#Washing Carpentry

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[coochiequeens]

Ladies in Washington, please share this.

Author: Leah Pezzetti

Published: 6:55 PM PDT April 4, 2025

KENT, Wash. —

The Western States Regional Council of Carpenters union (WSRCC) has launched a new program at the Kent training center focused on recruiting more women into the trade. 

The Bridging Outstanding Opportunities with Tradeswoman Skills (BOOTS) program originated in Los Angeles then expanded to Portland in 2024. It’s a four-week pre-apprenticeship class exclusively for women that lays the framework for entering the carpentry trade. 

Dani Ferris has been a carpenter for ten years and teaches the new all-women class in Kent. She said she’s witnessed firsthand the lack of women and female role models in the trades. 

“Now, we’re being able to set these women up so that the future generations, they will be able to come in and they’ll see somebody who looks like them, they’ll see somebody in roles of success and leadership. Then they’ll know hey, I can do this, I got this,” said Ferris. 

A WSRCC spokesperson said in the union, women make up 3.23% of the membership. In Washington state, women make up about 7% of the carpentry workforce. 

Ferris said it’s a hard but rewarding job. She’s proud to have a hands-on job that has high impact. 

“I love being able to wake up every morning, go in, put in an honest days work, see the progress of what I’m doing every day. Then be able to leave and come back and drive down the street, look at all the things I touched, and be like ‘I did that,’” she said. 

New apprentices in Washington start at $37 an hour, then increase to $61.54 an hour when they become journeymen. 

The first cohort of women in the BOOTS program is started in March, but Ferris said this will be a regular, ongoing program for women moving forward. 

For more information, visit the BOOTS website. 

[sleepy-fiction]

Weeping Clown Drabble

Weeping Clown x Reader. | Joker x Reader. 🤡🚀

Weeping Clown x Reader. | Joker x Reader. 🤡🚀

syn: an exploration of your relationship with Joker post Hullabaloo game, detailing your relationship's sinful sicknesses and dove-like health.

tgs: fluff, angst, comfort fic, mild sex mentions, violetta lives (f u idv devs), NSFW but not smut, very sweet read! Not proofread

3k Word Estimate

Calm, quiet moments with the weeping clown.

Snuggly cuddling up with him, both of you undressed, with your body pressed against his. Laying serenely on his chest, his hands wrapped tight around your back, your face near his collarbones, the top of your head familiarizing itself with the bottom of his chin.

His prosthetic has long since been abandoned on the floor. He's in no hurry to leave not for a very long while. His breaths are slow and deep, his chest rising and falling, picking up your head and body before carrying them back down low. The warmth of his thighs envelope your legs on either side, and you've turned your hips a bit to give his private area some place. But you love being here, drowning in him.

The smell of his body, face paint, orange scented lotion, and wants of hair spray mingle in with your senses. Setting you at ease to his unique scent. The sounds of his breath the fireplace, and the generator outside the cabin humming away only added to the sunset hues that washed in from the window.

Ever since surviving the manor, the two of you have become so lazy.

Spending lazy morning wrapped up together, not knowing where Joker ends and you begin. And ending your long days the same way you began, only this time with full bellies and drained muscles from hard work.

Weeping was so warm. At times, he was his own heater. You always clocked it as the radiance from his heart ebbing out to the world, and how it melted on to your cheek. The covers were barely on you, they were tangled up somewhere beneath you and him, barely covering your bottom, simply because you couldn't let the muscles there get remotely cold.

And oh, how Joker's long, slanky arms trapped you to his radiance. The contrast of cold metal fingertips drumming up your body made you shudder, but they soon absorbed the mountains of heat the two of you created simply by holding each other.

And oh, how your ears were soon graced with a serene little melody. A raspy hum trailling out his strung body, as his chin shifts above you, all to place a much needed kiss against the top of your head. It's met with delighted chimes from you, chimes that only make him stay, aggresively peppering your head, each time growing stronger with a rough passion.

It's only when you squeak and wiggle your head that he finally comes too, sucking in a huge breath and flipping his head back where it belongs. He releases his sigh hard, as if he were merely drowning seconds ago, and is now coming up for much needed air.

The world felt like it was underwater before he let you in before he met you.

You met shortly after Hullabaloo broke down. He stole the carpentry job position you had been working so hard to get, earning more wages despite how long you had already been working there. You hated him, you were so envious. But then you learned of how sweet he was. How kind and thoughtful, how attentive he was to your needs. Then, almost like magic, the two of you clicked, and fell head over heels in love so suddenly.

You did everything in your power to slow things down, you were scared of love.

But his intimacy, his affections, that soft doey look in his eyes crept it's way around.

Then he got that letter.

He never told you much about that circus he used to work for. Not much other than it burned down, that nobody ever found the culprit. But you saw that look in his eyes. It was a look you had never-ever seen him wear.

It was this stiff, tormented look, like a veteran of war slowly dissociating, slowly shrinking away to horrid memories. He had this weird air about him since getting this letter. Serious, cold, quiet, distant, defensive... And you hate to say it, demented.

He was closing you out. You hated it.

And you hated even more how he decided to play that performance, despite how every part of his body seemed so distressed at the mere mention of it. Its like he didn't know the stress his body was displaying, like he didn't know it was bad.

It was hurting him, chewing away at him deeply, but he didn't even know it.

You knew it.

So you knew you wouldn't let him go alone.

You arrived at the manor with him. Watching him dress himself in this creepy, unsettling way. The makeup and get up of a clown, not the carpenter that you knew. Nothing was wrong about the makeup, it was fun, it was just the unsettling, wounded look in his eyes paired with that crazed, deluded smile of joy strung up on his lips.

He worried you so much. He acted so displaced. As if he were a character in a performance, trying so hard to pull the knives out of others while ignoring the lethal spear lodged in his back. You tried to hold him at night, but he was never in his room. The times you could get him alone, he could barely form coherent sentences, shaking and muttering, eyes lost in a cloud of delusion.

He was scaring you. So you held him, you swarmed him and trapped him there. Even when he tried to leave, ever so oddly in the middle of the night. You woke up (as for some estranged reason, you couldn't sleep at night, and had your own set of terrifying, unexplainable delusions), and kept him.

You wanted to leave early. Everyone there was acting strange. Everyone there was unsettled and holding back. All bottled up, each having their own twitch, their own characters that ignited when they were around eachother. And when the game itself started, you and the spider girl, were forced to sit out as the "audience". The blonde from before, whose name you've slowly begun to forget, liked to called you the "Judge" or an unbiased set of eyes.

You sat in a tent with the spider, watched the blonde dress himself as a clown, and hide away. And Weeping, a girl who you've assumed was "Natalie," entered in shortly after, ignoring both you and the spider; as any character before, an audience should.

Shortly after.

Things unfolded.

You learned the truth about your clown the hard way. And the blonde, the blonde became so obsessed with your "verdict" of Joker.

It was horrifying. Horrifying how his hounding of you started this weird, unnatural reaction from the spider and the clown. They morphed into... Creatures you didn't know.

You were barely able to calm the clown down through your fear, but it didn't stop how Mike too began to warp from his own confusion.

And when your verdict came.

"All of you are guilty."

You said those words not knowing the backstory behind the circus hullabaloo, behind this "Sergei" or anything else. Only knowing the chaos that unfolded between the spider, the clown, and the acrobat of the hullabaloo circus.

Somehow, somehow you were able to end the cat and mouse chase. Somehow, somehow you escaped, tugging along Joker- Joker who looked large and monstrous along with you with all of your might. You fought so hard to bring him with you, fighting tooth in nail, fighting like a rat backed into a corner.

And when you finally arrived home, slept it off, the days following it where filled with the bitter weeping of your beloved clown. He tried to tell you all of it, sober, no longer overcome with whatever it was that the manor made you all feel. But you didn't let him.

You let the chapter be closed. You let the story end there. You felt you didn't need to understand it all, and he didn't deserve to relive it all over again.

So you held him.

You held him until the spring sun sprung up after winter's thick clouds. You took care of him, with him, until the sun's rays helped kindle the little fire in his heart. You encouraged him until your little carpenter returned.

You supported him as he stood slowly on his own too feet again. As he washed away his facepaint of yore, as he peeled back his deathly cloak of shame, leaving himself open and vulnerable. You encouraged him, gave him his space when needed, and moved and breathed, slowly reclaiming your own sanity, your own normalcy.

Your home began to smell like wood, pollen began to flood the late winter air. You supported him until the day he saw the first flower of spring, a lonely daisy poking up from melting snow, and smiled-- truly smiled. He cracked a soft joke, forlorn and filled of admiration, "Un-bud-lievable..."

As daisies always were his favorite flower.

Then, on, things began to weave together. The sun had turned a cheek and showed his face again. And though you knew he felt undeserving of it, you were so proud, so proud he lived yet another day with you. So proud of the way he bounced again, the way color filled his cold winter cheeks.

The sounds of sneezing and tissue blowing filled your lonely little cabin, despite his misery, it brought you boundless joy. And God, you were ever so proud, and ever so overjoyed, by the string of flower-related jokes. By mid-spring, your pride mellowed out into a new feeling.

A yearning no longer satisfied by long hugs. Byt tart kisses, or soft cuddles.

Soon, most of your mid spring evenings were filled with passion and almost frantic, love-making.

The kind that was crazed, like love birds on their honeymoons, burning with a mutual desire, and an overwhelming acceptance. A connection, a fire that complemented your compatability, your natural, almost primal, sexual synergy. The desires of your nights were long, chaotic, arranging in an array of vibrant stars and vivid colors. Vivid new ways to explore eachother, vivid ways to love and feel. From the teary eyed, sobbing, sweet and gratefully adventures, to the wild, crazed, barbaric takeovers, he felt whole. He came out healed from each one. Gaining more understanding. No. More acceptance of himself, despite the intensity of his sins.

And by the time the stormy, rainy April came around, Joker could finally say, with full confidence that he was truly himself again.

All thanks to you, guiding him in the way of intimate, unconditional love. Love that was loyal, love that was all his, love that rewarded, love that took yet never destroyed, love that changed yet never rejected, love that was soft and quiet. Love that was gentle and accepting.

Love of an easy yolk.

So here he confident lays beneath you, warming up your normally frosty body, after a thunderstorm that's aftermath clicked on the low, tidy hum of your home's generator. Laying uncomfortably beneath stringed sheets, yet too lazy to get up, knowing how his back will be accosted. But loving every second, of your lovely, purring body, that was devoted only to him.

How lucky was he, to be saved by you. To feel your feather-falling mercy and selfless support, even when you fail to understand him, you over tender unconditional care. Care of which, you claim, he first gave you endlessly. Something he will forever fail to see. So he continues to drown you in the same gentle, ever-budding, open ears and providing arms.

Warming you with his natural summer sunshine, the way you, his tender spring moonlight, loved.

Humming, joking, professing to you, everlasting.

