like this—carefree, full of joy, her eyes wide with wonder at every new discovery.

Feyre reached the top of the stairs, breathless but exhilarated, and stopped for a moment to take it all in. The upper floor unfolded before her, the hallway stretching toward rooms yet unexplored. From here, she could see more windows, spilling sunlight into the space, and her heart skipped a beat as she imagined all the possibilities. Bedrooms, perhaps an office.

Maybe even a nursery someday.

She leaned against the bannister, catching her breath, and waited for Rhys to catch up. When he reached the top, his hands found her waist, pulling her gently toward him. “You’re like a little kid in a candy shop,” he murmured with a soft chuckle, pressing a kiss to her lips.

Feyre grinned into his mouth, her chest still rising and falling with excitement as she matched his passion. After a moment, she broke away, taking a second to catch her breath.

“I just… can’t believe it’s all ours.” she finally said. “I feel like I need to see every corner, every inch. Make sure it’s real.”

“It’s real,” Rhys assured her, his eyes soft as he gazed down at her. “And it’s only going to get better from here.”

For a moment, they stood there at the top of the stairs, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the quiet house around them filled with the promise of everything they had yet to build.

“Ours?” she asked, meeting his gaze.

Rhys nodded, his voice steady. “Yeah, ours.”

[phoebe1013]

Yandere Beetlejuice Alphabet

Affection

How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Beetlejuice expresses his affection through extravagant and chaotic displays, such as orchestrating elaborate hauntings or creating surreal environments to keep his beloved entertained and ensnared. His love is intensely obsessive, often blurring the lines between playful mischief and possessive control to ensure his darling remains exclusively his.

Blood

How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

While not inherently bloodthirsty, Beetlejuice isn't above using grotesque or supernatural means to maintain his hold. This could involve manipulating the physical environment in unsettling ways or invoking eerie phenomena to deter anyone from separating them, ensuring his possessiveness remains unchallenged.

Cruelty

How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Beetlejuice blends cruelty with humor, often mocking his beloved in a darkly comedic manner. He might play pranks that border on torment, using his ghostly abilities to create unsettling scenarios that both amuse and disorient his darling, keeping them under his whimsical yet unyielding control.

Darling

Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

Beyond abduction, Beetlejuice manipulates his darling's surroundings and circumstances to keep them within his influence. This could include altering their perceptions, controlling their interactions with the living world, or compelling them to participate in his supernatural antics, ensuring they remain dependent on his presence.

Exposed

How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Beetlejuice reveals a deeper, more obsessive layer beneath his flamboyant exterior. While he maintains a facade of confidence and chaos, his vulnerability surfaces in his relentless need for attention and control, showing that his obsession stems from a profound insecurity about being forgotten or abandoned.

Fight

How would they feel if their darling fought back?

If challenged, Beetlejuice becomes increasingly aggressive and manipulative, escalating his supernatural tactics to suppress any resistance. He views opposition as a personal affront, intensifying his efforts to reclaim or maintain dominance over his beloved.

Game

Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

Beetlejuice perceives the pursuit and resistance as a twisted game, deriving enjoyment from the cat-and-mouse dynamic. He takes pleasure in devising elaborate traps and challenges, savoring each attempt his darling makes to break free as a form of dark entertainment.

Hell

What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

The most harrowing experience would involve being trapped in a surreal, perpetually shifting supernatural realm crafted by Beetlejuice. Here, his beloved would endure constant psychological and environmental manipulations, making escape feel impossible amidst the chaotic and eerie manifestations.

Ideals

What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

Beetlejuice envisions a future filled with endless supernatural excitement and unbreakable bonds, where his beloved remains eternally by his side in a realm of perpetual chaos and intrigue. This future lacks normalcy, prioritizing their unique connection over conventional happiness.

Jealousy

Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Beetlejuice experiences intense jealousy, reacting violently to any perceived threats to his relationship. He doesn't cope but instead lashes out by sabotaging rivals, manipulating circumstances to isolate his beloved, and using his powers to eliminate any competition.

Kisses

How do they act around or with their darling?

Beetlejuice's interactions are a blend of seductive charm and eerie playfulness. Kisses might be laced with supernatural energy, causing unsettling sensations or binding his beloved closer to him. His demeanor remains both affectionate and unpredictably wild during intimate moments.

Love Letters

How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

Beetlejuice's courtship involves grandiose and supernatural gestures, such as orchestrating hauntingly beautiful displays, sending spectral messages, or creating personalized ghostly spectacles. His approach is both alluring and intimidating, ensuring his interest is unmistakably known.

Mask

Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Beetlejuice maintains his flamboyant and chaotic persona consistently, without a significant mask. His obsessive nature as a yandere is an extension of his existing character, making his true colors transparently intertwined with his public demeanor.

Naughty

How would they punish their darling?

Punishments are creatively supernatural, ranging from manipulating their environment to induce fear or discomfort, enforcing compliance through eerie phenomena, or subjecting them to relentless pranks that blur the line between punishment and torment.

Oppression

How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Beetlejuice restricts his beloved's interactions with the living world, limiting their autonomy and freedom. He controls their movements, communications, and even perceptions, effectively oppressing their ability to live independently outside his supernatural influence.

Patience

How patient are they with their darling?

Beetlejuice exhibits limited patience, becoming increasingly intolerant and aggressive when his desires are thwarted. His impulsive nature leads to swift and often extreme actions to assert control without prolonged deliberation.

Quit

If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

Beetlejuice struggles to let go, becoming vengeful or obsessively seeking to reclaim his beloved if they attempt to leave or escape. His inability to move on results in persistent efforts to drag them back into his chaotic realm or punish their departure.

Regret

Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

Regret is minimal for Beetlejuice; his self-centered nature prevents genuine remorse. He is unlikely to voluntarily release his beloved, viewing such actions as a loss of control rather than a source of guilt.

Stigma

What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

Beetlejuice's transformation into a yandere stems from his existence as a ghost who craves recognition and connection. His obsessive behavior is fueled by a deep-seated fear of being forgotten or overlooked, driving his relentless pursuit of his beloved.

Tears

How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Beetlejuice derives a twisted sense of satisfaction from his beloved's distress, seeing their emotional turmoil as a testament to his control and the depth of his influence over them. Their suffering reinforces his dominance and the effectiveness of his possessive tactics.

Unique

Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Beetlejuice's supernatural abilities and penchant for dark humor set him apart from traditional yandere archetypes. His methods are more chaotic and flamboyant, incorporating ghostly pranks and eerie manifestations that reflect his unique personality and background.

Vice

What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

Knowledge of the supernatural realm or understanding Beetlejuice's specific rules and limitations can be exploited. By leveraging loopholes in his manipulative contracts or using protective artifacts, his beloved can weaken his control and find avenues for escape.

Wit's End

Would they ever hurt their darling?

Yes, Beetlejuice would resort to harming his beloved using his supernatural powers if he perceives them as a threat to his control. This harm could range from psychological torment to more tangible supernatural punishments, depending on the situation.

Xoanon

How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

Beetlejuice exhibits an extreme form of reverence, idolizing his beloved to the point of obsession. He would go to extraordinary lengths, including altering reality and defying natural laws, to keep his beloved within his sphere and ensure their undivided attention and affection.

Yearn

How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

Beetlejuice's yearning is immediate and relentless. There's little to no waiting period before he reacts decisively to any perceived distance or threat, leading to swift and often drastic measures to reassert his hold.

Zenith

Would they ever break their darling?

At the peak of his obsessive behavior, Beetlejuice would indeed break his beloved's spirit and autonomy through continuous manipulation, control, and supernatural pressure, ensuring they remain entirely dependent on and loyal to him.

[dixbolik-lovers]

They are in a good home and their owner brings in another vampire. Reiji - Shu, Subaru - Ayato, Laito - Reiji, Yuma - Ruki, Ruki - Kou (each the thoughts of both sides)

Reiji — Shuu

• The second he realizes who you've brought home, Reiji is seething. All he can think is that he's going to be replaced by the one who somehow always manages to outshine him, and that thought doesn't do his mental state any good. He quickly starts to grow paranoid that Shuu is trying to sabotage him, and if he feels neglected by you, he'll become increasingly resentful.

• Reiji's presence doesn't really matter to him. Shuu knows that his brother despises him, but that's just... whatever. It's not like there's anything he can do about it, and he's fine with letting Reiji keep the spotlight. He has the feeling that Reiji is going to try something nasty sooner or later, but that's something to deal with when it happens. As it is, he just wants to be left alone.

Subaru — Ayato

• While he's a bit happy to see his brother again, Subaru is also deeply concerned that this isn't going to end well. Ayato has always been one to cause trouble, and Subaru is dreading the inevitable fuck-up that'll earn his brother a serious punishment. He knows you're a kind owner, but that doesn't stop the worry that Ayato is going to make problems for both of them.

• Being brought into a new home, he immediately sees Subaru as competition. Even if it's just his brother, Ayato can't help but feel like he has to do everything possible to stand out and be good enough to keep. He develops an unfortunate habit of trying to provoke Subaru, and that habit only gets worse as he realizes that this new home is one that's going to treat him well.

Laito — Reiji

• He's not exactly opposed to having his brother around, overall. Laito doesn't particularly care about who he has to share a home with, especially since you've proven yourself to be so very kind. If anything, it's rather entertaining to watch Reiji struggle to earn your favor when there's no need for so much panic. And deep down... he's a bit happy that part of his family can also be safe.

• Reiji immediately assumes that Laito is being used for more of the same in this home— and that leads him to worry about his own fate here. He's as desperate to please you as ever, though, and only starts to relax as he sees that his brother is truly comfortable. The situation borders on surreal, but the two of them get along well enough once the initial tension wears off.

Yuuma — Ruki

• The shock of seeing one of his brothers again hits Yuuma hard, and as a result, he turns immediately, viciously protective. You've always been perfectly kind to him, sure, but that doesn't stop the instinct to keep his family safe from everything. It's an incredible relief to know that Ruki is alright, and even more of one that they'll be able to share a peaceful home without their former struggles.

• He's equally shocked to see part of his family again, and every bit as relieved. Ruki is still in a state of doubting your intentions (and if you're truly as kind as you seem), but Yuuma's obvious trust in you makes it a little easier to adjust. Even though he can't stop thinking about the two that are still missing, what he already has is a blessing beyond anything he would have hoped for.

Ruki — Kou

• Seeing Kou again is both a terrible shock and the most palpable relief Ruki has felt in years. His brother is in about the state he would have expected, but he might actually be safe now. You've always treated him well, at least, and Ruki wants to have hope that Kou will receive just as much kindness from you. And of course, he's forever grateful to you for letting Kou stay.