Holding the key to your very essence, and supplementing the cry of your body.

His dearest, his love, his savior.

He swallows thickly, staring at the ceiling, feeling blood begin to rush to his downstairs.

Ah, who was he kidding? He was no poet, simply a horny, obsessive clown with a knack for carpentry work.

And damn.

His face flushes, his hips shift.

Your soft body was wonderland all over.

So, as any predictable fool would, Joker stutters out of his sweet cleft lips, "My d-dear... Make love with m-me yet again."

And you're ready in seconds.

[estellardreams]

Failed Matchmakers

(Demon King Red and the Battle Nexus belong to @purble-turble)

"And... Open them!"

When King Red agreed to find someone else to love in this universe, he was hoping for any sort of MK.

What he wasn't expecting was a swap universe in which MK took his place as a Demon King. Specifically the new Monkey King.

And by the great samadhi fire... He was gorgeous. Soft, fluffy dark brown fur, beautiful auburn gold eyes, his clothes draped loosely like a Renaissance painting. Sweet sunset oranges, flower petals and twigs messily strewn through his hair. At least it wasn't the worst... But he could surely do better in presentation, right?

"Oh, my darling MK!" he immediately hugged the monkey.

Mk blinked, slowly easing into the hug. "Love me some hugs. May I...?"

"Of course- AH!" King Red was instantly crushed under the monkeys strength in the hug, being lifted off his feet.

"Put me down!" he yelped.

"Ohh no~ My little gloriosa, I'll keep you safe... Even if my own flower is gone."

Flower? His pet names were on flowers?

"So, ah. Where do you wanna go for our first date?" MK pulled away, brushing himself off.

Red paused, thinking for a moment.

"I got just the place."

"Here we are!" the two arrived back in his universe, standing right in front of his fortress.

Mk tensed up, but kept his bare feet planted on the smoldering ground.

"Oh, my sweet darling. What do you think?" he asked.

"It's... Uh..." MK stared at everything, trying to find something to like.

Honestly... There wasn't much. Sure it was gold, sparkly, with so many rubies and tapestries... But nothing seemed to catch his eye.

He strained a smile. "It's... Pretty."

"Of course it is! I knew you'd love it, now come on inside! Let's fix you up and I'll get us some food!" King Red led MK through the doors, opening up to a bedazzling cherry red corridor lined with Obsidian pillars, golden accents, and silky carpentry and tapestries.

It felt like too much to him.

"Oh, my love. Right this way... Let me assist you in getting cleaned u-"

"No! No no, it's... Fine. Truly." MK quickly cut in.

"Oh, but I insist!"

"I prefer my privacy, thank you very much. Besides this place is making me feel very claustrophobic already... You'd understand, right?"

Red paused. He wasn't expecting MK to say that, let alone call these huge hallways and rooms "claustrophobic". It sounded so out of proportion to him!

He sighed, stepping back. "Fine. If you insist."

He clapped his hands, two nearby servants to the room rushing in.

"Can you please clean and dress up my darling accordingly? And make it quick?"

"Of course, my king!" one of the demon's said, leading MK into the room nearby.

Mk winced, getting pushed inside as another led him to the nearby tub.

"Ooh! Water!" he pushed past them and leapt in, only to land face first in the tub and completely splash most of the water out.

He crawled back to a sitting position, awkwardly chuckling. "Oops."

One of the servants sighed. "I'll clean it. You wash him."

"Nah, don't worry! I got it!" MK slipped off his clothes, using his draped sash as a cleaning rag and crushed up one of the flowers in his hair, turning it into soap and rubbing it in.

The two servants winced.

"He's not gonna be a good fit for the king, is he...?" one whispered.

"Nope."

"Just... Assist the monkey with washing himself. I'll clean this up and get the tailors here."

"Alright."

King Red patiently waited at the dining hall. This was going... Surprisingly better than he had expected.

Sure it wasn't the best, and this MK was... Unique. But it was still his loveable noodle boy, he'd adore him either way!

The food was ready, the two servants in charge of tailoring his look came out, MK tucked away behind him.

"Oh, my sweetheart! There you are!" Red smiled sweetly.

Mk moved past the two servants, stumbling in his clothes. They were some gorgeous garnet red and gold trimmed robes, draped on the monkey magestically, his fur all fluffed up and silky, shimmering in the light.

... Yet his clumsy behavior made it quite hard to admire his attire.

Mk caught onto the chair, shuffling into his seat.

"Now, I prepared so many of your favorite foods! I want to make sure you feel welcome here!" Red chimed in.

"Oh, uh... Thanks." MK strained a smile, already feeling this wasn't working. But he was gonna give it the benefit of the doubt.

The food on the table looked rather delicious, with plenty of hot soups, dumplings, noodles, fried rice, din sum, stews, chili's...

Yet nothing King MK liked. His face fell a little, but he quickly forced up another smile the moment he noticed King Red smiling at him.

"I'll just... Take some of these." MK sheepishly took some noodles and rice for himself, eating them.

He coughed, wheezing a little. Great sage was it spicy! He took the glass of water and drank it, nearly draining the entire cup.

"Now, how do you feel about this date?" Red asked.

"It's... Um. Something." MK mumbled, pushing around the rice with his chopsticks.

"Well, I'm sure you're going to love it! We'll be together, forever, I promise~

Mk stopped eating, noticing King Red trying to sneak a golden cuff with a ruby on his wrist. He immediately slammed Red's arm down.

"You know what? How about we make this a double date?" MK offered.

"Just to make sure we're right for each other. I came to your place... Now you gotta come to mine! Okay?"

"Oh. Very well, then." King Red pulled back, brushing himself off.

"Great! Now let's go!" MK grabbed Red and bolted out the door with him, tossing off the robes he was wearing, revealing his original look right underneath it.

"Here we are!" MK excitedly pulled King Red through.

Red froze.

This... This was Flower Fruit Mountain.

"Do you... Live here?"

"Ha! Of course, I'm the new Monkey King! Now c'mon, I wanna show you my humble abode!"

Mk took Red's hand, leaping up onto a cloud and soaring off to the mountain.

"Where's... Sun Wukong?" Red asked, clinging to MK to not fall.

"Oh, I'm sure Macaque's having fun with him as always." MK brushed the question off, landing in front of the cave.

He opened up the waterfall, revealing a nicely decorated open space, the ceiling broken open as flowers and vines are draped around. There was a nearby river with a small waterfall continuously pouring water in, alongside a small corner orchard, woven hammocks, plush cushions, and it felt so... Open. With literally no privacy.

Red winced, trying to back up. MK pulled him in, spinning him around excitedly.

"I can't wait! You're going to love this place!" he gushed, hugging Red tightly.

Mk scrambled back outside, scaling the cliffs. He got to the top before leaping off and diving to the water below, causing a huge splash of water to crash onto King Red... Instantly extinguishing his hair and by proxy his powers.

Wait. Was that OCEAN water?!

Red tensed up, trying to drain the water from his hair. He yelped, seeing MK crawl up the cliff from at his feet, grab him by the ankles, and pull him down with him.

The two crashed into the water. Red coughed, washing up to the shore, his outfit already ruined and his hair drenched.

"Ooh! Have you ever tried mud baths before?" MK swam to the surface, his tail wagging excitedly.

Red's nose scrunched up, immediately knowing where this was going. The monkey got out of the water, shook himself off, and took Red by the hand and led him through the jungle.

Red paused, staring at the amount of flowers they were passing by. MK's eyes widened, taking the flowers.

"Oh, gloriosa! Look at these!" he smiled, plucking the flowers.

"These are the flowers I named you after!"

Red's gaze softened, cupping the flowers in MK's hands.

Fire lilies. Of course, it was the only thing they made sense.

Mk giggled, taking the flowers. He unraveled Red's bun, fluffing up his hair a little and weaving the flowers in them.

Red paused, watching him carefully before the monkey returned right to him.

"Oh, gloriosa. I love you so much." he kissed him on the nose, cupping the king's cheeks gently.

He turned back, noticing some fruits growing in the trees. He scrambled to the top, tossing down a bunch of fresh fruit into the dirt.

He leapt back down, scooping it all up and showing a mango to him.

"Try it! They're delicious!" he smiled.

Red hesitantly took the fruit, trying to be polite to the monkey. He didn't wanna eat it, especially with it being so dirty.

He sighed, brushing off the dirt as well as he could before biting into it.

Sweet, zesty... Fruity. Not his thing but he wasn't complaining too much. It just lacked his usual spice.

Mk promptly shoved all of the fruits to Red, sitting him down and handing him each one to try. Red strained a smile, taking them and cleaning them all off one by one, meanwhile the monkey returned to fiddling with his hair, planting in more flowers.

Rumberry was so sour. Passion Fruit was overly musky. Acai was so... Rich and tart. Kumbu was so uniquely savory it caught the king off guard. Aguaje was very sweet, salty, and very sharp in flavor.

The food was becoming a bit too much, but MK kept making him eat, still styling his hair and slowly pulling down his soaked robes, leaving him with only his top and pants, his sleeves rolled up.

Great sage his stomach was starting to hurt.

"Sweetheart... You're as tender as the orchard we reside in." MK brushed his hair out of his face, booping his nose.

Starfruit was so sweet and tart. Mangosteen felt like a dessert treat in the form of a fruit. Dragonfruit was sour and sweet. Pineapple was overly sweet... But eating it without cutting off the skin made his stomach churn.

Red huffed, tossing the fruits down to the ground.

"You okay? You haven't tried these yet." MK asked, carrying twenty more fruits in his arms.

"I... I'm done." Red heaved, falling back.

"Oh, okay!"

Mk swiftly returned back to running off, finding a nearby river and then a mud pond. He excitedly dove in, flopping onto his back and relaxing.

Red frowned, walking up to MK at the mud pond.

"Royalty isn't supposed to get this... Rough and messy. Don't you know that?" he mumbled.

Mk snirked. He burst out laughing, coming out of the mud and cupping his cheeks again.

"Oh, you're adorable!" he chirped, taking both of his hands and falling into the mud with him.

Red face planted, immediately getting up and trying to spit any of the mud that got into his mouth, trying to wipe so much of it off his face.

"Oh, come on! It's relaxing!"

"It's undignified!"

"No it isn't! Besides, I know you like it, silly!"

Red's nose scrunched up. He got up, trying to brush himself off. "No, I don't."

"Aww! Come on, flower!" MK whined, grabbing Red by the ankles. He stumbled, falling right back into the mud.

"GAH! Let go of me!"

"No! You're staying here, with me, forever! Where we can be happy together!"

"No! You're gonna stay with me, forever, at my home!"

"No, my home! Yours is too cramped!"

"Yours is disgusting!"

"Yours is suffocating! The clothes are too tight!"

"Your clothes are too revealing and you're so messy!"

"The cuisine is not my taste either!"

"Nor is yours!"

"THIS WILL NEVER WORK!" both screamed.

They stopped, staring at each other. MK huffed, standing up.

"I see we've come to an agreement. You may go back now. I won't hold you here."

Red sighed, trying to tear the flowers, twigs, and mud from his now dreadful hair.

"We'll never speak of this."

"Deal."

"So... Update on the Prince Red situation?" Mei asked.

"Not that well. He's just so... I don't know." BSMK mumbled.

"Down?"

"Yeah... Its so weird."

The two stopped, hearing a portal open. Out stumbled a wreck of the two kings, both immediately parting ways.

"... Crisis averted. Good plan." BSMK said.

"No! That wasn't the- I was hoping that if they'd got together they'd stop bothering all of us!" Mei snapped.

"Ooh. So... It failed?"

"YES IT FAILED!"

"Heh, nice look for King Red though. He should be like that more often." TT Red remarked.

"I HEARD THAT!" King Red yelled back.

TT Red smiled, slipping back away from the MK and Mei, returning right back to VMK.

"Ice blade." he said.

VMK looked at King Red, then at TT Red. He slipped him another ice blade alongside a fillet.

"Use those wisely."

"Oh, gladly~

[ask-postcrash-curly]

when i was little, i didn’t talk to many people and i was in the woods a lot, but one of the only other kids i would talk to regularly was my brother. i’ve talked about him before, Etienne. he’s the one you’re directly descended from. i’m like… your aunt. don’t ask me the amount of “great”s there are in there, because i really don’t want to try to count that right now. anyways, i got off topic, sorry.

me and Etienne would play sometimes, and in the 14 century that meant running around and doing dumb shit. the three of us (us including my sister) would go down to the river every day to wash our clothes and ourselves as part of our chores, and this one time, Tie was standing on a mossy rock and he was saying something childish about how he was a bear and he was gonna eat Mahaut and i because we were fish and in the middle of this, he slipped and fell face first into the stream. it wasn’t too deep, like maybe up to my shoulders, and he was taller than me, so he was fine, but i genuinely didn’t laugh that hard ever again until like 40 years ago.

me and my sister Mahaut weren’t super tight-knit, and neither was she and Tie, but the two of us were always close. he married a little after i died, and his wife Bérengère had twins shortly after that. he named the girl after me. i don’t know why he did that, curse another poor child with that name. he really liked my name though, actually i think i was the only one who didn’t.

i got to talk to him when he died. he wasn’t very old at all, his children were still all under the age of 15. he was the only descendant of my grandpa Michel who did something notable. he didn’t follow my father’s career in carpentry, at least not officially. he became a logger like Michel. he built himself a house on top of the ashes of the house my grandfather perished in, kept up his name and notoriety, and then he died around the same age as him. hahah, he said that he wasn’t surprised this was where i ended up. (she rolls her eyes and laughs) asshole.

🖤

Your brother, right… Huh. Yeah. Do I have to start calling you “Aunt Death,” then…? Hah.

Pfft. That’s brilliant. What happened forty years ago?

Aww. He must have missed you a lot. Honestly, I’m not sure what’s wrong with the name either, but if you don’t want me to use it I certainly won’t.

Descended from loggers. Good to know. He wasn’t surprised? Damn. If I died and my sister was Death I’d be losing my mind. Can only imagine how weird a kid you must’ve been to warrant that, hah!

Good music. Thank you.

[digitulworld]

DHMIS teachers answers if you asked them the interview questions

Where do you live?

Sketchbook: In the dark, sometimes.

Tony: Midwest.

Shrignold: Far away from you.

Colin: Indoors, outdoors, sideways, vertical, and horizontal.

Spinach Can: Ping-pong galleria with my friend Schmuck.

Steak Guy: In your house!

Lamp: A magic barn.

What do you like to eat?

Sketchbook: I’m on a liquid diet.

Tony: It’s in the attic somewhere.

Shrignold: Something very warm.

Colin: Extra large cereal.

Spinach Can: Cardboard

Steak Guy: I can’t believe you would ask me that.

Lamp: Pink bones, red fibers, and a spinning wheel.

What is your favorite color?

Sketchbook: Green. Is this a trick question? It’s green.

Tony: Tan.

Shrignold: Lots and lots of purple.

Colin: The one with five letters.

Spinach Can: What color is grass?

Steak Guy: Grey horses.

Lamp: You're being too silly right now, you have to stop.

Do you like cows or goats?

Sketchbook: Anything yellow.

Tony: It doesn't matter to me. Nothing matters to me.

Shrignold: A baby sheep, is that like a goat?

Colin: Lizards.

Spinach Can: I made a cow mad once, and then got Cow Mad Syndrome.

Steak Guy: Big ones. Just the big ones.

Lamp: It jumps over the moon!

Do you have brown hair?

Sketchbook: Only on Tuesdays.

Tony: Are you stupid?

Shrignold: Lime green, like my mothers.

Colin: I asked you first!

Spinach Can: You should stop asking me that, I'll give it back later.

Steak Guy: It just gets stuck like this sometimes.

Lamp: Yesterday I saw a dog, but it was an evil dog. Don't ask me how I know.

What is your blood type?

Sketchbook: I had to glue some on myself so they'd stop bothering me.

Tony: Just a big clump.

Shrignold: I don't know, they all look the same.

Colin: I can't remember what it looks like! It’s very shy.

Spinach Can: What the *beep* is blood?

Steak Guy: Blood? Is that what they call it nowadays?

Lamp: Theres worms in me.

What are you allergic to?

Sketchbook: Having a nose.

Tony: It changes every day, and has been for the past 977 days.

Shrignold: Absolutely positively everything.

Colin: Fish paste.

Spinach Can: Eggshells, all of them. They pushed me down the stairs once.

Steak Guy: I don't need one!

Lamp: The Boogeyman. We’re on bad terms.

Whats your favorite idea?

Sketchbook: Anything but this question.

Tony: The giant bird that appears in my dreams sometimes.

Shrignold: My favorite pair of shoes.

Colin: My idea website. It generates ideas, like fun ways to hold a spoon.

Spinach Can: Hammers! Lots of hammers! And a nickel!

Steak Guy: Throwing my keys into a hole.

Lamp: TV shows about Alaska.

What do you find exciting?

Sketchbook: Big balloons, the alphabet, kites, gas planets, carpentry, a sock. The rest is personal.

Tony: Basements with creaky stairs.

Shrignold: Moths in small amounts.

Colin: Every 14th day of the month.

Spinach Can: A really really really small traffic cone, that tells you when you're going to die.

Steak Guy: Mold.

Lamp: Four trampolines.

What happened after the olden days?

Sketchbook: TVs started using colors, and now people are ungrateful.

Tony: I’m not playing your little game.

Shrignold: Everyone got sad, so I had to help them.

Colin: There were three wars, four explosions, and two train crashes, all in 1958.

Spinach Can: The world got mucky and ate dirt and beans.

Steak Guy: A rude mouse flipped the bird at me.

Lamp: They had bigger and bigger dreams, and then everyone got so big, they had to stop eating foods that made them dream big. The moral of this story is that you should wash your hands twice a day.

What are you scared of?

Sketchbook: Medium-sized rodents.

Tony: 7:00pm.

Shrignold: Whatever you're scared of.

Colin: A pound of sand.

Spinach Can: Mud crunching.

Steak Guy: Holes in pudding.

Lamp: The big night sky we’ll all get lost in one day.

What are your hobbies?

Sketchbook: Throwing vegetables at paintings, you should try it one day.

Tony: Watching people blink.

Shrignold: I sew clothes for my friends, but their first question is always, “How do you know my exact measurements? I never told you them.” You just can’t please everyone.

Colin: Data analyzation, accounting, coding, excessive security measurements.

Spinach Can: It’s beach ball related, if you know what I mean.

Steak Guy: Meat hobbies.

Lamp: Finding used cigarettes on the ground and taping them together to make a big cigarette, I call it The Ultimate.

What is your favorite song?

Sketchbook: Banging plastic together, if thats a song.

Tony: The Screaming Album, 1938.

Shrignold: I made all of them up.

Colin: Trapezoid Angles by Super Henry 3

Spinach Can: Four of them and they’re bad.

Steak Guy: Just noises?

Lamp: Mr. Bungle

Where do you go on holiday?

Sketchbook: My imaginary imagination place.

Tony: I just walk around.

Colin: If I leave my house, I die instantly.

Shrignold: Every day is a holiday if you know what you're doing.

Spinach Can: Mister Loopy’s Pizza Restaurant that I keep getting kicked out of.

Steak Guy: Where all the pigs are.

Lamp: Nightmare Land.

Who do you love?

Sketchbook: The letter B

Tony: Boys? Girls?

Shrignold: Please don't.

Colin: My toothpaste bottle cap.

Spinach Can: Cheese thrown against the window.

Steak Guy: Finger soup! Teeth! Orphans!

Lamp: The giraffe I met once, that I went on adventures with.

What is love?

Sketchbook: Anything that smiles.

Tony: Something not very important.

Shrignold: Do you want me to tell you? I’m a little busy.

Colin: One of the twelve main Brain Viruses.

Spinach Can: Endless sink drains.

Steak Guy: A string of hair. A lot of hair.

Lamp: It grows two legs, and then one day it’ll kill you.

What do you dream of?

Sketchbook: Pools and pools of blood tubes.

Tony: It all became a blur to me, I had to stop before I went mad.

Shrignold: So many little squirrels eating me.

Colin: Untied shoelaces.

Spinach Can: Peanuts, but they keep spelling their name wrong.

Steak Guy: Markets that only sell one type of vinegar oil.

Lamp: I can’t dream, I have a condition.

[sergiosimptellitto]

Ecce: Femina

Chapter 30: Teeth Marks

That 1983 night – Paxton Estate, 11:42 PM

The Paxton mansion looked like a funeral parlor dressed for prom. Polished, gilded, and overlit.

Maranata stood at the back gate, the key clenched in her hand, a cardigan wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

Marta had arranged it all. No guards. No alarm tonight. Just silence.

The kitchen was the first room—gleaming countertops, empty wine glasses with lipstick marks, a forgotten silk tie slung over a chair. Then came the den. A massive painting of Richard Simmons and Randall Sr. shaking hands beneath a glowing cross.

She crept upstairs.

One room was Randall Jr.’s old bedroom. It still had Wall Street posters and a taxidermy eagle. Another was a “study” full of unopened theological books and a thick mahogany desk. She pulled at the drawers.

At first, nothing.

Then—a folder, hidden beneath blueprints and building permits.

She opened it.

Inside were itemized invoices. Bricks, cement, landscaping, carpentry hours. Everything that the “volunteers” were doing, listed at inflated prices. Next to each entry, a Paxton company name. Construction Solutions of Christ, LLC.

She kept flipping.

Then she found letters—correspondence between Randall Sr. and donors. One line stood out:

“We estimate $1.2M in profits from unpaid labor—blessed be the servants.”