• Kou wasn't expecting to be safe in your home either, but seeing Ruki nearly shocks him out of his fears. He can't believe that this kind of luck is happening to him— and especially not that Ruki legitimately seems comfortable and happy with you. His brother's presence does a lot to help Kou start to trust you, and he adjusts much faster with someone around that he already feels safe with.

[pinkthick]

You’re okay

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Fem!Reader

Summary: His throat begged for relief as if scorched by an unseen fire. The burning sensation clawed at his senses, a relentless reminder of a desperate need that seemed perpetually out of reach. The elusive promise of a drink lingered just beyond his grasp, taunting him with its absence.

Warnings: Blood, Minor Character death

Credits for the art with Stephen lolojefie/jay on Tiktok.

In the dim haze of consciousness, Stephen Strange found himself suspended in a disorienting void. A throbbing ache enveloped every fiber of his being, a cruel symphony of pain that rendered him powerless. The mere thought of opening his eyes seemed an insurmountable task, as if the weight of the universe bore down upon his lids. His body, a canvas of agony, pulsated with an unrelenting torment. Each attempt to move was met with a searing reminder that something was profoundly wrong. The world around him felt like a blurry, chaotic whirlwind, and the mere notion of steadying himself slipped through the cracks of his fragmented awareness.

His throat begged for relief as if scorched by an unseen fire. The burning sensation clawed at his senses, a relentless reminder of a desperate need that seemed perpetually out of reach. The elusive promise of a drink lingered just beyond his grasp, taunting him with its absence. So so thirsty.

A tempest of anguish stormed through his mind, his head a battleground where every thought waged war against the others. The ache within intensified with each passing moment, a merciless crescendo that threatened to shatter the fragile remnants of his composure. A disconcerting vertigo gripped him, the world spinning in a disconcerting dance that left him suspended in a disoriented limbo. His attempts to move only deepened the sensation, as if the cold floor beneath him had become an unstable sea, threatening to capsize his already battered senses.

His neck, a tenuous link between consciousness and the void, throbbed with a relentless pulse. It felt as if it were melting away, dissolving into the chaos that surrounded him. The sensation of bones breaking echoed through his perception, each imaginary fracture adding to the cacophony of torment that consumed him. Amidst the symphony of pain, he questioned the nature of his own sounds—were they screams of despair or tears of anguish? The line between agony and expression blurred, lost in the tumultuous storm that raged within the confines of his battered body.

A new wave of torment surged through Stephen, a peculiar agony that seemed to originate from within his own mouth. His teeth, usually stalwart guardians of his resolve, now betrayed him with an intensity that bordered on the surreal. It felt as if new teeth were erupting from his gums, an excruciating transformation that defied all logical explanation.

In the midst of his cries, a desperate symphony of pain, he was almost certain he heard a haunting giggle—an unsettling sound that echoed through the darkness, as though mocking his suffering. The cryptic laughter added an eerie layer to his predicament, an unsettling presence that danced on the periphery of his awareness.

His attempts to move, to escape the relentless agony, were thwarted by an unseen force. Something, insidious and unyielding, held him in check. Every strained effort to break free only intensified the pain coursing through his body, as if the very fabric of reality conspired against him.

With a surge of determination, he managed to pry his eyes open briefly, revealing a darkened room that enveloped him in shadows. The feeble illumination hinted at the cold glint of some chains.

What..I..I was on a mission, right?

As Stephen forced his eyes to remain open, the dim light of the room gradually revealed obscured figures in the shadows. His vision, still clouded by the remnants of disorientation, struggled to bring the mysterious shapes into focus. The people in the room appeared as mere silhouettes, their features shrouded in a veil of uncertainty.

A disconcerting realization gripped him—his Cloak of Levitation, a constant companion in the arcane battles he faced, was conspicuously absent. The absence of the sentient garment left him vulnerable. Levi?

He didn’t feel okay. There was a hunger that had never experienced before and it gnawed at his insides.

And then..

A sudden, sharp pain jolted through Stephen's lower lip, drawing his attention to an unsettling discovery. In the dim light of the room, he felt an unusual protrusion—fangs, elongated and alien, had emerged where none had existed before. The realization struck him with a disorienting force, amplifying the dread that coiled in the pit of his stomach. As he explored the newfound appendages with his tongue, a metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth.

Confusion mingled with horror as he retraced the fragments of memory that now clawed at the edges of his consciousness. He recalled going on a mission..to eliminate some vampires. He couldn't believe that he had become the very thing he sought to eradicate.

“No," he muttered in disbelief, the word escaping through his bloodied lips.

The mocking laughter of a woman reverberated through the dimly lit room, a cruel echo that punctuated Stephen's grim realization. Her voice, dripping with amusement, sliced through the air as she observed his plight. "You know, I really thought you wouldn’t have made it, but look at you. A sorcerer turned vampire, we don’t get to see that often," she taunted, reveling in the incongruity of his transformed state.

Stephen's response was a hiss, an involuntary reaction fueled by a potent mix of defiance and the primal instincts that now coursed through his vampiric veins. The expletive, a defiant retort, betrayed the frustration and desperation that festered within him.

"Fuck you," he spat, the words laced with venom as he strained against the chains that bound him. The metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth, a visceral reminder of the surreal reality he now faced. Unfazed by his outburst, the vampire woman continued her cruel commentary, addressing the unseen others in the room. "Look at him, a newborn vampire. Isn’t he just so cute?"

The condescension in her tone deepened Stephen's sense of helplessness. Each tug on the chains echoed his futile resistance, a symbolic struggle against the insidious fate that had befallen him.

The entrance of a human woman, tears streaming down her face, marked a chilling turn in the macabre tableau. Her anguish was palpable, a visceral counterpoint to the cruel amusement that danced in the eyes of the vampire woman who orchestrated this nightmarish scene.

As they positioned the sobbing woman almost within arm's reach of Stephen, an insidious scent wafted through the air, igniting an unholy hunger within him. His mouth watered involuntarily, and his eyes betrayed a feral transformation—deepening shades of crimson replacing the once-familiar hue.

Sharp Claws extended from his fingertips, catching him off guard. The realization that he now possessed such predatory appendages intensified the surreal horror that gripped his every sense. What had he become? The question reverberated through his newly altered consciousness.

His gaze fixated on the wounded human, a profound conflict raging within him. A sinister smile played on the vampire woman's lips as she observed his internal struggle. The scent of her blood was intoxicating, an irresistible lure that goaded the primal instincts now coursing through his vampiric veins.

A guttural growl escaped his throat, the struggle against his burgeoning hunger manifesting in the tense rise and fall of his chest. The internal battle played out on his features—a dance of torment, desire, and self-restraint.

The vampire woman, reveling in the macabre spectacle, posed a taunting question to Stephen. "Aren’t you hungry?"

The words hung in the air, a malevolent invitation that pierced through the cacophony of his internal turmoil. Stephen's breath quickened, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions churning within him. The pull of his vampiric instincts clashed with the vestiges of his human morality, and a desperate plea for restraint echoed in the recesses of his mind.

In the grip of his insatiable hunger, Stephen succumbed to the primal urges that now dictated his existence. With an explosive burst of strength, he shattered the chains that bound him to the wall, his predatory instincts propelling him forward.

He practically lunged at the weeping woman, driven by an overwhelming need for the crimson elixir that promised both sustenance and a dark euphoria. The taste of her blood, once a distant temptation, now coursed through him like a potent nectar, momentarily drowning the turmoil within.

The woman's anguished cries filled the room as Stephen, consumed by the ravenous frenzy, sank his fangs into her neck. Each swallow was a macabre communion with the darkness that enveloped him, an unholy ecstasy that eclipsed reason and morality.

"No! Please—I... It hurts so much. Please stop!" she pleaded in vain, her desperate pleas echoing through the chamber. Stephen, lost in the throes of his predatory trance, remained deaf to her cries as the life force drained from her.

It was only when the woman went limp against him that a dreadful realization crashed upon Stephen's consciousness.

The haze of bloodlust began to lift, revealing the haunting truth—he had just taken the life of someone innocent.

As he withdrew from the now lifeless form, horror etched across his features, he recoiled in shock. The woman's face was no longer obscured, and in the ghastly revelation, he beheld the face of his wife, Y/N. A profound wave of grief and remorse washed over him, his heart heavy with the weight of an unspeakable atrocity. He recoiled from the bloodstained reality before him, grappling with the monstrous act he had committed. Y/N's lifeless eyes stared back at him, accusing and haunting.

Stephen's anguished cries reverberated through the dim chamber, a heart-wrenching lament that echoed the depth of his despair. Clutching Y/N's lifeless form to his chest, tears streamed down his face, mingling with the blood that stained his hands.

"Y/N! I’m sorry; I’m so sorry darling. I didn’t—" he wailed, the sound of her name a tortured plea that hung heavy in the air. The weight of his grief, compounded by the monstrous act he had committed, bore down on him like an insurmountable burden.

Amidst his mourning, the cruel laughter of the other vampires resounded, a sinister chorus that intensified the throbbing ache in Stephen's head.

In the cold grip of the night, Stephen bolted upright in bed, his labored breaths betraying the remnants of the nightmare that had seized him. Disoriented and consumed by the lingering horrors, he found himself enveloped in the soft glow of Y/N's presence. Her eyes reflected concern as she observed the anguish etched across his tear-streaked face.

Y/N gently cupped his face in her hands, her touch a soothing balm against the spectral memories that haunted him. "Hey hey, Stephen. Breathe, come on," she murmured, her voice a tender reassurance that cut through the lingering echoes of his night terrors.

Stephen struggled to obey, his attempts to draw breath feeling stifled by the lingering shadows of the dream. His hands trembled as he desperately clung to Y/N, seeking solace in the tangible reality of her presence.

"Stephen, love, breathe. You're here, you're home," she urged, her voice a lifeline that pulled him from the abyss of his subconscious terrors. Her words, a gentle reminder of the sanctuary that surrounded him, began to coax him back to the realm of wakefulness.

But as Stephen's breaths steadied, a haunting revelation clawed its way to the surface. His voice, choked with remorse, cried out, "You were... I was the one that killed you. I—"

Y/N, recognizing the depth of Stephen's pain, brought his head to rest against her chest, offering the solace of her heartbeat as a grounding rhythm against the lingering echoes of the nightmare. Silently, he continued to weep, his tears a testament to the profound weight of the dreamscape that had ensnared him.

"I'm not dead, I'm okay. You’re okay. It was just a nightmare," Y/N reassured him, her voice a gentle melody that sought to dispel the haunting remnants of the dark visions that had tormented his sleep.