Maranata’s stomach turned.

She put the folder back exactly where she found it, her hands trembling.

Downstairs, she passed a side door leading to the garage. Something drew her to it.

Inside: dozens of unopened boxes labeled “Imported Tools for the Glory Project”. All tax-exempt. Most of them sealed.

Some, not.

She opened one.

Inside: dozens of t-shirts for the volunteers with the slogan “I Lay Bricks for the Lord.”

A prop.

A campaign.

A scam.

Outside, the stars were blinding. Cold.

She walked home in silence.

Maranata didn’t know what she’d do yet.

But she knew now:

They were building a kingdom.

And it wasn’t God’s.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, still in her blouse, her bag open beside her, surrounded by diskettes and copies of transfer receipts.

She saw the way it all connected: the way her name was used to bring in the Spanish-speaking congregants. The way the sermon she gave—work even without reward—had become a pitch. Her own words twisted into a net to catch volunteers.

Her name had been attached to flyers. Her Friday youth meetings had been used to distribute the construction schedules. She’d helped coordinate transportation for men and women working ten-hour shifts “for the Kingdom.”

No food.

No pay.

“Glory to God,” Richard said.

Glory, indeed.

Her stomach turned. She got up, stumbled to the kitchen, threw up in the sink.

Then, quietly, she rinsed her mouth, washed her hands, and walked back to the desk.

She picked up one of the diskettes and turned it over slowly in her palm.

They’ll destroy me if I say anything.

But then she thought of Marta.

She thought of the construction volunteers—of a boy she’d seen weeping by the bleachers last week because he’d had to skip school to carry rebar with his uncle. She remembered the t-shirts: “I Lay Bricks for the Lord.” The campaign banners. The smile of Randall Paxton Sr. shaking hands with the mayor.

Her jaw clenched.

She would not be silent.

She would not be used.

And if God had ever truly called her?

Then maybe this was it.

She rushed back home, mom and dad had left for the week.

“Remind me again—how exactly are you related to Randall Paxton Sr.?” Valentina asked as Maranata stormed into her own home with a stack of papers and documents.

“Okay. So. My step-uncle—my stepdad’s brother—married Micah Simmons, who happens to be the daughter of Richard Simmons. You know, the pastor of the third largest megachurch in Texas?”

“Still lost.”

“Alright. So—Leah Paxton’s maiden name is Leah Simmons. She’s Mrs. Paxton and Micah’s sister. Which means she’s both my uncle’s sister-in-law and his ex-girlfriend. Messy, I know.” Maranata knows that this is confusing, her own head took a time to get used to it.

“So Richard Simmons has two daughters—one married your step-uncle, and the other married...?”

“The son of Pennsylvania’s Senator. Randall Paxton Sr.” Republican. Right wing. Conservative, the ugly kind.

“Of course she did.” at this point, nothing could surprise the self-proclaimed trailer trash with peroxide hair.

Maranata had no time to loose and she settled down the papers and documents in the table, she was bold enough to brink a handful of diskettes, hopefully her dad would not need the computer soon.

“Mr. Simmons endorsed his campaign like it was the Second Coming. And now Randall Paxton Sr. is his right hand. He probably won’t run for office himself, but from what I’ve heard, his son—Randall Paxton Junior—is very interested.”

“So you're telling me that your stepfamily is part of a religious empire and politically wired?”

“Exactly. And I used to write sermons for them.”

“Until when?”

“Until next week.”

The boutique was quiet, honey-colored and warm with soft lights. Goffredo had been unusually cheerful that morning—he bought the dress in both shades without blinking. “For you,” he said, pressing the delicate bags into her hands. “For my girl.”

“My girl,” he’d said, and she hadn’t corrected him.

She humored him, walking to the changing rooms, rolling her eyes, muttering something about imperialism in chiffon. But she smiled too. A soft, strange smile. She liked being seen.

While she was gone, Goffredo waited outside, arms crossed, trying not to look too eager. A store attendant offered him a seat. He refused. Instead, he paced near the entrance, waiting to be stunned.

Then came laughter.

A loud, unapologetic, masculine laugh—ringing out from a silk-draped figure down the hall. Goffredo turned. His eyes caught a tall silhouette with wide shoulders, wearing something pale pink and delicate, makeup shimmering under the boutique lights. The figure didn’t even flinch beneath the stares of two teenage girls in the corner, nor the gaping mouth of the old woman near the scarves.

Goffredo stared. Mouth closed. Jaw tight.

Then, as if summoned by divine irony, Maranata stepped out of the dressing room.

And she looked—

She looked like his future. A soft blue version of the dress clinging to her frame, her curls still slightly damp from the morning, a small mole above her collarbone visible just past the neckline. His girl.

But instead of telling her she was beautiful, he turned to her with the urgency of an old church woman with binoculars.

“Did you see that?” he asked, pointing—not subtly—down the hallway.

She blinked. “See what?”

“That… that man. The crossdresser.”

Her face hardened instantly. “Goffredo. First of all, shut it. Second of all, we don’t know he’s a crossdresser for sure. He could be a drag queen, or transgender, or a regular straight man who lost a bet at a bachelorette party. Who knows?”

“It’s a travesty. A sin.” His voice was tight, foreign to her.

“Then pray for their soul,” she said, brushing past him, smoothing down the sides of her dress. “

He caught up to her outside the boutique, their arms brushing. She didn’t pull away. She looked tired, though—tired in that way people do when they’re forced to explain dignity.

Still, she was so beautiful, glowing with something ancient and womanly and kind.

And that rattled him. He fumbled for the next thing to say. Something to make sense of the unsettled, spiraling feeling in his chest.

“I just don’t get it,” he murmured, voice quieter now, bitter under his breath. “Why mutilate your body to feel like a woman? Why would anyone want to be this?”

And then she turned.

Softly. Clearly. Like truth itself.

“I would.”

He stopped walking. The world didn’t.

“Why do you always go back to hormones?” Maranata asked suddenly, softly. “Whenever someone trans comes up, you always—always—talk about hormones.”

Goffredo, hands behind his back like a monk, inhaled. “Because it’s chemical. It’s science. And they say the soul is in conflict with the body—but what if the body is lying? What if the hormones confuse the soul?”

She stopped. Sat on a bench. He followed.

“Gio,” she said, eyes tired, “I have a hormone imbalance.”

He turned to her, caught off guard.

“I have PCOS. Polycystic ovary syndrome. It means my ovaries are covered in little sacs that throw everything off. My period comes whenever it wants. I get cramps that leave me crawling to the floor. My blood sugar acts like a drunk driver. I grow hair where I shouldn’t. I lose hair where I wish I wouldn’t. I have mood swings that make me feel like I’m not even inside myself.”

She didn’t look at him.

“And you know the irony? My body produces too much estrogen. Too much. I’m not only a woman, Gio—I am a woman whose body overperforms femininity. And yet, I feel like an impostor.”

He sat beside her, stiff, quiet.

“My doctor told me that my body’s own fat lines my vaginal canal. Too much of it. She said it might block sperm from reaching the uterus.” She tried to laugh, it came out more like a gasp. “Isn’t that absurd? Food is my comfort, it’s always been—and now my comfort has become my punishment.”

“Maranata…”

“I don’t want sympathy.” Her voice cracked. “I want understanding. You speak of trans people like they are absurd for feeling dislocated in their bodies. But I am dislocated too. My body is a woman’s body. And it doesn’t love me back.”

He watched her. He didn’t have words. Not yet.

“I’m not defending a ‘trans lifestyle,’” she said. “I believe in scripture. I believe God doesn’t make mistakes. But I also believe—we live in a world where everything is falling apart. And that includes us.”

His brows furrowed. “God made man and woman in His image and likeness. He did that with purpose. With design.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But this world? We broke it. And that brokenness lives inside of us now. Our DNA. Our wombs. Our skin. Our thoughts. Our chemistry.”

He looked away, jaw clenched. “God is not uncertain. God stays the same. God does not shift to accommodate our weaknesses.”

“No,” she nodded. “And glory be to His name for that. But we are not Him. We are uncertain. We are shifting. The wage of sin is death, and death is the separation from God. That includes separation from certainty. From clarity. From the Way, the Truth, and the Life.”

Gio, did not like that, not at all, she made a point, one that he considered lacking.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” she said quietly, arms folded, her voice neither sharp nor soft—just barely there. Like it was trying to vanish before it could be judged. “I know you don’t mean harm, Gio. You never do.”

He looked at her, but she didn’t look back.

“I just...” She tugged at the hem of her sleeve. “It’s hard to explain.”

“I’m listening,” he said.

She gave him a long, sideways glance. “You say that a lot.”

“Because I mean it.”

A breath. Then two.

“I never really felt like a woman,” she said finally. “Not in the way other women talk about it. I feel like I’m doing drag. Bad drag, at that.”

He furrowed his brow. “But you are—”

“I know I am, Goffredo,” she interrupted gently. “Biologically, socially, legally. I’m aware. But that’s not what I’m saying. I feel like an imposter. Like I’m constantly being graded and failing the exam. My body doesn't move like it should, I take up too much space, and nothing I wear ever makes me feel right. I stand in front of a mirror and I don’t think ‘woman’—I think mistake. A character in the wrong costume.”

He was silent. The kind of silence priests are trained to sit with, but rarely ever feel.

“Growing up,” she continued, “every girl I knew was soft, cute, dainty. Their knees didn’t knock together. They had small wrists and big eyes and liked lip gloss. I liked old books, obscure doctrines, and talking about theodicy at youth group until people stopped inviting me.”

A short laugh. Not bitter. Not anything.

“I tried. Lord knows I tried. I starved myself. I studied girls the way scientists study frogs. I tried. But no matter how I looked or dressed or smiled, I felt like I was in drag. Like I was fooling everyone, badly. Like I was occupying a role that belonged to someone else.”

“I never would’ve guessed that,” he said, his voice thin.

“I know.”

“I see you as... so whole.”

“I’m not.”

She looked at him then, and her eyes were dark and full of everything—everything she’d ever buried.

“I think that’s the worst part, Gio. I want to be what you see. I want to be soft. I want to be gentle and holy and womanly. I want to be the kind of woman who gets kissed on the head when she cries and doesn’t have to explain why she hurts because everyone already knows.”

The streetlight flickered on above them.

“I’m not trans, and I’m not any sort of...gay. I’m just... lost inside a body that doesn’t feel like it belongs. I know the world says I’m a woman, and I believe them. But when I’m alone in my skin, I feel like a fraud. That’s all.”

He looked at her hands—strong, trembled only slightly.

His dove. His bunny. His girl.

And he had no idea how to hold her.

But he wanted to.

God help him, he wanted to.

He pulled her in by the waist, not roughly, but with that confident firmness that made her heart betray her better judgment. That boyish arrogance he wore like cologne, natural and annoyingly effective.

“I like your eyes,” he said.