Pulling away from her chest, Stephen clung to Y/N, his arms wrapped around her in a desperate embrace that refused to let go.

His words, uttered with a mixture of relief and residual fear, broke the silence. "It wasn't a nightmare with Dormammu at least."

Y/N chuckled softly, her fingers gently tracing soothing patterns on his back. "You don't need to tell me if you don't want to," she offered.

A heavy silence lingered between them before Stephen found the courage to articulate the haunting images that clung to his consciousness. "I was back in that room, and it was exactly how it happened, except that the woman I killed was..."

Y/N, sensing the weight of his unspoken words, pressed a tender kiss to his lips, a gesture that spoke volumes of her understanding and unwavering support.

"You know it wasn't your fault," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm that sought to dispel the shadows of guilt that clouded his mind. Stephen scoffed, his self-reproach evident in the lines etched across his face. "It sure felt like it was mine."

Undeterred, Y/N continued to hold him, her arms a comforting embrace that refused to let go. In the quiet sanctuary they had carved out for themselves, she reaffirmed, "It wasn't your fault, Stephen. And you know that.”

He didn’t respond as he clung to her, the echoes of the past began to lose their grip, dissipating in the warmth of their shared embrace. Y/N's presence, a steadfast anchor, reminded Stephen that in the sanctuary of their love, the wounds of the past could heal. In that moment, they found solace in each other's arms, reaffirming that, despite the darkness that lingered in the recesses of memory, they were okay.

Notes: Not sure if I should have posted this, but there’s that. 🙃

Hope you enjoyed reading this.

[senka-mesecine]

Could you maybe write a oneshot for Barnes catching a runaway reader? With maybe a little nsfw if your comfortable with it, thank you ♥️

Gung Ho.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

--- ‘Gung ho’ describes a soldier who is excessively enthusiastic about military life, serving in combat or killing the enemy.

---

gif by the wonderful @woman-with-no-name -

The motel hallway feels slightly surreal after 365 days spent in the jungle.

But the seaside season in Hà Tiên is relatively quiet considering what you left behind on the Viet-Cambodian border barely thirty miles north-west to retire here post-closure of your year served to do the mundane task of hauling groceries up the corridor to your room on the third floor --- the old elevator being defunct; perhaps of little consequence considering what you've gone through that walking up a flight of stairs seemed like a keen pleasure in ways. How funny it seemed. Indulging day-to-day tasks. The truth is, in a sense, you ran out here with the intent to temporarily hide and you could acknowledge that to yourself now that the frontier seemed somehow far and away. That he seemed so far away. Connections made during service, you knew, either lasted a lifetime or they irrevocably broke ties and faded away the second someone was transferred somewhere else or they finished their time in the bush and got sent home. The whole issue with Barnes, and yes, it was an issue, is that things got too intense. Distance was necessary. Only sane. It was either that or something terrible would've happened. To you. People surrounding you.

He was a powder keg. Best left unlit.

Sweat lines your brows once you cross the threshold of the final step leading to floor three, the air in the foyer heavy and stifling, like someone residing in one of the many rooms adjoined to your hallway took a profuse smoke break that left the cloud of nicotine lining the moisture filled walls mingling with the indoors humidity accumulated by the monsoon season as you hauled two bags, with not a 'no smoking' sign displayed anywhere in sight; why you needed this much bagged shit bought was beyond you. You weren't planning to stay here forever, god. You should've been on the fast track out to Saigon and from there on a plan fucking out of here but you supposed a part of you wanted to punish yourself. You left without saying goodbye, after all. Practically jumped into that chopper. Of course, Barnes undoubtedly had to see the approval to that, but you knew that the gesture itself, leaving so coldly, was, for lack of a better word, a bitch move to make. That you've merely been breezing through the motions since, eyes fixated on the carpet pattern, mutely nodding to the elderly laundress pushing a cart of bedsheets beside you, only to catch the source of all the smoke with your heart nearly jumping into your throat.

Jesus Christ, were you hallucinating him too now?

He was standing by your doorway, shoulder leaning on the wall.

Cigarette in his mouth, his gaze delightedly taunting once you meet his eyes.

-"Hey there, little girl? Daddy gone and left you all alone?"-

The nightmare apparition drawls with a tilted head and if this was any other person alive, you would've set down your bags and ran as far as your legs carried you, but with Barnes, it was the end of the line. He would've caught you in ten seconds flat. He could've demolished half of the establishment to do it. Kill everyone in sight. Set the fucking motel on fire. So you consciously, willingly walk towards him, slowly, like a deer caught in the hunter's crosshairs with his finger on the trigger. The little grey haired lady was still pushing her squeaky, sheet filled stroller down the corridor; the last thing you needed was for someone to sense you were in danger and put themselves in danger through you. -"Have mercy. Please."- You whisper quietly, desperately, with zero pretense once you're standing close enough to be face to face with him. He seemed so pleased with himself, meaty lips unfurled into a grin, a cigarette hanging sideways from his mouth. It felt like being smiled at by a tiger as you fished your key out of your pocket to silently unlock your door while he stood there, profusely observing the gesture like it was of some profound interest to him. By the time you're inside the room with him at your back, bags forgotten by the entrance, you're covered in cold, shivering sweat.

-"God, how did you find me?"-

You murmur hoarsely, pleadingly, the floodgates finally opening.

His arms are on either side of you, pressing you up against the door.

Trapping you there.

-"You upset or sumn'?"-

He inquires, clearly mocking, clearly seeing you were more than upset.

You were befuddled.

You say nothing, unsure where to start.

Even that seemed like it pleased him more than anything in the world.

That you were speechless.

-"Hmm?"-

He presses on, though, inquiring further with nothing but a deep, self content hum emanating from his throat as he cocked his head to the side, still grinning and seeking out your gaze. Truth of the matter was seeing Barnes outside of the jungle, outside of the context of the army, of war, in a civilian setting, surrounded by patterned beige motel wallpapers, shelves, towels, bedsheets and the nuances of day-to-day mundaneness was as alien as seeing an unleashed tiger riding around in a rickshaw down the streets of Saigon in broad daylight.

-"Been thinkin' how that sack of shit oaf Redneck couldn't possibly stop humpin' the boonies to go lookin' for your sorry ass?"-

He gets close as he speaks, his breath laced with the pungent aroma of tobacco and what's worse, he entirely guessed your train of thoughts like someone capable of reading minds. You didn't think Barnes would be the type to leave the war, his war, as he had the tendency of referring to it, behind long enough to seek you out anyhow. Man never even went on R&R; at least not that you ever remember him doing so. You hold your breath, feeling guilty. Called out. Caught.

-"Too gung ho, 's that it?"-

He prods, grinning, looming over you.

-"I wasn't thinking that."-

You gulp, lying. Lying pretty badly at that.

You hold your arms against the door like your last resort life raft.

Focusing on the collar of his fatigues; the neck behind it.

His rolled up sleeves. His trousers tucked into his boots.

Anything but on his face.

-"Sure fooled me lil' ol' me."-

He teases cruelly but you aren't fooled, lulled into a false sense of safety or feeling any less tense when he moves about an inch back, giving you space to breathe again as he paced around the room, looking around with legitimate curiosity like he was examining the perimeters, looking for an ambush. Old habits sure died hard. Could take Robert Barnes out of the jungle but the jungle sure wasn't coming out of Robert Barnes. -"Cos you should've gone further. Gone faster."- He remarks matter-of-factly and he's right, as always; every instinct inside of your entire being has been screaming at you for days and days and days to leave. Board the first plane and go. Now, the very man you ran from in the first place was in your motel room, bending down and scrutinizing the contents of your grocery bags like he was a drill sergeant going through a routinely bunk inspection. Was surreal; Barnes holding a can of soda and reading the letters on it seeming somewhat unimpressed, with an odd air of haughtiness, like all things civilian where somehow beneath him or maybe it was the simple fact that the writing on the can was in Vietnamese. Nonetheless, he opens it and downs it in one very impressive gulp, leaving the remains on the table. -"If you knew I was comin', you shouldn't've stayed in this two-bit shithole."- He pokes, peeking up at the ceiling, scrutinizing the quality. There was a dried up wet patch that left behind a blotchy stain; the remanent of an old leak having gone dry once upon a time. You knew the accommodations didn't bother him in the least bit, in fact, this was The Four Seasons compared to where you both came from. Man was used to sleeping in some of the worst places imaginable; he just wanted to be overly prideful for its own sake. -"Truth is, you've been here thinkin' you outran my ass."- Another low blow that was truthful; you look away, trying to hide the blood that seeped into your cheeks, brining on the heat of shame.

-"Well, you didn't."-

Final verbal nail in the coffin. At this point. You wanted to jump out the window.

Not caring if a fall from the third floor will kill you or at least break all of your bones.

You make a move on towards the shutters on the other end of the room like someone hypnotized into having a death wish only to be grabbed by the elbow and squeezed so hard you hiss in pain. How and why was this asshole still grinning? Something funny about this!? Your suppressed anger overrides your primal fear and there you are, seething to his face against all better judgement. If he came here to do something bad to you he might as well go on and do it because you knew running and trying to fight the process was futile anyhow. Might as well take what was coming for you and take it with some sense of dignity, runaway person or not. You weren't his slave.

Often times, you imagined running from Barnes including a feverish sprint through the woods as far as your legs could take to you, reaching the brink of all physical endurance while he pursued like the great big hunter --- like the devil himself; turns out it could be as prosaic, anticlimactic and hackneyed as him cornering you in a motel room somewhere, gloating over your entire situation.

-"So, what now!? You're gonna shoot the place up!? Set the room on fire!? Kill everyone in the vicinity!? Get yourself arrested!? Have me shipped out of here in a body bag to prove a point!? Orchestrate a murder-suicide!? What!?"-

You froth through gritted teeth, allowing yourself the courtesy of being at least a little blunt and mean especially when he seemed as nonchalantly amused as he was by it all, eyes revealing something downright putrid, like he was contemplating and weighing every option you just listed in your rage, hissing in a hushed tone to avoid upsetting the inhabitants of any of the neighboring rooms. Barnes didn't seem like he minded anything you just said. In fact, he appeared like he would do anything from the offered options, in fact, you knew he would, so casual about it he found enough gusto to be apparently absent mindedly fiddled with the edge of your shirt's collar drenched in rainwater and sweat.

-"Let me go. Please. You're hurting me."-

You plead weakly.

Not only referencing your wrist squeezed in his vice grip.

You wanted to be let go in the general sense. Set free. Of this. Of him.

As was his general habit, Bob says nothing, instead, it's his eyes that do all the talking, his fingers, unbuttoning the edge of your blouse so casually and in a way so unfettered it might as well have been his god-given right to do so, his hand still gripping yours to the degree you'd be certain the imprint of him would bruise by tomorrow as an assurance that this wasn't a dream. -"And stop undressing me."- You whisper. As if commanded, his hand halts. -"Stop."- You repeat yourself softly, voice barely above a murmur; if he continued, you figured, you weren't certain if you'd be able to stop yourself either and that would've defeated the purpose of all of this. His smile is fully unfurled then, baring teeth, the tip of his nose pointing behind you.

-"That's a bed for two. Been cravin' me, hmm? We've done more with less."-

He hums, something in his eyes sparkling.

Referencing every time spent on bunk beds, in bunkers, in foxholes.

-"No."-

You lie again.

Nobody was convinced you didn't crave him. Not him. Certainly not you.

-"So why you still in-country?"-

His face practically beams up, standing close enough to you where you could read the mischief etched into every pore and scar on his face like he just knew he posed a million dollar question. Why were you still here? How could you tell him you were here dreaming of him every night since you were deployed out of the bush and that everything inside of you was still pinning you back here; to him? The room suddenly feels so small. Stifling. Like a hare trap. -"You like bein' chased?"- More of an assessment than an actual inquiry on his behalf as he spoke so close to you his mouth was practically moving against yours, sounding as pleased as ever. Yes, yes, yes, every impulse in your body begs for you to say, instead, you push the instinct down, feeling your own voice crack inside of your throat.

-"When will you let me go?"-

You whimper needily, knowing the answer was never as Barnes's hand pushed you to the squeaking bed behind you.

[noonmutter]

Rerun

DWC Feb 2024 Day 1: Casualty/Flirt

A year ago, if anyone had asked Terry Lias-Ambroce if he'd ever set foot on a battlefield again, he'd have burst out laughing, and then thrown them out of his house. If they'd asked him to do it willingly, he'd have given them a five-second head start before he turned the rooftop turrets back on. In both instances, he'd also have considered throwing them into the moose pen after spritzing them with doe-in-heat urine.*

He was not expecting anyone to do it at all, let alone the Grand Army of The Alliance. After everything, they had taken the wisest course of action and left him and his family the fuck alone. Outside of the monthly pension payments, they didn't even exist to him anymore. The only military groups he spoke with for the last handful of years, he did so through Dolraan, and that was only ever to discuss the progress on the war-moose breeding program.

Until it was time to move on Gilneas.

That was, possibly, the only thing that could've gotten Terry to put down his rifle after he'd spotted blue and gold on his doorstep. He was fully prepared to go to prison rather than start the shitshow all over again for a third time, but thankfully, he didn't have to. The messenger was smart, and had held up the scroll bearing the Gilnean seal so it was the first thing he saw, and he'd been willing to give him at least a few seconds to explain.

It took almost an hour to convince him that it wasn't another ploy to trap him in service for the rest of his life this time. Or to separate him from his family so somebody could shank him somewhere remote. Or anything else. There were a lot of possibilities. Even with Diggs and Smits firmly behind bars--for all intents and purposes, the two of them also didn't exist, but it wasn't just to Terry in their case--he knew he'd still had plenty of enemies. Just because you won didn't mean the losers went away.

It was a voluntary reactivation, to be ended whenever he chose, and with the freedoms afforded every other standard soldier of his rank. He was a sergeant now, not a conscript, and he had standing he still didn't know what to do with some days. Running the dregs of the Scarlet Crusade out of his birthplace? Taking back the country he'd spent over a decade telling people wasn't dead?

That, he could gladly do.

The campaign was fairly short, and fairly brutal, but Terry expected that. He was far from the only one in the company who had zero patience or tolerance left for those who would keep him from his home, and he was giving the orders to a lot of them. That part was surreal, but it seemed to work out well enough. There were casualties under his command, but no fatalities. In more than one instance, he saw to it personally that no one died under his watch. A couple guys were going to come home a few pounds lighter, but at least they were coming home.

He was coming home.

After the fighting had largely died down and all that remained were various skirmishes and prods at the borders from other interested enemies--other kingdoms, mostly, but he did encounter more than one cluster of enterprising Forsaken that deeply regretted making that choice once he found them--Terry was given pause.

When he thought of the word 'home,' for the longest time, he thought of a farmhouse overlooking the rocky headland cliffs; the fenceline of the ranch around it; dodging cow shit every time he went out for a walk. Now, when he thought of the word 'home'...there was a second image. The house that had started as a cabin and he'd personally expanded well beyond the confines of the term, surrounded by the gloomy, spindly trees of Duskwood; his veritable herd of children and his smirking wife standing in the middle of the chaos, eyes on him; the orchard and distillery that they'd set up largely as an excuse to give Darnassian refugees a place to stay.

He was coming home. But home had gotten a touch complicated, of a sudden.

And then there was the small matter of a letter bearing the seal of the newly-crowned Queen Greymane.

God dammit. I haven't even done anything yet.

( @daily-writing-challenge @shedwyn @sirdolraan )

*yes I know a female moose is a cow not a doe but it seemed easier to follow if I used 'doe' in this instance

[fatehbaz]

Sandra [Ruiz]: I think the other word, too, to add to "resonance" and "vignette" [...] would be "score". [...] The idea is to feel each of the words as they join one another, but also how they live singularly; [...] one way for us to think of how to metaphorically play with the traps of representation mobilized by words, categories, colonial forms. In doing so, we were also trying to think about the borderless, the leaking frame. Or, how do you leak out of the frame, how do you move beyond it? [...]

Stefano [Harney]: [...] Studying together, writing together [...]. It shares you out. [...]

Fred [Moten]: Sometimes I’m fascinated by these videos of birds swarming, of murmuration. [...] [T]he murmuration that we see from outside is [...] a collection of vignettes; in any given moment, that duet becomes trio becomes octet, and then it goes back down to quintet, so that there’s this constant [...] preformation going on [...]. [H]ow we make that our practice, our constant study. [...]

Hypatia [Vourloumis]: The murmuration is very important for us because it is [...] materialized through a necessary sharing out of motion, one where its swooping nebulousness is dependent on intense coordination between a small number of groups of starlings that overlap. It seems to me that it’s an important paradigm in terms of collective flight and questions of social organizing, of instituting, or de-instituting, de-structuralization [...]. What would that look like? [...] [R]evolutions happen by way of resonance [...] in the context of the Athens uprising of 2008, and they were thinking how that insurrection resonated with the uprisings of the banlieues of Paris in 2005. [...] After [...] that, you saw Tunisia, and for those of us who live in the Mediterranean, there’s this sense that, for example, if we’re on the Northern Mediterranean, we’re more connected to the Middle East and to the Maghreb across on the Southern Mediterranean, even though we’re supposedly on this continent called Europe with its militarized lethal border. [...] [Y]ou could sense [...] a ricocheting “resonance,” because squares were then occupied in Barcelona and Madrid, then you saw it in Athens, then you saw it in Istanbul. These uprisings were sharing out across the Mediterranean, and then [...] the Occupy movements across the Atlantic or up in England. This seems to raise questions about form, about how we organize ourselves [...].

---

Fred: Sandra and Hypatia, your collaboration is also a collaboration of the Caribbean and the Mediterranean. It’s a non-continental, archipelagic thing, or thinking. Y’all think by way of islands, rather than by continental landmasses [...]. You link up with a long line of thought that approaches beach, and shoal, and delta. 

Hypatia: Yes, and I would say that this non-continental “tidalectic” thinking, to cite Brathwaite, spans all the way towards the nusantara (archipelago) of Southeast Asia as well. In my research I think about the islands of the “former East Indies” and the “former West Indies” together too, and, working with Sandra, also Puerto Rico and Greece. What I appreciate so much about Sandra’s book Ricanness is her insistence on the use of the word “anticolonial,” which resonates for me because Puerto Rico and Greece share a history of being ongoing debt colonies. 

Fred: [...] So that resistance to geopolitical brutality is a kind of oceanizing of land mass or an archipelagizing of land mass, which islands [...] realize, or surrealize. [...] It turns on this radical refusal of scale and the way scale is all bound up with the concept of static, statist land mass.

---

All text above by: Stefano Harney, Fred Moten, Sandra Ruiz, and Hypatia Vourloumis. “Resonances: A Conversation on Formless Formation.” e-flux Journal Issue #121. October 2021. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[dungeonbent]

( An excerpt from Learned Complacency: A Record of the Surreal and Zoologically Dubious in the Dungeon of Skaia, written by R. L. Theras. )

… Thus far, the primary conceit of these pages has been to illustrate the base layout of the dungeon and the verifiable history of Skaia. Now that you are briefed on the intricacies of the Prospit-Derse conflict (caused in part due to the differing dynamics between the short and long-lived races within the borders of each kingdom), their eventual ruin, and their ultimate collapse in on one another, I will indulge in something of a detour. Much like the paths of the dungeon in which we venture, my thoughts must make a similar change of course.

However, this is far from a flight of fancy. It would, in fact, be wholly irresponsible not to explore this new passageway being built. For while smaller-minded men may give into the urge to claim sole credit for their achievements, all those in the dungeon know that without a party, they are lost.

I am joined in my travels by three companions. For the sake of anonymity and to ward against all future successes we may find after our return to the surface, I will refer to them by their chosen aliases: Ecto, Turntech, and Gnostio.

Turntech has been somewhat of a companion to me throughout my 90 years, both in terms of age due to his being my pseudo-twin and in terms of study. His accumulated knowledge of anatomy has been as much a boon to my personal research as his expertise in ancient dwarven technology, having previously unearthed a strange set of disks dubbed ‘turntables’- a truly archaic device which appears to me something of ritual significance. He will be assisting us in translation, navigation, and proper time management.

Gnostio is a native to the island whom I met when my brother and I arrived on Skaia, as well as someone intimately familiar with magic of many strands. There is no one on the island more knowledgeable about the flora which will be encountered within the dungeon, nor is there anyone quite so skilled in spatial manipulation. She will be helping to carry out research and act as our scout with the superior lupine senses of her beastman form. She is also, I suspect, to be the primary source of our collective morale going forward. Cheer is truly a strangely infectious thing.

While Ecto has little research experience beyond her brief work with the gold-stripping crews scraping the kingdom formerly known as Prospit clean of its luster, she is an invaluable part of the team; she is remarkably cool under pressure, and her mastery of teleportation magic is second only to her apparent affinity for the spirits of the wind, who flock to her as pets to a beloved master. While all of us have been on expeditions before, none have been on quite the number that Ecto has; therefore, if there is a leader, she may as well be the closest to it.