“We have the same eyes,” she replied, quirking a brow.

“Exactly. That’s why they’re beautiful. I am, after all, perfect.”

She giggled. Good. He’d seen that faint shimmer of glass over her lashes—too close, too heavy. He would chase it away if he could.

“That was so cliché.”

“I like...” he feigned consideration, eyes scanning her face with mock seriousness, “your nose?”

She gave him a theatrical gasp. “I like your big Roman nose too.”

“It was a gift from my father,” he declared, raising his chin with dignity. “But yes... still cliché. I like your eyes, your hair, the way it curls when it’s humid... your eyebrows...”

“All still cliché,” she interrupted with a smug smile.

He narrowed his eyes, pretending to be offended, then suddenly deadpanned:

“I like your sternocleidomastoid.”

She froze, confused, and then burst out laughing so hard she nearly doubled over. “You went from cliché to niche in three seconds!”

“You were the one who told me the name of that muscle!” he argued, pointing a finger.

“What’s next?” she teased, catching her breath. “You going to compliment my cardiac artery? You know, the one vampires go for in romance novels?”

“Vampire romance novels?”

She squinted at him, grinning wickedly. “You eat your Lord and Savior every Sunday, you don’t get to judge.”

“Oh yes,” he said, mock affronted, “how could I forget—since your hollow Protestant cults believe they’re eating a tasteless wafer instead of the Mighty Lord of All Creation...”

“You are a restless wafer!” she shot back, triumphant.

And just like that, he grabbed her by the waist again and swung her lightly side to side in exaggerated, dramatic turns.

“You take that back!” he shouted through his grin.

“Never!”

She was laughing so hard now she was almost breathless, her curls bouncing around her cheeks, her eyes alight with something unnameable—joy, maybe. Or the strange peace that came from knowing she could be utterly, ridiculously herself around him.

“You are ridiculous,” she wheezed out.

He slowed the swing, hands still at her waist, holding her like a secret he hadn’t decided whether to guard or shout to the heavens.

“And you,” he said softly, breathless himself, “are mine.”

She didn’t correct him. Not this time.

They still had their sacred little rule—no kisses on the mouth. A legalistic barrier they’d constructed to keep themselves righteous, or maybe just to feel like they were still in control of a flame that had long since devoured them both.

But rules had loopholes. And Goffredo, despite all his rigidity, was a master of finding them.

He leaned in close, slow and steady, as if they had all the time in the world. His nose brushed hers, their foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling between them.

Closer.

Closer.

Then—just as her lips parted ever so slightly, caught between hope and hesitation—he smirked, the kind of smug glimmer that made her want to either slap him or marry him.

His voice came as a whisper against her mouth, warm and wicked:

“Throw your head back.”

She blinked, confused. “What?”

“Do it,” he murmured, eyes dark and glittering.

Against her better judgment—as usual—she obeyed. Her head tilted back, exposing the curve of her neck, vulnerable and open.

Then he leaned down and bit her.

Gently, reverently, his teeth sank into the soft skin of her throat—not harsh enough to hurt, but enough to hold. Enough to mark.

She laughed in surprise, but he held her there with one hand cradling the back of her skull, thumb brushing her so she would not be scared.

Then, abruptly, he let her go—threw her from his arms with a dramatic flourish like she’d burned him.

She staggered, flustered, flushed. Her hand flew to her neck.

“YOU LEFT ME TEETH MARKS!”

“Proof that I was there,” he said, completely unapologetic, already reaching for her wrist to pull her back.

She looked at him with mock outrage, but he saw the blush creeping up her throat, the way she didn’t quite pull away.

He was losing himself—he knew it. But oh, what a beautiful way to fall.

Because inside of their minds, biting was more acceptable that a chaste peck on the lips.

“The new mayor made it official that he donated a big amount to the church,” Maranata explained, voice low and steady. “But he didn’t. He only gave half and pocketed the rest. The other half went straight to Simmons and Paxton.”

Valentina blinked. “Wait… but without the full donation, how are they building that massive church and auditorium they promised?”

“Tithes. Free labor. And 'love offerings' that start at ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten thousand?! Who has that kind of money?”

“Politicians. CEOs. People who need to hide income for tax purposes. Here's how it works— for example, they claim that they donated twenty thousand. The church signs a receipt saying they received it. But they actually only give ten. The other ten goes back to them.”

“Back to them?” Valentina frowned. “How?”

“A quiet wire transfer. Usually into some bank account in Switzerland or the Caymans. That way, if they ever get audited, there’s a paper trail saying: ‘Yes, I gave this much to the church.’ But in reality, they kept half.”

Valentina sat back, stunned. “So they’re just... stealing and covering it up with receipts?”

“Exactly. And everyone wins, the church still gets ten thousand, the donors get to make deductible outcomes of money and nobody looses—except the people doing the work for free.”

“And you?”

Maranata looked away. “I helped bring them in.”

She went ahead to cover the teeth marks with something, this is what Adam and Eve felt like when they were in the garden of Eden naked, this was completely shameful, he chased her and she whined.

He pulled her back with no ceremony, eyes wide, whisper-hissing through clenched teeth.

“Stop yelling! People will think I’m some—some perverted man!”

She smirked, victorious. “And the lie is…?”

“Come here!”

He yanked her arm again, not hard, but with enough fervor to show he wasn’t above dragging her by the wrist back to the hotel. She didn’t resist. Not really.

They kept walking—if you could call their erratic zigzag of insults and laughter walking—through the cobbled street, past little stores closing for siesta, past a world that could not possibly be as alive as the ridiculous pulse running between them.

“You actually read vampire romance novels?” he barked. “That gibberish? That softcore heresy in book form?”

“And you cannibalize Jesus every Sunday,” she countered sweetly, brushing a curl from her face, radiant in her indignation.

He gasped, affronted in the way only Goffredo could be. “He asked us to! The Eucharist is sacred! The communion is a commandment of the Lord—which you would know nothing about because your butchered Protestant Bible—”

“Butchered?” She stopped walking, letting go of his hand. Her face lit with mock scandal. “Jesus literally said ‘Do this in memory of me.’ It’s a memorial. Not your Hannibal Lecter reenactment.”

He nearly choked on air. “Dr. Lecter?!”

“You’re the one chewing on body and blood, Goffredo,” she shrugged, as if she were just stating facts. “At least vampires are consistent.”

He couldn’t help it. He laughed. A sharp, unbelieving, boyish sound—one that hadn’t left his throat in years.

She was absolutely insufferable. And he would burn down the world before letting anyone else have her.

They reached the hotel doors, still bantering, still arguing in overlapping phrases about sacraments and novels and theological interpretations until the night clerk gave them a look. Goffredo cleared his throat, straightened his posture, and switched to Italian under his breath:

“If I die unmarried, it will be your fault, donna eresiarca.”

She didn’t understand the last word, but she felt it. Something sharp and fond and dangerous. She elbowed him in the ribs and marched inside ahead of him.

The office was cool and bright, all cream-colored leather and shining wood. Pastor Richard Simmons sat behind his desk, hands folded, watching her with that calm, piercing gaze—one that always felt a little too kind to be sincere, a little too knowing to be safe.

"You’ve done good work, Maranata," he said, smile unwavering. "God is clearly with you. The way you speak, the way you move people—I see it. And I think it’s time we talk about what comes next."

She sat up straighter. Her palms were sweating. It felt like being called into the principal’s office and a courtroom at once. But she nodded.

"Yes, sir."

He leaned forward. "I’d like to help you with college. Tuition. Room, board—whatever it is, we’ll cover it. You deserve that much."

Her mouth went dry. “Thank you… truly. I was actually just starting to look into linguistics. Translation work, maybe. I’ve always loved languages.”

He didn’t frown. He didn’t blink. But something in the air changed. Just slightly.

"Linguistics," he repeated, like tasting something bland. Then, with his usual warmth: "A noble field. But not quite... what I expected."

She tilted her head. “What did you expect, sir?”

"Theology. Divinity. Ministry." He said it like a benediction, not a suggestion. “You have a gift for preaching, child. That’s not something you bury under syntax and semantics. The Spirit moves in you, and that’s rare. You could be a bi-vocational pastor, of course, but if you focus on theology now, we could begin the process of bringing you on as an affiliated minister—maybe even give you the Hispanic outreach ministry formally. We need a shepherd for those souls.”

There it was.

She swallowed hard.

“I appreciate the offer. Really, I do.” She tried to make her voice soft, not resistant. “I do plan on studying theology eventually. But right now… I want to learn something that can earn me an honest living.”

He raised a brow, but didn’t push. “You plan on being a bi-vocational pastor, then?”

She hadn’t thought that far ahead. But the words came anyway, quiet and clear:

“Maybe. My father always said the Lord gave him a calling, but also two hands—so he could provide for himself without charging the Gospel.”

That made Simmons smile again. A different kind of smile—wider, toothier, less warm.

"Wise words. Your father’s always had a good head." Then, with his voice back to honey: "Think about it. If you choose to study theology, here or at one of our sister institutions, the door is open. And your tuition’s covered. Entirely."

She didn’t speak right away.

"Of course," he added, "in the meantime, we’d still like your help. Max has a big fall series coming up—he’ll need sermon drafts. And we’re expanding our pamphlet ministry into Spanish. You’d be perfect for that. Just until you get settled."

She nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it.”

That night, Maranata didn’t sleep.

She lit a small lamp in the cramped room she shared with another intern and pulled out her notebooks. Not theology. Not scripture. Scholarship applications. Admission essays. Public university programs.

She didn’t want to preach someone else’s words. She didn’t want to be paid for loyalty disguised as “calling.” She wanted to earn her own bread, with her own hands. Like her father taught her.

So the next morning, with trembling fingers and a small stack of forged bravery, she started filling out scholarship forms.

It was late at night, she could not stop the memories, she could not stop the guilt, she could not shake the disappointment.

Where could she go? Where could she be at? Where could she hide her shame from the Lord?

Where can I go from your Spirit?

Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;

if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

if I settle on the far side of the sea,

even there your hand will guide me,

your right hand will hold me fast.

If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me

and the light become night around me,”

even the darkness will not be dark to you;

the night will shine like the day,

for darkness is as light to you.

There were a thousand things on her heart, and no one to talk to, she prayed, but the sky seemed empty today.

Stephen was crying himself again, thinking he was quiet enough to not be heard - he was not.

Nowhere to go, no one to hear.

So, against her better judgement she got up and made her way to Goffredo’s single room.

He was already outside when she arrived, smoking under the moonlight, if her faith in God was about to falter then the divine sight in front of her could bring it back, if there was no Creator then where did this gorgeous man come from? And if that creator was not endlessly merciful and great, then why did she get the pleasure to meet him?

The silhouette of his head turned slightly, as if he had seen her from the corner of his eye, then back to smoking.

“Gio?”

He flinched

“You are real?”