I take the time to introduce these players because there is one truth which applies to all dungeons: your survival depends entirely upon those who enter the dungeon. For the next two months, these three individuals will not only be a party- they will act as my companions, my flock, and, inevitably, will act as the lifeline which I depend on to live. 

This is even more true considering the small size of the party. While three of us have experience in doling out resurrection magic, and one has teleportation magic which can feasibly take us to the surface if straits become truly dire, it only takes one overwhelming enemy. While the four of us are not green in any sense of the word when it comes to fighting, we are still faced with an unavoidable truth: if we don’t break the dungeon, the dungeon may well break us.

When we reach the bottom of the dungeon to perhaps find that fictional ‘Skaia’ which the island derives its name- that endless pool of creativity where every desire is brought to startling life, sated with the fill of wonder- then, perhaps, we may turn. Perhaps the story of Prospit and Derse is less history and more omen; the long ago echo of a warning.

Regardless of this, I put my full faith in my compatriots. I entrust them my life.

For all my grandstanding about the academic nature of this work, this is, in part, a story. It is my story, if only because I am regrettably unable to attain the full objectivity that would find me in a fully controlled laboratory setting. 

While I endeavor to write this book alone, do not be alarmed should their hands also touch the pen. They are merely telling their part of the story as well.

[voidcenturyseashanties]

@geishaprincess asked: "Can you pretend to be my friend? There's someone following me." ⇶ Hiyori && Ace

Amidst wandering in Wano, he witnessed a spectrum of things from surreal beauty to unspeakable cruelty. A closed country with only a vague concept of pirates was bizarre to him. They knew not of the dangers that lurked beyond their borders, and he could not help but wonder if it was a blessing or a curse. Though, conversely, their lives were miserable. Under the reign of criminals like Kaido, people were starving and enslaved. This enraged the young pirate beyond words . . . but he knew there was nothing he could do. Not yet, anyway. Following his vow to Otama, he set out on a stroll to clear his head. He knew his manner of dress made him stick out like a sore thumb, but he simply did not care. Anyone who took issue with his presence would likely be an enemy, anyway, he figured. An endless marquee of questions scrolled across his mind as he walked. Would Otama make it? Would he be reunited with her when he did return? Would the people of Wano be free to live as they pleased? The soft voice surprised him. Hell, he nearly jumped out of his skin! The heels of his boots sharply dug into the dirt as he skidded to a halt. He shifted promptly then cast a glance underneath an arm that lifted ( involuntarily ). The words she uttered had been picked up, but not consciously registered. Something about pretending? Friendship? Whatever it was, she looked anxious. There was a movement in the far point of his vision: while subtle, it was just enough to detect even from a distance. Upward his arm continued, then fully unfurled so he could collect her into his side. Perhaps an exact recall of her words was unnecessary to get the picture. "Well, well well! What took you so long? You get lost or something?" Ace offered, his bespeckled visage split with a soft, unassuming smile. "Lucky for you, I'm still hungry."

meme: first meetings part 2.

[rjzimmerman]

I went hunting for invasive iguanas in Florida. Not much went according to plan. (Washington Post)

There’s one up there,” yells my guide, Captain Bud, pointing to a green iguana in the boughs of a pine tree. Through the scope of my air rifle, I can see the distant silhouette of a reptile skittering between tree branches.

I soon lose track of it. Waves are rocking our small fishing boat on one of the drainage canals that helped makeSouth Florida’s suburbs possible, a patchwork of condominiums, backyard pools and strip malls.

It’s a surreal place to be hunting.

I’m here at the behest of the state of Florida, ostensibly to help solve one of its intractable invasive species problems. About 22 miles outside of Fort Lauderdale, among the golf courses and retirement communities, green iguanas are everywhere.

Since arriving in Florida from Central and South America in the 1960s, as part of the exotic pet trade, green iguanas have colonized suburbia. Residents and government officials accuse them of tearing up backyard gardens, collapsing canals and displacing native wildlife.

Florida’s response has been to declare open season on the species. “Every iguana removed is one less iguana causing negative impacts across Florida’s landscapes,” McKayla Spencer, who helps manage nonnative species for Florida’s Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, said in an email. Since 2023, anyone can trap or hunt as many as they want on designated public lands, provided they don’t violate anti-cruelty laws.

With this in mind, I headed back to my home state to hunt iguanas — and it’s why I find myself raising my air rifle and slowly squeezing the trigger. An iguana high up in the trees scuttles off to the other, safer side of the trunk, untouched, my pellet having veered wildly off course.

I’m not a hunter. Growing up, my shooting was exclusively at targets. But I am among the ranks of people that Florida, and many other states, are hoping to enlist in managing species originating from beyond their borders. From wild hogs to lionfish, nonnative species now inhabit an area the size of California across the United States, costing an estimated $120 billion annually in damage — and hunters are being asked to curb their populations.

Florida is their wild west. “We have more nonnative reptiles and amphibians than any place in the entire world,” says Christopher Searcy, a biology professor at the University of Miami, who estimates 26 percent of all species in the state are nonnative. “If you value native diversity, I think it’s pretty bad.”

So my plan was simple: Go deep into Florida’s suburbs and see how hunting iguanas can help restore Florida’s ecosystems, easing the burden of invasive species.

Not much went according to plan.

[zorossugarmama]

Story: Daughter of the Whitebeard Pirates

Chapter: 36

Word count: 7063

Summary: chapter excerpt from my fanfic on AO3.

In a powerful, dream-like vision, you find yourself immersed in ancient, fiery energies, awakening your Haki and reigniting the full strength of your Devil Fruit powers. When you awake in the infirmary, Marco realizes your newfound intensity, and together you face Whitebeard in the war room.

Whitebeard tests your resolve, challenging both your loyalty and your brother Newt's allegiance. Despite his skepticism and the weight of his authority, you stand firm, passionately defending Newt’s value to the crew and your commitment to family. Whitebeard ultimately relents, accepting your alliance. As the crew readies for war, you and Newt share a silent promise to face whatever comes—together.

Haki dreams are weird. It had been ages since Whitebeard had last made you succumb to his strength. Granted, you did break protocol and embarrass him, so his wrath was a little warranted. As the world around you twists and warps, pulling you into a swirling void. You realize you're not fully awake—but you’re also not in the realm of your own soul either, a place between that and something greater. The air is thick with a power that hums against your skin, something far greater than anything you've felt before. Haki, the intangible force of will, has wrapped itself around your mind and pulled you into this surreal vision.

Suddenly, a blaze erupts around you. The fire roars to life in a violent storm of red and gold, forming a towering pillar that stretches into the void above. But even with the fire raging around you, you feel no searing heat, no fear. Instead, you stand calm in the eye of the storm, your breath steady. Your eyes catch a glimpse of your arms—your skin glowing faintly, as if ignited from within. Scars that once marked your body now pulse with a soft, radiant light, like embers from a flame long forgotten. Each mark tells a story, and now, they seem to hum with a purpose beyond the battles that gave them to you.

The sound of whispering, echoing voices begin to swirl in the fire, overlapping and blending into one another, like a chorus of ancient tongues. The words are strange, yet familiar, as if they’ve always been there, waiting for you to hear them.

"As old as the first stars... older than the first sea... destined beyond tides..."

The voices speak of things lost to time and things not yet born. You can’t tell where one thought ends and another begins. Their words flow like a river of forgotten knowledge, sweeping you up in its current.

"...Be wary of time... when lightness and darkness become one..."

As they speak of an eclipse, you see it in the fire. The sky darkens as the sun and moon align, an omen suspended in the heavens. Night and day converging, their borders blurring until they are indistinguishable. The fire flares higher as the voices speak in unison, growing louder and more urgent.

"...A chosen path... A gods’ will..."

Despite the intensity, you remain still, calm amidst the chaos. Your scars continue to glow, brighter now, as if reacting to the words, as if they understand something you don’t. The weight of their meaning presses down on you, not like a burden, but like an invitation. An understanding seeps into your bones.

The voices fade into nothingness as the words "The path of the Gods chosen right will be open..." lingering in the air like smoke.

And then, silence. The fire still burns, but it no longer rages. It crackles softly, a beacon rather than a storm. You stand there, glowing softly in its light, knowing what lays beyond is yours by right.

As the fire around you begins to fade, the flames twist and coil like snakes, slowly unraveling into thin tendrils of ash and shadow. They drift upwards, disappearing into the darkness above, leaving you standing alone. The silence that follows is heavy, but it’s not oppressive—it feels like the calm after a storm. You inhale deeply, the air cool against your skin as the last remnants of the blazing pillar dissipate.

Your eyes adjust to your surroundings, and you realize you're no longer in the place between darkness and lightness– the haze. The charred ground beneath your feet is real, as is the ring of pillars surrounding you—the very same pillars you tore down not long ago. Their once imposing forms are now nothing more than crumbled stone, shattered ruins. These were the pillars inscribed with runes that had bound you, locking away your devil fruit, suppressing the power that surged beneath your skin. Now, only remnants of their power linger, cracks in the stone flickering faintly with fading light.

You step forward, each footfall echoing in the silence. And then you see it—looming before you, like a shadow rising out of the rubble.

Your devil fruit.

Once, it had been a small chick, fragile and unassuming. But now, it stands before you, massive and ominous, its shape larger and more foreboding than before. The air around it seems to hum with energy, a power that feels ancient and untamed, almost as if it has been waiting, growing in the shadows, for this very moment.

Your breath catches in your throat as the form shifts and stirs. From the ashes at its base, the little chick that once bloomed—small, delicate, and fragile—has transformed. It’s no longer the vulnerable creature you had cradled. Instead, a large bird emerges, its wings wide and proud, its feathers shimmering with a soft orange glow, like the embers of a dying fire. The tips of its feathers burn with a radiant red, brighter than anything you've seen before, as if the very flames that had surrounded you were now part of it.

The bird trills, a sound that resonates deep in your chest, not unlike the voices from your vision. It’s a call, a reminder of the power that has always been yours. Its eyes, glowing faintly, meet yours with an intensity that makes the ground beneath your feet feel unsteady.

Then, without warning, it spreads its wings and takes off into the sky. Its powerful form ascends swiftly, each stroke of its wings stirring the air like the rush of a storm. You watch, entranced, as the bird rises higher and higher, a beacon of fire against the darkening horizon, until it becomes a distant point of light.

You stand in the remnants of the ruined pillars, the silence pressing in once more. But this time, it feels different. The binding runes are broken, the dream has passed, and the power of your devil fruit has awakened, larger and more fearsome than ever before. The path ahead feels uncertain, yet the air buzzes with possibility.

“Holy fucking shit…” You mutter as you watch your awakened devil fruit fly through the air. You race through the brush a huge grin plastered on your face as you reach the beach that laid before the island. Your bird was huge and it glided through the air effortlessly as you stood amongst the sand. It rounded a couple times in the setting sun before it perched itself behind you, on the edge of the forest line. It ruffled its feathers and it stared at you.

Where you stood now, you had come to call it your soul's core. It was where you had come often during Shanks training trying to reach past the raging sea and into that void where your soul fire stood. As you looked back at your devil fruit you thought it was odd, that it hadn’t grown its usual soft brown feathers but that wasn’t high on the list of things you were worried about. You noticed that it never stopped looking at the sea in front of it. You could feel it assessing, thinking, but you didn’t know what of. You combed your hands through your hair and sighed. You tried waking but it was no use, he had knocked you out cold. So you just sat at the edge of the beach looking out into the horizon. Languid clouds drifted by and the sea was rather calm.

The rising sun was slowly casting hues of reds and oranges across the sky.

If you were going to be stuck here for the foreseeable future you would at least try to practice getting to that void that was below the sea. Standing up you looked back at the bird and then back to the calm seas. This sea was a challenge. You scowled and smiled widely as you began to undress. You wondered briefly if the clothes really mattered but you were already stripping down to your underwear. The bird spoke in a singular high pitch trill at you softly and you smiled even wider— at least it was talking to you now. It had been silent ever since you dropped down into this realm.

“I will tame this sea if it is the last thing I do…” you muttered quietly as you discarded the last of your clothes. You took a step forwards and the cold touch of the water set a tingling feeling up your spine. The water was different this time, you continued to step further into the icy waters and that same tingling feeling seeped into your skin and licked at your bones. It felt familiar, like it was the same feeling that coursed through your body when Whitebeard tried to calm your aching nerves, or the feeling of his command when he was done with your antics. It was like this sea was infused with his command.

“It can’t be…” This water was infused with Whitebeard's command, it tingled and forced your conscious to step out of the waters. Was this the effect of a command on the soul? It had to be…

But, if this was the effect of a command on the soul then why was it only allocated to the waters? Your mind was racing now. You had thought that this entire place was your soul, yet, haki commands were directly tied to one's soul. If that were to remain true…

“It is, isn't it?...” You spoke quietly as you stepped back.

This raging sea, this turmoil of chaos and fury. It had to be your soul. Your fists balled as you screamed. It all made sense now, why you could never reach the void. This sea, this vastness of pure rage was your soul. You kicked and you thrashed at the sand. Your fury is mirroring itself within the raging sea before you.

“Fucking hells below, I am such a fucking idiot!” you screamed. The tension within the sea grew higher and higher with each scream. You were falling apart. It was such an easy thing to figure out how, how could you have been so stupid to miss it.

The bird behind you chirped and cawed in response. Yet you paid it no mind.

You stepped out of the waters and back onto the sandy beach. You needed to calm down, it wasn’t going to help you, your rage. The bird behind you cawed once more as if to disagree.

You sighed deeply and pushed aside the anger and looked at the bird.

“What is it?” you asked it.

It ruffled its feathers again. You felt it within you, a sort of patience that wafted from the bird. It could not speak but you had been with this devil fruit for your entire life that you could essentially understand what it was saying.

“Patience isn’t really an option right now, we’re headed into war and I’m stuck here like a child in time out…” You grumbled. You were drifting between emotions again. The happiness you felt while running through the brush had instantly dissipated into nothingness as you threw a tantrum at the sea. You needed to get a grip. The bird before you lowered its head and trilled at you again. For the first time you saw a glint of something more motherly in its gaze.

The tension in your shoulders lifted as you sighed again. You walked up to your bird and placed your hand on its head. It was so warm to the touch.

You needed to have faith that by whatever cruel joke the Gods decided to play on you that it was for something far greater than you could ever imagine. That your life was worth so much more than what you had originally thought. For fuck sakes, your haki, your devil fruit, your fucking will for seas sake was back. It was back with a fervent passion that it boiled in your body and filled you with a conviction that you hadn’t felt before. It was a conviction that despite it all you would see the end of the horizon, no matter the cost.

You thought back to the first time you were hit with what you now realize was a weapon filled with the sedative that Caesar Clown had used on you, it had nulled your haki for a short period of time that it rendered you useless on the field long enough for you to get your ass beat. It didn’t help that those damn bastards also stuck a fucking sea-prism stone javaline pole through your shoulder to keep you from flying away. Your shoulder ached at the thought but that was ages ago. It was when you first encountered the change in warfare between pirate crews. Fuck even the marines could stand to use those weapons to achieve the chance of creating a world in their vision. It was then in those few moments on the field, far away from everyone else that you experienced what it was like to feel utterly hopeless for the first time since leaving Mary Geoise. It was from then on you devoted yourself, unconsciously, to feel freedom wherever you could. However, Whitebeard after seeing you ravaged on the field had grown worried, and riddled with guilt for letting his only daughter get hurt that he had kept you on board the ship. Without care of your own desire to be free. Now, after the same, but exceptionally worse, incident with the clown you had consciously devoted yourself to find your freedom, despite the unwillingness of your captain. That was another hurdle you needed to get over.

For a time you mind whirled with pathways, trying to figure out the best course of action, but you never were the best tactician. Always running headlong into the fray without worry; reckless. Maybe you should just take your faults in stride and carry them with the same conviction rather than trying to change them? Instead of seeing them as failures, to see them as a means to bolster your strength? Yeah, that was a good start.

As you stood in front of your bird it leaned down and nudged your cheek carefully, it was like a hug. You smiled and you leaned into it softly.

I am the counterpart, the peace, the wisdom of your soul. A voice trilled as the devil fruit powers radiated from your bird– like an agreement made at first dawn. While you are the counterpart, the rage, and recklessness of your soul. You gasped softly as you felt the slow pulse of power radiate from your bird, like it too had its own source of haki– but it wasn’t haki, it was raw power, strong, and unyielding.

Together we are the lightness and darkness, life and death itself. You laughed as you tried to understand what it was saying. You wanted words to drift from your mouth as the bird stood tall before you. Yet, you came up short.

“Together, we are the breath of resistance and the air of freedom.” You muttered softly as your bird flapped its wings, the sand wafting into the air with the gust of wind it generated. You didn’t need to understand, you just needed to trust that this would work. It felt right, so you went along with it.

You turned towards the sea once more and smiled wide, a hearty laugh escaping you, as you took in the rising sun. The words you spoke next bubbled within you as you stared at the dawn with a surge of power you haven’t felt before. This was your start. Your beginning. A new dawn.

“I call to the heavens, the divine celestials of my time, hear me and bear witness as I show you the strength of your God's chosen right!” You yelled into the air as your bird took off with one push and glided across the sea. Under it the raging sea parted and you ran forwards towards your festering and fiery will that was locked below the sea. You couldn’t contain the smile that spread across your face as you rushed towards that void. Without fear you dropped in, the jagged and sharp edges melting away as you dived towards those flickering flames. It was like the dimensions themselves collapsed into nothingness as you fell? Floated? You drew close and once you touched those burning hot flames it was like your consciousness shifted with a steady pure and radiant ring of light that expanded outward and calmed the raging sea above and blew away the clouds. Leaving behind a calm, flat sea above with a light blue sky that stretched on for ages. The flame that was locked below the surface of the sea seeped into your skin as you were pulled to the surface. You weren’t scared, or worried about where the flame had gone because you could feel it burning within you.

You were the manifestation of your will. For once, it wasn’t an unattainable entity locked away.

—

You woke with a sharp gasp, your chest rising as if you'd been pulled from the depths of some unseen ocean. The infirmary around you slowly came into focus—the sterile smell of medicine, the quiet creaking of the ship beneath you. But something deeper stirred inside, a heat that pulsed through your veins, coiled and restless. It wasn’t just Haki—no, this was something far more profound. You could feel it, the sweltering power that had been locked away for so long. Alongside that sweltering power you could also feel your fruit and the slow lick of haki along your bones.

Before you could make sense of it, the infirmary door swung open with a crash. Marco stood in the doorway, his usually calm face stricken with shock, eyes wide and breath coming in short, uneven bursts. He didn’t speak, just stared at you as though he was seeing something that shouldn’t be possible. There was a swirling surety in his gaze as he stepped forward, each footfall slow and measured.

“What is it?” you asked, your voice steady, even as your mind raced. You dangle your feet over the side of the medical bed, feeling the cold hardwood floors beneath your feet. Your heart was pounding, that was when you felt something tug within you softly, towards Marco.

Marco’s voice was barely a whisper, tender and trembling. “You’re back…”

“I never left,” you replied, frowning slightly, a tight laugh escaping you. Though subconsciously you understood. You understood that you werent the same anymore. That this heat, this sweltering urge within you was in the place where you had felt rage before. You tried to remember the dream before waking up, you tried, but it swiftly carried away by the slow rocking of the sea.

His blue eyes, usually so composed, flickered with emotion as he moved closer. “Your fruit... it’s back.”

You blinked, the realization settling in like a stone sinking to the bottom of a river. Marco cupped your face, his hands warm and trembling slightly as he gazed at you with an intensity that made the world seem small and quiet. He wasn’t just looking at you—he was searching, feeling the truth for himself, as though even now, he didn’t quite believe it.

"What happened?" he asked softly, his voice barely louder than the creaking of the ship.

“I think... it awoke,” you murmured, your voice distant as you looked into his eyes. The raw power, once stifled and bound, now burned beneath your skin, a living thing that pulsed with a rhythm of its own. "It feels much stronger now."

As you stared into Marco’s eyes, something tugged at you, a feeling unlike anything you’d ever known. It was soft, but strong—laced with a power that hummed with a shade of blue, almost familiar, like the flames that Marco himself wielded. The air between you thickened, charged with an energy that made your pulse race.

“What’s this feeling?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. It was as if the very power you wielded resonated with him, tugging at something deep inside.

Marco released you, stepping back, his breath steadying but his gaze still far away, as if something beyond you both had stirred. “We should head back up…” His voice trailed off, as though his mind was elsewhere, lost in the same unease that had gripped him when he entered the room.

You felt it too, that distant pull of something greater, something waiting on the horizon. The fire inside you was no longer a quiet, slumbering ember—it was awake, and with it, a raging passion that had only just begun to unfurl. Your start was here.

You shook your head, trying to dispel the strange, electrifying feeling crawling beneath your skin when you looked at Marco and nodded your head. The surge of power was hard to ignore, but you pushed it down, focusing instead on the present. You slipped off the medical bed, your feet hitting the cold floor with a soft thud.