“Please tell me that it is a cigarette that you are smoking.”

He immediately tossed it to the ground and rolled it clumsily with the sole of his shoe - he knows she dislikes secondhand smoke.

“It was, it was. I was surprised to see you at that hour of the day.” Still, in the dark only his silhouette was visible from the dark, but she could recognize him blindfolded, his scent, his voice, even his gesticulations were becoming predictable to her.

“…”

“Is everything…okay, principessa?”

She knows that he is trying to be playful like they were before, romance or not they had became eachother’s closest friend against their best judgement, she shook her head with teary eyes and he opened his arms.

Goffredo felt doubly hurt, she was crying and now that she needed a hug he was smelling like smoke, but she still leaned to his hug.

“What did you do this time, woman?”

“Don’t call me that, don’t remind me of my pain.” she kept sobbing against his shirt.

“So this is what your sorrow is about, Dove.”

Goffredo spoke with a kind of trembling certainty, the words escaping as if they had waited too long to be spoken:

“You are a woman, Maranata. God makes no mistakes.”

She flinched. Not at his words—but at how deeply he meant them. His voice had cracked a little, the way it only did when he prayed or when something hurt more than he was willing to admit.

“Don’t you think David wanted to escape his own body?” he continued, eyes never leaving her face. “When he cried out in the psalms, tore his clothes, fasted until his bones ached—not because he was holy, but because he was haunted. What about Moses? Begging God to find someone else—‘Please, Lord, I am slow of speech, send anyone else.’ What is that if not a man loathing the weight of the vessel he was trapped in?”

Maranata watched him. Silent. Not arguing. Not yet.

“And Gideon?” he said. “Hiding in the winepress, calling himself the weakest of the weak—‘My clan is the weakest, and I am the least in my family.’ Or Isaiah, when he said ‘Woe is me, for I am a man of unclean lips.’ All of them begging not to be what they were. But they were called anyway.”

He looked at her as if he were begging her now. Not to change. But to believe him.

“It was the same Lord,” he said, softer now, “who made the planet earth with just the right tilt for the seasons, the exact distance from the sun. He gave us oxygen in the right quantity, water in its purest form. Milimetrical precision, you said that once—when you spoke about photosynthesis.”

She turned away. Not because she didn’t remember, but because she did.

“You told me,” he pressed on, “that when Peter denied Jesus three times, Jesus asked him three times if he loved Him—not to shame him. But to give him a way back.”

She swallowed.

“It was a mirror,” he said. “A mercy. A healing in the same place where the wound was made.”

She turned back toward him, her expression unreadable.

“So yes,” Goffredo said, voice barely above a whisper, “maybe your body feels like the wound. Maybe even the punishment. But what if it’s also the place where the healing will begin?”

She blinked, once. Her lip trembled.

He reached toward her then, gently—just the edge of his fingers brushing hers, not even a full touch.

“You know scripture better than anyone I know,” he said. “So don’t forget it now. Not when it’s hardest to believe.”

She had never said it that plainly before—not even in her darkest hours.

And yet here it was, trembling and cold in the air between them, like something freshly broken.

“Please don’t do that, Gio.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t weaponize scripture against me. Leave me to drown in my own sadness—” If there was something Maranata knew about, was using the Lord’s word as a knife to the heart

Her voice wavered, almost choked. “—it’s the only thing that has truly belonged to me in a good while. My grief is the only thing that has never been used to hurt anyone.”

He stood still. She wasn’t crying, but her whole face looked like it wanted to. Like if he touched her, she would shatter.

“It’s hurting me,” he said, helplessly. “I see you grieving and I— I hate that I don’t know how to lift it off you.”

“Then don’t,” she said. “Don’t lift it. Just let it be. You can’t sanctify it, Gio. It’s not noble. I’m not noble. I’m just… tired. I’m mourning.”

A pause.

“What are you mourning?”

“My chance to have a boyfriend in highschool, never getting asked out to prom, not getting to ever experience love by someone that actively chose to love me, even the opportunity to have a husband and children. I’m far too old.”

And that—that—was what finally made his throat close.

He had heard her say bitter things about herself before. Jokes in poor taste. Deflections. But this wasn’t bitter. It was resigned.

“I am all out of hope, Gio.”

And Goffredo, with all his teachings and all his fervor, had no sermon ready for this. No apologetic, no lecture, no smug response.

Only—

“So were the Apostles,” he said softly, “on the Saturday after the Crucifixion.”

She looked at him, startled.

“They thought everything was over. That they had been fools. That their hopes were dead and buried. And then—” his voice thickened, as if with unshed tears, “—then it was Sunday. And the stone was rolled away. And He was there. Alive. Everything they thought they had lost was still ahead of them—just… not in the way they imagined.”

A silence settled. She didn’t look away.

He stepped closer, slowly, and touched her hand. Not forcefully. Not trying to save her. Just to remind her he was still there.

“And now it’s Sunday,” he said again, lower. “And I am here.”

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t pull her hand away.

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy, like incense in an old sanctuary.

“You are here,” she had snapped, voice brittle. “So what?”

And he didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften. He just looked at her—seriously, wholly. Not like a man wooing a woman. Not like a boy chasing a crush. But like someone who had already made up his mind.

“Maranata,” he said, voice low but firm, “I don’t blame you. I haven’t been clear. But I like you. Not in the same way your friends and family do. I like you... I respect you. I admire you.”

Her brows narrowed. “And? What is that supposed to mean?”

“I want to court you,” he said plainly. “I want to spend time with you. I want to get to know you. I want to be close to you.”

Her lips parted slightly, disbelief and anger flickering beneath the surface. “How is that my problem?”

He sighed once through his nose, then stepped back—not in retreat, but in finality. In certainty.

“I won’t lose time arguing with you,” he said, quietly, and yet it rang like thunder. “I am not wasting breath on someone who clearly doesn’t want to listen.”

She blinked.

“But the offering…” He shook his head. “No. I’m not offering anything.”

A pause.

“I am already courting you-” with or without your consent, he felt too polite to add

Her throat clenched.

“And if I don’t want it?” she asked, a little too late.

He glanced at her sidelong, jaw taut. The quiet fury of a man not lashing out but deciding. Of a man choosing.

“Go cry about it then,” he said, and started walking. “We’re heading to your room.”

The silence he left behind wasn’t empty—it was charged, like the heavy quiet after an argument, or a thunderstorm not quite done.

He didn’t hold her hand.

He didn’t turn around.

He walked like a husband who had made a decision, like a man who would carry her home whether she came gently or kicking.

When he first bit her—truly bit her, the way some men might kiss, the way others write poems—he had the decency to wonder, briefly, if he had gone too far. If it had been too animal. Too crude. Too much of the untamed self he spent so many hours trying to drown in incense and Latin and guilt.

But now—now that the crescent of his teeth was no longer tender and pink on her skin, now that her laughter had cooled and the intimacy of it hung in the air like the remnants of a candle just snuffed—he regretted not going deeper.

He wished he had canines.

Not the symbolic kind—no pretty metaphors. Real ones. Sharpened, ancestral, grotesque. He wanted fangs the way wolves did, not to frighten but to anchor. To lock. To make sure she would never again leave his side without part of herself still aching for him.

Because he wanted to drag her with him.

Not with words. Not even with marriage. No, he wanted something more ancient than oaths, more final than vows.

He wanted to pierce her—really pierce her. Break the surface. Draw blood. Not in the ways she feared. In the ways she didn't know to fear yet.

And yes, he told himself, he would do it gently.

Until he didn't.

He would be tender, even reverent, as the blade of his want pressed through her defiance. Because he loved her—yes, he loved her—but love had always meant the Cross. Had it not? The breaking. The spilling. The covenant signed in blood. In his Church, they took God not as metaphor, but as flesh and presence and pain swallowed into holiness.

He had tasted the Lord.

He had lifted the host between his fingers and declared it not symbol but substance, not memory but body.

So what was this hunger in him, if not liturgy?

What was her hunger for her if not an Eucharist?

What was this need to press his teeth into her neck and mark her again, deeper this time—if not the language of covenant?

Had he not been told from the pulpit and the confessional alike that God made man to lead, and woman to follow?

And still—still—he knew it was a dangerous thought. Knew it slid too easily toward madness. But there was no one to confess to. No priest would name it anything but sin, and he knew the taste of that too.

He had once called her a dove.

Then a bunny.

Now, in the shadows of his mind, he called her hostia. A living sacrament. Her stubbornness like unleavened bread—dense and impenetrable at first bite, but crumbling under fire.

He would never say it aloud.

But some nights, when sleep fled from him and the rosary had lost its edge, he dreamed not of weddings or vows—but of teeth.

And the soft gasp she’d made when he first bit her.

The shocked delight.

The wild, half-laughed, half-scolded “YOU LEFT ME TEETH MARKS!”

She had no idea what she’d done to him.

No idea that in some deep, incurable corner of his soul, he was already fastening a leash to her soul. That every breath of hers was another bead on the chain he was silently winding around her life.

He wanted to own her the way saints were owned by God—reluctantly, painfully, entirely.

And he wanted her to bleed for it.

Even better.

[spiderfreedom]

women must learn about technology

one of the most common gender-limited roles across the world is the making of musical instruments. in the majority of cultures, men make musical instruments. flutes are almost exclusively made by men.

this may seem like a weird little curio - i certainly thought it was - until you read more. in many cultures, instruments are played by the people who make them. if women don't have the knowledge to make instruments, then they can't play the instrument, because instruments may not be made as gifts. instruments become gendered. men resent women entering on their space and refuse to share technical knowledge with them on how to play or make the instrument. women are limited to singing (if that) or simple instruments that they can make. there are very few instruments that "only" women are allowed to play/make.

in its extreme form, this results in taboo musical instruments (usually flutes for some reason) that women may not see or hear on pain of death.

"so what", i hear you say. "what do musical instruments have to do with anything?" well, it shows that one of the most common ways to limit women and raise up men is to prevent or discourage women from having technical knowledge.

even in our allegedly """superior""" western cultures, music production and engineering is almost entirely male-dominated. ask women in production and sound engineering, and you'll find that they face not just benign sexism/prejudice but downright hostility.

men become associated with technology. technology from tekhnos - art or craft. women become associated with spiritualism, the immaterial, the unprovable and ineffable ("we are reclaiming our feminine power through astrology!") or alternatively the body, the base, the mundane, the maintenance work, using machines and technology that they did not create.

knowledge is power. men have historically guarded certain kinds of knowledge/power from women. today, too many men continue this gatekeeping. "don't worry your pretty little head about how a car works, missy." too many women are happy to let them, afraid to challenge their learned helplessness. "I'm a passenger princess! i'm too dumb to know how a washing machine works!" (and i even see feminists say things like "thank god a butch woman was here to help me change my tires." why associate technological knowledge with a certain gender presentation?)

learning about technology can be scary. it's complicated and there's a large body of material to challenge. many of us have been conditioned into learned helplessness, and it's easier and more immediately rewarding to ask someone else to take care of our technological issues for us. there's the issue of stereotype threat where we're afraid to fail and confirm negative stereotypes of women. but if we're serious about empowerment, we must remember knowledge is power. women who know about carpentry don't need to rely on men. women who know how to fix their car can intelligently converse with male mechanics. knowledge is the thing they can't take away from you, you carry it with you where you go, and you can share it with other women. you don't need to learn about every field of technology - pick one that piques your interest (electronics? electricity? carpentry? HVAC? auto mechanics?) and begin reading about it. do beginner diy stuff. over time, you'll gain confidence and useful skills. then help fellow women.