"Yeah, you're right," you said quietly, following Marco out of the infirmary. It felt all too familiar—walking behind him, always just a step behind. There was comfort in it, but also a sense of inevitability, like your place had always been in his shadow. As you trailed him, thoughts of your brother gnawed at the edges of your mind. He was on board, last you’d heard, but the uncertainty twisted at your gut. You couldn’t help but wonder if Whitebeard had finally gotten what he wanted.

The thought made your Haki simmer, the familiar energy of your fruit swirling restlessly inside you. The flames that had come to life in your vision flickered, as though feeding off your unease. You quelled them with an ease you hadn’t had before. The sea is now under your control.

“Everything is fine, don’t worry,” Marco’s voice broke through your spiraling thoughts, a quiet coo meant to soothe. His tone was calm, but you could feel the weight behind his words, the tension that still lingered. He hadn’t looked back, and yet, it was as if he knew exactly where your mind had gone.

You nodded, though the feeling didn’t fully leave. Things were changing — too quickly, in fact. You couldn’t shake the idea that this sudden shift in your power, the awakening of your fruit, was linked to something deeper. Was it your will? Your desire to start fresh, to claim a new future for yourself? It felt like your determination had taken root inside your fruit, forcing it to evolve alongside you.

"You sure?" you asked, forcing a small laugh, though it sounded hollow even to your own ears. "I haven’t been knocked out like that in a while."

Marco chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well... you never do things quietly. But your brother is still here. Whitebeard wasn’t impressed, but he didn’t kill him.”

Relief washed over you, and for the first time since you woke, you let out a real breath. The smile that stretched across your face was involuntary, the kind that came when a weight had been lifted from your chest. Your brother was alive—and part of the Revolutionary Army, no less. To think that that same little boy who coward behind you was out there still, and a part of something bigger no less. Though, your heart still ached for the boy who couldn’t help.

"He was the one who helped me when I was in Caesar’s lab," you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It was strange to speak of it now, that dark chapter of your life mere weeks ago, but it felt right somehow. The swirling energy of your fruit trilled softly within you, as though it were responding to your memories, to the thoughts of your brother and the fire that still burned within both of you. You remembered Shanks had told you when you were still on the Red Force; of a man who looked eerily similar to you. You had pushed it from your mind in hopes that you wouldn’t dwell on it, and now, it was all but confirmed for you.

Marco’s shoulders stiffened at your words, and he stopped walking. His posture told you everything—you didn’t need to see his face to know that the mention of Caesar struck a nerve. He turned slightly, eyes flickering with something unspoken, as if he could sense the power of your fruit radiating from you now, stronger and more alive than it had ever been.

As you walked through the lower deck of the Moby Dick, the familiar creak of the ship beneath your feet grounded you, even though your mind was still clouded by the intensity of what you'd just experienced. You looked over at Marco, your thoughts still muddled from the dream-like realm you’d been trapped in. “How long was I out for?”

The question lingered in the air as you tried to make sense of the fragmented images—the sea of your soul, the void beneath, the sun rising and setting over what felt like hours of battle between yourself, your devil fruit, and the raging sea . You had touched something profound in that space, something raw and ancient, it coursed through you now in the form of your bolstered haki and awakened devil fruit.

“You’ve only been out for an hour,” Marco replied, his voice steady, though he didn’t turn around. "Pops is waiting for us in the war room. Every commander is there, along with the Red-Haired Pirates... and your brother, with his advisors."

His words struck like a lightning bolt, and you couldn’t help but tense. The war room. Whitebeard. Shanks. And Newt. You weren’t just stepping back into the fray—you were about to be tested, and you could feel it in the weight of Marco’s words. He hadn’t looked back, but the tension in his shoulders hadn’t left since you woke. Something hung between you, unspoken but heavy.

“You’re to make your case before him and everyone else,” Marco added. “Why should you let Newt join our fight?”

Your mind whirled as you tried to piece it all together. Make your case—the words sat heavily in your chest, as if the odds were already stacked against you. You scowled, crossing your arms as the frustration began to seep in. Was Pops testing your loyalty, your strength? It felt like he wanted you to fail, to stumble before the commanders and the other pirates, to fall short when it came to defending your brother.

“Such short notice…” you muttered under your breath, feeling the pressure closing in. Your head buzzed with thoughts on how you could even begin to present your case.

“I know,” Marco said softly, his tone gentler now. “But Shanks and Newt have already given their report on what happened to you in the facility. You just need to recount how you know him.”

How you knew him. Your brother. It seemed so obvious to you—Newt was the one who stitched you up in Caesar’s lab. He was the one who handed you off to Shanks, saving you from whatever nightmare you’d been dragged through. What more could there be to say? You were siblings, bound by blood and the same fire that raged within both of you.

But it wasn’t about the simple facts. Whitebeard was testing you, seeing how you’d navigate this. He was watching to see not only the knowledge you held, but the strength of your conviction, of your determination to stand by your brother’s side. You could feel it in your gut—this wasn’t just about Newt. It was about you. You were being challenged. So you solidified within yourself to give Whitebeard the best fucking defense you could.

You took a deep breath as you approached the war room, the weight of the coming conversation settling over you like a thick fog. Your thoughts swirled, but in the midst of the uncertainty, there was something burning deep within you—the same fire that had awakened your fruit. You would have to harness it, to prove not only to Whitebeard, but to yourself, that you were ready for whatever lay ahead.

Stepping up beside Marco, you square your shoulders. “I can do this.”

The tension hit you like a wave the moment you stepped into the room. The round table stretched before you, hollow in the center like an arena waiting for the next clash of wills. At the head of it sat Whitebeard, his massive frame practically vibrating with the weight of his presence. His gaze snapped to you, and you could feel the force of his Haki immediately—heavy, oppressive, the kind that made your bones tremble even as you stood tall. It was clear: he was pissed. More so, he was thinking, waiting, possibly hoping that you would come out of this with the same sense of conviction he saw in you all those years ago. The same conviction that was smothered by the celestial dragons and their cruel games.

The Whitebeard commanders lined either side of him, faces grim and unreadable. To your left, Shanks lounged in his chair, a calm contrast to the storm brewing around you. To your right, Newt sat with his advisors, his expression neutral but his eyes flicking toward you. Both Shanks and Newt nodded, subtle acknowledgments, but their presence was like a ticking clock—a reminder that this wasn’t just about you anymore. They were watching, and waiting.

Marco had slipped from your side and taken his place at Whitebeard’s right, the very picture of a proper first son and commander. He didn’t need to say anything—his stance alone conveyed his loyalty to both you and his father, but the unspoken message was clear: this was your battle to fight.

“Step to the center, child,” Whitebeard’s voice rumbled like thunder, shaking the air and rattling through your bones. The sheer weight of his command made the room feel smaller, his Haki wrapping around you like a vice. There was no denying it—he was challenging you, testing your resolve.

You gave a stiff nod, a formality more than anything, and stepped forward. The heat in your veins simmered, your fruit swirling under your skin, but you kept it in check.

Minutes passed, and you found yourself locked in a verbal battle with Whitebeard. What began as a calm exchange quickly escalated as the tension snapped. You had tried to keep your temper in check, to hold back the fire building inside you, but Whitebeard was relentless. His words were sharp, his accusations biting. He didn’t just question Newt’s worth—he doubted your judgment, your resolve. He pushed and prodded, testing you in the way only Whitebeard could, his towering presence demanding answers, demanding to see if you would crack.

Your voice rose, frustration boiling over as you shouted at him, your composure slipping just enough to reveal the fire you’d tried to suppress. “Newt’s information is worthy! He saved me! He’s not just some outsider—he’s my brother!” you barked, your words laced with emotion you hadn’t intended to show so freely.

Whitebeard didn’t flinch, his eyes hard as ever. “Blood alone isn’t enough. Trust must be earned, and right now, I see no reason to trust him. Or you.” His voice cut through the room like a blade, making the tension even thicker.

There it was. The test you’d known was coming. In the past, his words would have shattered you. You would have stormed out of the room, furious and reckless, desperate to prove yourself through action rather than words. You would have flown out into the open sky, letting your temper guide your fists, doing something impulsive just to make a point.

But not this time.

"Newt is not an enemy of the Whitebeard Pirates! He’s willing to cooperate with this alliance and share everything he’s learned about Blackbeard and his plan to erase Devil Fruit powers from the world," you said, your voice ringing with conviction.

But Whitebeard’s glare remained cold, unyielding. His next words hit you like a gut punch, cutting deeper than you expected. "You expect us to take the word of a man who comes from the same blood as you." It wasn’t just a question of trust in Newt. No, this was a direct challenge to your loyalty, your worth as a whitebeard pirate. A shot at every failure you’d had, every mistake you’d made since joining the crew.

"You’ve shown me time and time again that you’re untrustworthy," Whitebeard continued, his voice heavy with disappointment. He lifted a hand, gesturing toward Newt, whose face had paled from the sheer pressure of Whitebeard’s Haki. "Where’s the proof that I can trust you? And by association, him?"

You could feel the weight of Whitebeard’s Haki pressing on the room, an overwhelming force that made it hard to breathe. Newt wasn’t pushing back with his own Haki, that much was clear—he wasn’t trying to challenge Whitebeard head-on. But you? You couldn’t just stand there and let this accusation go unanswered.

"You don’t need proof!" Your voice rose, defiant, your heart pounding in your chest. You could feel the tension in the room shift as you spoke, your words cutting through the oppressive silence. "The fact is, it doesn’t matter what we perceive him to be. The men here, the ones willing to fight, came onto this ship without arms. They brought no means of escape. They came with nothing but a singular vessel, carrying only the men necessary to support our cause."

You gestured to Shanks, who was sitting calmly, listening but not intervening. “To put it plainly, Shanks was the one to meet with him. And Newt—he helped me when Shanks couldn’t. That’s an irrefutable fact.”

Your voice was loud, unwavering, echoing in the war room. For the first time in your life, you felt something surge inside you—a rush of excitement and nerves, a heady mix of determination and fire that burned brighter with every word you spoke. This was it. This was the moment you would stand your ground, even against Whitebeard himself.

Whitebeard’s gaze shifted to Shanks, his eyes narrowing, searching for any hint of deception. But Shanks, ever the calm in a storm, only smiled, nodding in confirmation of what you’d said. He gave you a brief look of approval, a silent acknowledgment that you were standing on solid ground.

But Whitebeard was unmoved. His expression didn’t soften, his judgment still heavy and unrelenting. You could see something dark flicker behind his eyes—guilt, perhaps, or the weight of his own past mistakes. He wasn’t just questioning you or Newt. He was questioning himself, his own judgment, and the consequences of keeping you on board when you should have been allowed to grow from your mistakes.

"You’ve been reckless before," Whitebeard rumbled, his voice lowering. "Why should this time be any different? You speak of trust, but trust isn’t given freely—it’s earned."

You straightened, meeting his gaze head-on, the fire inside you refusing to be snuffed out. "I’m not asking for blind trust. I’m asking for a chance. A chance to show you that this time, I won’t let you down. Newt won’t let you down."

The silence that followed was deafening, every eye in the room locked on Whitebeard, waiting for his verdict. His Haki still pressed against you like a wave crashing against the shore, but you stood firm, refusing to bend. You had buckled to a raging sea before, you would never do the same again.

Whitebeard’s voice boomed through the war room, his words as fierce as the crashing of waves against jagged rocks. "I will not be swayed by the voice of a child!" His Haki roared, shaking the air around you, filling the room with his unyielding will. "For too long, you’ve allowed yourself to tread a thin line on my crew. You are my daughter, and I will not watch you succumb to your own recklessness."

It cut deep, the weight of his words hitting harder than any physical blow. You knew what this was—this wasn’t just about Newt or the alliance. It was fear. Pops was terrified of losing you, just as he’d lost so many before. His Haki radiated with that fear, thick and suffocating, wrapping around you like chains. This was a father’s fear, the guilt that weighed on him. You could see it in the way he stared at you, his jaw set, his eyes aflame with something far deeper than anger.

But you weren’t backing down. Not now. Not when everything was on the line.

"I am a Whitebeard pirate," you shouted, your voice ringing with defiance, "and I have dedicated my heart to live freely among my family! I will die for this cause if it’s the last thing I do! Newt is my family, and if we use his men in the fight ahead, our victory will be undeniable!" You stood tall, your chest heaving with the fire surging through you. "For the sake of this world, for the sake of my freedom and my family’s, I will advocate for his strategic value!"

For a brief moment, there was silence. Then, one of the commanders spoke up, his voice cautious but firm. "Whitebeard, their words are worth considering. We don’t know what power Blackbeard holds. If their capture with Caesar is any indication of the threats we face, it would be wise to listen to their brother."

Whitebeard’s eyes narrowed, his voice like thunder again as he silenced the commander. "Quiet. As captain of the Whitebeard Pirates, I swore a duty to protect my family from any danger that may come upon them! I will not be swayed by the voice of a child."

A child. The word stung, but you wouldn’t let it tear you down. You were no longer that reckless kid who sought validation through chaos. You had faced your demons, conquered the sea within your soul, and stood stronger because of it. You weren’t going to let him dismiss you so easily.

"I am no longer a child!" you roared back, stepping closer, your Haki flaring in response to his. "I know I fucked up! I know I was careless while serving under you! But you need to listen to me. Newt is a valuable asset for our fight—for victory!"

Your blood pounded in your ears, your heart racing with a wild, unstoppable energy. This was it. The moment that would set you on a new path.

You took a deep breath, your voice steady and resolute. "Let this be the action that sets me forward on a new path. I will challenge anything—anyone—that stands in my way of freedom. My freedom belongs with my brother, with my family, and with myself. I will do anything in my power to attain that freedom."

You locked eyes with Whitebeard, unflinching, daring him to see you as more than the reckless child he once knew. You weren’t asking for permission anymore. You were demanding it. Demanding that he see you for who you had become.

For a moment, the room was silent, the air thick with tension. Whitebeard’s gaze bore into you, fierce and unrelenting. But you didn’t waver. This was your fight, your stand, and you would not yield.

Finally, Whitebeard sighed, the fire in his eyes flickering as he leaned back in his chair. "Very well," he rumbled, his voice quieter now but still heavy with authority. "You’ve made your stand. Let’s see if you can back it up."

As the door to the war room burst open and the pirate from Marco's division shouted, "The allies have responded, we are headed to war!" your heart jumped in your chest. The tension that had been simmering exploded into action. Marco was already on his feet, taking the paper from the pirate's hands. His eyes scanned the letter, and then he nodded toward Whitebeard, confirming the inevitable.

Whitebeard’s voice boomed with command, “Man your posts, we leave now.” The room stirred immediately, every commander springing into action. This was it. The fight was on, and you had stood your ground. Despite the odds, despite Whitebeard’s resistance, you’d earned your place in this battle.

As the room emptied, Shanks approached you, his hand resting on your shoulder. His familiar smile was warm but knowing, his gaze filled with a mixture of pride and nostalgia. “You’ve certainly outgrown that woman I knew before. I’ll see you out on the field,” he said softly before walking away, leaving you with the weight of his words and the promise of the fight ahead.

Then Newt stepped forward, his presence a sudden anchor to the flood of emotions rushing through you. You looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment, it felt surreal. It had been so long since you’d last seen him—the brother you’d left behind all those years ago. The boy you remembered was now a man, wearing the weight of his responsibilities like armor, but there were still traces of that child in his face, the soft roundness of his cheeks, a shadow of the past.

“We have lots to talk about,” Newt said, his voice steady, but you could sense the unspoken emotions between the two of you. His words were heavy with both affection and the burdens of the life he had led without you. It felt almost unreal to see him here, alive and standing before you, when you’d once thought you’d lost him forever.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Yeah, we do," you replied, your voice quieter than you intended. There were so many questions swirling in your mind, but now wasn’t the time for them. The battlefield loomed ahead, and everything else had to be put on hold.

But the promise lingered. After this war, after the dust settled, you would have that conversation. You’d make up for the lost time. For now, though, you had a war to fight—together.

Newt’s eyes softened, a rare moment of vulnerability slipping through the hard mask he wore. "We’ll survive this," he said, as much for himself as for you. And though you couldn’t be sure, you nodded again, your resolve hardening. You had to believe that.

[jessdyet]

Beyond Borders - Surrealism

[kootiepatra]

#FFxivWrite 2023 - Day 9: Fair

[slides this in just under the deadline like Indiana Jones under that big stone door]

Keimwyda stood nervously on the platform, with three very important documents on her person: two missives—one to be delivered to Limsa Lominsa, and the other to Ul’dah—and a pass that would allow her to board the vessel that was currently docked in front of her.

Her whole life, she had seen airships occasionally fly overhead, and they would be of Ixali make as often as Eorzean. She had never been close enough to one to touch it before, let alone to get on board. Logic told her that of course the things could reliably fly; else they wouldn’t be relied upon by the city-states like they were. Her instincts protested that the vessel sure looked too heavy to get airborne, and the balloons too flimsy to stay there besides. And the rarely-issued pass in her hands reminded her that such travel was only done by necessity, since a stray Garlean patrol would not hesitate to try to bring it down.

She wondered how long it might take to reach Limsa Lominsa by road and then by sea, and if she might not make a case for traveling along those more conventional means.

She had half-forgotten that Miounne had accompanied her to see her off, so she jumped when the woman put a hand on her shoulder. “Nervous?” Miounne asked with a warm smile.

“Oh, no,” Keimwyda replied quickly—less out of pride than sheer reflex, the impulse to convince everyone, including herself, that she would be fine. “I mean. Well. A bit, I confess.”

Miounne chuckled softly and gave Keimwyda’s shoulder a squeeze. “I should not blame you if you were. But believe me that neither would I sign off on this trip if I thought you in any real peril.”

Keimwyda smiled unevenly in an effort to look reassured. She turned her eyes back to the crew who were bustling around, lashing down anything that could move, and performing final checks. They looked bored enough that she could believe they were not worried. 

She tried pulling her mind away from the vehicle, instead fixing upon the destination. She could ever so vaguely remember a brief trip beyond the borders of the Black Shroud, just once, when she was yet a young girl. It was just to the outer edges of Coerthas, back when the terrain was still somewhat hospitable. Otherwise, her entire life had been spent in the forests she knew as home. 

Her father had been based in Limsa Lominsa before he and her mother settled in the Shroud. She remembered how he would talk about the city when she asked: sometimes with fondness and sometimes with chagrin. In any case, he had decided against moving back there after his wife passed away. It was not somewhere he wanted to raise his little girl.

But now as a woman grown, Keimwyda had entertained the idea of one day visiting. She had loose plans to do so at some point after she got established in Gridania and put a few gil away. Her father may have had mixed feelings about the place, but it was a part of his history. She thought of it as something of a pilgrimage, a way to remember the man who had also been taken from her life so long ago—perhaps even a way to gain some closure about his ship’s disappearance. At least it would be an opportunity to try and learn more about what his life was like before she had entered it.

She had definitely planned to go by boat, though.

And she had definitely not planned to be traveling under the auspices of the Elder Seedseer.

The past few weeks felt immensely surreal.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” shouted the captain from the deck of the ship. “Your attention, if you will. The Falcon’s Flight is now made ready for departure. A fair wind blows from the east, and in ten minutes we make for Vylbrand. Pray board promptly and have your pass ready to show to the crew at the gangway.”

Miounne squeezed her shoulder once more. “Good luck, envoy. Make us proud.”

Keimwyda’s smile was less forced at that remark. Miounne had been kind to her, and she was grateful for her guidance. She took a deep breath to settle her nerves, and she boarded.

Her stomach lurched as the vessel took to the sky. She gripped the railing with whitened knuckles. She had never thought herself much bothered by heights before, but then again, she had never experienced them while not being somehow anchored to the ground. The velocity of the ship forward, or the rate at which it climbed, would each be dizzying on their own, but together… Twelve preserve.

Yet as they gained proper altitude and soared away from the Roost, she could not but forget her worry as the land unfolded before her. Within minutes, she could see the edges of Thanalan’s desert far to the south. Not long after, she could see the glimmer of the ocean on the horizon—her first time seeing it with her own eyes. The forest beneath her still consumed most of the landscape, but for the first time in decades, she bore witness to its edges.

The Shroud’s ancient, majestic trees still dominated the ground below, but for the first time, she could really marvel at the way their canopies shied away from each other in an organic, puzzle-like pattern. She could see the paths that the rivers carved through them, as if the drawings of maps she had seen all her life had leapt off of the page and gained life. Flocks of cloudkin swirled in formation below them—below them! Imagine!

The fragments of Dalamud, scars from the Calamity, were tragically and starkly visible from up here. But she could also see the way the forest was beginning to close around them, bounding back from the beating it had endured. The birdsong, the rustling of the trees, the roaring of the waterfalls—all sounds which she loved, to be sure—did not reach this elevation, and were lost under the whooshing roar of the skies through which they now flew.

The world at once felt far bigger and far smaller than it had ever seemed when she was on the ground. The horizon felt closer, more alluring, more exciting.

She could hardly believe she was actually contemplating it, but… she could get used to this.

See you soon, Papa, she whispered, too quietly for anyone to hear, as that fair wind carried them towards the sea.