[annaizscribbling]

In Which the Farmer is a Cryptid (pt 5) Harvey

(start at pt 1 here)

Harvey’s mustache twitched. He was standing over the sleeping farmer, carefully tucked into white sheets on a hospital bed. She looked paler against the sterile room, like the sun was being sucked from her skin. He didn’t like having to see her like this—frail, sickly, injured. She never so much as stirred whenever she slept. It only added to the deathly aura around her.

He sighed and leaned into the bed behind him, taking off his glasses to massage the spot between his eyes. The farmer really did a number on his poor nerves. She seemed to think she was invincible, like every fiber of her being was convinced that death would never be an option. Harvey tries to tell her to be careful, to slow down, to not go so deep, not travel so far. It’s difficult to navigate the patient/doctor relationship when she’s also his friend. He worries about her. She does not seem to pay that any mind.

One desperate part of him wants to scream (and possibly cry) that she absolutely should never do anymore exploring. No more mining. No more monster hunting and solo quests. Harvey can’t even pretend to understand just how much she does, how far below the earth she has delved or how much that adventurer’s guild has pushed her into doing. He knows it’s more than anyone will admit to.

But he knows she’s an adult, and as a medical professional, his only right is to advise. He can’t force her to change her lifestyle, no matter how dangerous of one she had. As her friend though, he’s routinely fighting the urge to beg her to stop. He wants to do something he shouldn’t, like conspire with her husband to put an end to her injuries, find a way to seal her from the mines, talk with the mayor to get her banned. Something. Anything.

Though something stops him. Common sense of course, warns Harvey against trying to force her to change her life, but something else does to. He’d never admit it, even to himself, but she’s built for such reckless days. She heals so quickly, scars fade, and wounds close faster than they should. Her nutrition levels are always … perfect. Never deficient in vitamins. Her blood tests always come back unusually healthy. Her husband has expressed some concern that she’ll go days eating the same nutrition-less algae soup, but her results always say otherwise. The farmer usually has that strange youthful glow, like her body really was at his best. No matter what, she’s healthy. Always healthy, save when somebody drags her to his clinic half dead and bleeding profusely, of course.

That night, at the delightful hour of 2:30AM, Robin knocked on his door, hefting up the farmer in her arms. If he hadn’t immediately begun preoccupied treating the injured farmer, he would have been surprised at how strong Robin was. Carpentry, he supposed, built more muscles than model plans and stethoscopes.

The farmer had been beat to a pulp, by what? He did not know. Long deep scratches, bite marks, freezing cold patches, slime, blood, dust, her skin told a story he did not wish to hear. It took time to disinfect and clean the injured skin. He had to cut away her ripped up clothes, which were a laughable defense against whatever she had encountered below the surface of the earth. A half dozen emeralds rolled out of her pocket and tumbled to the floor. Harvey ignored it in favor of searching for broken ribs. That damn massive eyeliner wing of hers was still intact and had to be washed away before he could tend to the cut on her temple. Her hair was still strangely clean, and he did not find any sweat on her person, only blood. Though only half the blood was hers, it seemed.

Two different wounds required deep pressure to halt the bleeding. She was half mummified in bandages by the time he was finished. He wished this wasn’t the first time he’d have to do this for her. At this point, Harvey had made a small fortune patching her up. It was not something he was overly happy about. Scolding her did not seem to have any effect. He sometimes received an apology, but only for upsetting him. She did not seem to like upsetting him, but her desire to mine and work herself to the bone seemed a greater motivator.

Robin had already offered to call Sebastian, so Harvey could focus on the farmer. He was probably almost to the clinic. Now that his work was done for the moment, he could take a second to collect himself before he arrived. It would be best if they were not both panicked.

He looked back at her, each breath small and almost robotic. She was a puzzle, that was for certain. He loved the farmer. They all did. Nobody could care like she could. Nobody could do most things like she could. She was incredible. She was an enigma.

Harvey sighs to himself. His eyes trail to the bin of bloodied rags he’d been using to clean her up. He would dispose of them properly, of course. Though for the moment, he just couldn’t look away, wondering how she could bear to go through so much pain, time and time again.

The first few times this happened, Harvey took it as a grave reminder that even she was human. The perfect lonely farmer girl herself was only flesh and bone. Are they not the same? No matter how collected and mysterious she had seemed, she still bleeds like the rest of them.

Now he’s not so sure.

A mouse bleeds just like a wolf.

Harvey is pulled from his thoughts when he hears the front door open loudly and slam with a rattle. He collects himself and rushes out, paying no mind to his bloodied lab coat.

“Harvey?” Sebastian says hoarsely, eyes darting around frantically. He’s a mess, still in pajama bottoms and a hoodie thrown over top. His hair is frazzled and he’s wearing two different sandals. Robin is standing beside him, one hand gently on his forearm.

“Hello, Sebastian, why don’t you come in? Come see her. She’s alright, just asleep,” Harvey says softly, holding open the door for him.

Robin gives her tall son’s arm a squeeze. Her own clothing has a blood splatter on it. She looked calm in the face of it. “You call me first thing tomorrow morning and let me know how she is, Sebby, please?”

He nods and wordlessly and distractedly pats her shoulder before moving past her. He’s agitatedly biting his bottom lip, chewing on chapped skin. He shoves his shaky hands in his pockets.

As soon as Harvey opens the door, Sebastian rushes to her side, checking her over and seeming to count each bandage and scrape. He takes her tanned hand in his own pale one, running his long fingers over each of her knuckles. He looked relieved, in spite of her state.

“She’ll be alright, but she has to take it easy for at least a few weeks,” Harvey said firmly, “change her bandages every day, keep the wounds clean, and for Yoba’s sake, please keep her out of those mines until she heals at least.”

Sebastian smiled wryly. “I’ll try my best, Doc, but you know how she is.”

“I am imploring you, Sebastian. She can’t keep going like this.”

“Has she been struggling to recover? Or seeing long term damage I should know about?” Sebastian asked, his gravelly voice still soft and almost humorful. It was weird.

“Well. Er. No,” Harvey admitted awkwardly, “but it’s common logic. This isn’t good for her.”

“I’ll ask her to take a break,” Sebastian said, having never let go of her hand, “Because believe me, I’m pissed. I told her to take an extra Muscle Remedy and she forgot, then she didn’t head home at 11:00, which is not part of our deal, but let’s be honest. She’ll be back the moment somebody asks her for some topaz or some shit.”

“She has to stop, for her own wellbeing,” Harvey said quietly, keeping at bay his frustration and worry.

“Can you stop the sun from coming up in the morning, Doc?” Sebastian asked lightly, eyebrows raised.

Harvey was not amused by that.

“She’s not like us,” Sebastian said, smiling at her sleeping face, “you said it yourself. No long term damage. Perfect health. We’ve been married for just two years now, and I have learned that my job isn’t to stop her. It’s impossible. So now, I leave the impossible to her, because she’s pretty damn good at it.”

Harvey paused, before sighing and cupping his own face in his hands. “I’m going to start billing you extra for my nerves.”

“Understandable.”

[tf2occontest]

Balloonimedic VS The Blade / Hemi LaBoh

(Full matchup list here)

Alright team, here's a recap: This is a contest to determine who amongst you will take the top of the leaderboards and be hired at TFI! Simply put, whoever gets the most votes gets to move on, and whoever doesn't... Well. They'll be put down swiftly and cleanly. :}

So, mann your stations, because here are your next contestants! Vote for your favorite mercenary who you want to win the TF2 OC Contest! - P

OC INFO UNDER THE CUT!

We highly encourage you to take a peek to make your decision!

Balloonimedic

@jolluxiscool

Image credit: @/jolluxiscool

Balloonimedic is a TF2FREAK (wowzers, right?) that came to be after a very bad discussion with xis heavy, resulting into xim becoming friends with the team's pyro, eventually picking up their behavior, their likings and quirks, even to the point of asking engineer to build a device that let xim spawn balloonicorns and lots of fun stuff! Until one day xe got lost and never saw xis team again, but that's another story.

Optimistic, unpredictable and eager to make a mess, Ballooni is the most fun person to be around, yet one you have to keep an eye on if you don't want everything to catch up on fire. Xe's a sucker for drawing and candy, and even if xes mute, xe loves to hang around with everyone xe sees! Unless its a heavy, theyre no fun.

Be SURE that this fella will charm your heart and light your soul, but please, DON'T GIVE XIM ACCESS TO FIRE!!

The Blade / Hemi LaBoh

@bohemianette

Image credit: @/bohemianette

A once aspiring fashion designer now turned to the life of a mercenary (seeking to be Mann Co.'s 10th class) after a gruesome decision made during a botched fashion show, and discovering her love for sharpness and precision went beyond the arts of sewing and slicing up fabric; expanding her arsenal from simple nimble needles and scissors to swords, ninja stars and scythes. She even designed her own uniform! And despite the allegations, she absolutely did not use blood to dye the fabric, nor did her BLU counterpart use her enemy’s tears to wash it.

The Blade comes from a typical middle class family, one with rich history rooted from their Northern English carpentry, an early on introduction to the arts of meticulous and detailed crafts, and obviously sharp objects. Maybe giving the Blade a saw at the ripe age of 3 wasn’t the most excellent of choices, but it gave her stable, precise hands; perfect for cutting cables to help out a Southern engineer or perhaps harvesting organs for a particular deranged German doctor.

On the battlefield, giving her team's Spy a little crochet accessory akin to whatever enemy merc he is turning into (like a mini Sasha for the Heavy, a mini baseball bat for the Scout, etc) before he turns into an enemy team's class decreases his likelihood of being found out as a spy. However, she needs "sewing progress" to do this, which is gained through kills and assists. This sewing progress can also be used to assist other team members, giving them temporary bulletproof or stab-proof clothing.

When not on the battlefield, the Blade also contributes to the team with the aforementioned cable cutting and organ harvests (even surgeries!). Not only that, but she helps them out when their uniform gets cut or ruined in battle, Scout seemingly getting the most tears in his clothing (with Blade starting to get suspicious). If she weren’t a mercenary, she would’ve been their personal seamstress.

The Blade, if not provoked, is sweet like jam but can become bitter like blood (which will be drawn if necessary!) if pushed far enough. In the battlefield, she is focused and collected, but once the stress of the battle’s time limit hits her along with the Medic’s Übercharge, she begins to stab any enemy she can see in her peripheral vision. She calls this her ‘dye deadline’ to refer to the mass bloodshed. Again, she absolutely has not EVER used blood as a substitute for red dye.

The Blade specialises in precision and speed; using blades instead of bullets requires far more speed than one would need when handling a typical gun.

The Blade uses the following load-out: Ninja stars (called the Stitchers), an ex-calibre and a katana named Westwood (after iconic fashion designer Vivienne Westwood).

In regards to the other mercs, the Blade has pretty good relationships with most, being the closest with the Scout and the Engineer, and only having more neutral relationships with the Soldier and the Sniper. There was mild tension between her and the Demoman due to the fact she's English, but her being from the North seemed to ease it up a little more. To quote him, he said "A've got ma eye on ye lass."

Fun fact: she had met the Scout not long before her days as a mercenary! She had designed baseball uniform for the Bostonian while she was still in her fashion career, who offered to pay for it with $5 and ‘friendship’. The Blade was desperate. But it wasn’t entirely a bad decision!

“So, erm, cheers for listening. I hope yous liked my little origin story.” - Hemi LaBoh, the Blade.

[beikonsims]

Xias came prepared, knowing it's customary for humans to gift presents to their in-laws. He gave Opal one of his carpentry projects - however he managed to pack it tightly into such a small box.

Opal immediately displayed the nice new piece of furniture right there, happy to have more space for little decorations and trinkets. Buzz was still muttering to himself, but kept his mouth shut and washed the dishes.

[litfeathers]

Happy Halloween! Birds Fly has updated!

Chapter 34: St. John's Wort

It was fortunate that Evelyn and Caleb had been able to visit for two weeks in a row in September, because October was almost entirely a wash. 

Evelyn’s tower repairs and Caleb’s carpentry job kept them both far too busy to see each other, which they agreed was a complete waste of a beautiful Human Realm autumn. But the end of the month was in sight, and the sooner their jobs were done, the sooner they could reunite. And so they both rolled up their sleeves, and got to work. 

As Caleb settled into drudgery at the Winthrop estate, he kept his head down and mouth shut. The fact that almost none of his fellow carpenters spoke to him (or even acknowledged his existence) unless it was strictly necessary was a blessing in disguise. Being left alone allowed him to escape into daydreams as he worked. He pretended that he was in the Demon Realm, that he was working alongside a colorful kaleidoscope of witches and demons, that the bright red trees in the woods were proof that he was on the Boiling Isles, and not in dreary Gravesfield. Sometimes he would pretend a cloaked figure was protectively flying overhead on her red bird, keeping a close eye on him.

Red, red, red.

He played with the string around his neck.

He was consumed by red. 

“They do say that the veil between worlds is thin this time of year.” Caleb thought, staring at the patchwork of fiery treetops that blanketed the distant hills. “Maybe the changing colors are proof that the Boiling Isles aren’t ever as far away as they seem...” 

Read the rest here on AO3!

[jlicia]

Jericho's Upcycling - Galley-La and Lifestyle!

Hello! I must start by saying, I don't expect anyone to be well-versed in my oc-lore. I like to write about it in a way to archive my ideas, and if people are interested or curious, that's a bonus! Jericho didn't like feeling like a 'patient in care' when living in the Revolutionary Army HQ. She was rescued from a community service prison (now abbreviated as a BMBD by the RA, Black Market Business Directory, where prisoners partake in 'community service', but are actually rented out as pawns for criminal activity and any other other services that brought in money) after it was discovered she was being preserved to be eaten. (The discovery of Jericho's fate also initiated the investigation into the BMBD as an illegal establishment) Her, uh, mentor? Named Rabba Dakki (my OC) Recommended her to board on at Galley-La, his mate Iceburg wasn't open to just anyone, of course, but Jericho offered her unique skills in up-cycling to Iceburg (as opposed to ship building and carpentry.) An opportunity to save materials, and in turn save money. That's good for any company, so at the expense of providing her accommodation in his office, Iceburg took Jericho on board as head of recycling. Well, she was the only one working in recycling, so. You know. She's the head of it now, I guess. Good for her. The job was perfect for her, she was able to provide hands in a team based environment whilst still remain in her own solitude. A little recycling ward, scraps piled and organised by material, screws and lids in little boxes. Wood was often mended with screws or reduced to woodchip to repurpose, ready for use for carpenters. Not one piece of wood went to waste with Jericho around! Her own little kitchenette, complete with a kettle and teabags; a huge wash basin she built herself to clean dirty materials and tools (she spent a lot of time inspecting complicated, seemingly mundane structures at the BMBD prison, the pipes of the public showers were exposed, so she was able to fully understand it's mechanisms). A textile suite, usually for repairs of ship sails, but Galley-La workers would sometimes deposit torn garments there.

Jericho loves the process of up-cycling, taking junk and transforming it into something to adorn the surroundings or something useful. It surrounds her life, incorporating it into her own habitats. Though, she can be very stubborn about throwing away items that still have use in them, like a 10 year old pillow that is yellowing from sweat: "Well, it is still comfortable for sleeping, is it not?" A lot of her rooms furnishings are mismatched and clash slightly with the variety of patterns, she isn't fussy, but the final image as a result in this is somewhat charming. Her furniture is an accumulation of second hand items, things she has found in scrap heaps and bits she just can't let go of no matter how battered and destroyed. Possibly a minimalists worst nightmare.

TLDR:

jericho's main word is: resourcefulness

she hates wasting things

she hates getting rid of things that are still functional just because they no longer suit an aesthetic

of course, this ties into her being a vulture (devil fruit), they eat the scraps of animal fall, they're naturally resourceful creatures

she believes every scrap has another use!! and she will find a purpose for a piece of junk to serve!

(extra) she's not keen on opulence, she much prefers rustic, simple, maximalism. to her, opulence gives the impression of needless luxury

get this guy outta here bro

[writingwhimsey]

Married to The Enemy- Shingen Ch. 62

Chapter 62

Shingen happily showed Ava around their rooms. Her eyes lit up as he showed her the room where she could work on her sewing alongside him working on his carpentry. Her smile was bright when he showed her their bedroom and the rooms that were close by for the baby and any other future children they had.

After the tour, a maid was coming to announce that a bath was prepared for them. Husband and wife shared the bath, Shingen lovingly washing Ava’s back and giving her a gentle massage as he did so. Peppering her neck and shoulders with tender kisses, earning giggles from his wife.

After the bath, they returned to their room to relax. Though they would be having dinner at the banquet later, they had some tea and snacks. Ava was sitting in Shingen’s lap, her back pressed against his chest. Shingen was feeding her the snacks.

“You really spoil me.” Ava said, tilting her head back to look up at Shingen after he had fed her another bite.

Shingen smiled at her and kissed her forehead. “How can I not spoil my angel?” He replied. “I want to make you as happy as you’ve made me.”

Ava smiled happily and reached for one of the sweet buns that was on the tray and held it up to Shingen’s lips. “Well, if that’s the case then let me spoil you, too.”

Shingen couldn’t help but to smile as he accepted the sweet treat. Though just as Ava was about to pull her hand away, he gently grabbed her wrist. He gave a mischievous grin as he brought her fingers to his mouth, parting his lips to gently take each finger between his lips, licking and sucking the sticky syrup off of each finger.

A little moan escaped Ava’s lips, as heat shot through her. “Mmmm….”

Shingen chuckled as he began placing kisses over Ava’s palm, slowly moving up to her wrist. “When you have reactions like that, it’s so hard not to indulge myself more, my love.” He murmured against her silky skin.

“I’m not complaining…quite the opposite, really.” Ava replied.

Shingen chuckled and leaned in to kiss Ava on the lips. He lifted a hand to caress her cheek. “I promise to never give you reason to complain.”

Ava smiled happily at him. “As long as you’re with me, that’s all I need to be happy.” She was then shifting in his lap, turning to face him as she wrapped her arms around him. “We have a little bit of time, right?”

Shingen grinned, holding Ava close. “Hmm, my goddess, we do��and even if we are a bit late it is our party.” He wrapped one arm around her waist and lifted his other hand to the back of her head, drawing her close for another kiss.

Ava readily responded, her body warming pleasantly against his, her soft lips parting at the prodding of his tongue. He could kiss her and love her a thousand times and it wouldn’t be enough.

A while later…

“I knew they were gonna be late.” Yukimura muttered as he and Saki sat down in the banquet hall.

“Like we have much room to talk.” Saki teased her lover. “We just walked in here a few minutes ago ourselves.”

Yukimura’s cheeks reddened. “Yeah well, this party is for Lord Shingen.”

“I take it our lord is quite taken with his wife?” Yuto asked as he came over to sit with Yukimura and Saki.

“He’s touched in the head.” Kenshin muttered, before popping a pickled plum in his mouth.

“I hate to say this, but yeah.” Yukimura agreed.

“Lord Shingen is head over heels for Ava.” Sasuke said.

“And that feeling is mutual.” Saki added. “They’re quite sweet together, really.”

“You are Lady Ava’s lady in waiting, correct?” Yuto asked Saki.

Saki nodded. “Yes and best friend. And Yukimura’s lov…”

“You don’t have to say it! He already knows.” Yukimura said, blushing.

Saki grinned. “Your cute blushy face is exactly why I have to say it.” She said, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek, which only made him grow redder.

Yuto chuckled. “I think you're perfect for this one, Saki.”

Saki smiled. “That’s sweet of you to say.”

“That’s the first thing you’ve said all night that makes sense.” Yukimura told Yuto.

Saki smiled. “Awe, you think I’m perfect for you?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want anyone else.” Yukimura agreed.

“And no one else could put up with him either.” Sasuke said, getting in a bit of teasing at his BFF.

Yuto chuckled. “It is great to have you all here.” He said.

Ava’s grandmother was coming in then with some of the staff, carrying trays of food…food she had insisted on helping cook. “You just can’t keep yourself out of the kitchen, can you?” Saki asked.

“What? I want to make sure everyone has a good meal.” Mrs. Shiba replied as she came to sit down. “Where are Ava and Shingen?”

“They’re late.” Yukimura grumbled.

“I should have known.” Mrs. Shiba said. “There is a reason she’s pregnant.”

Saki giggled and nodded. “Really we should start placing bets now on how long before they’re having their second child.”

“I’ll say when this one is about one. It takes about a year for the memory of the pain of childbirth to fade and you start wanting a second one.” Mrs. Shiba commented.

“Is it really that bad?” Saki asked.

Mrs. Shiba nodded. “Much worse in fact, but once you hold that baby for the first time and see that little face…you know it was all worth it and that there is no one else you will ever love that much…and then you become a grandmother and learn you might have been wrong. Grandchildren are their own joy.”

Before the discussion could go any further, Shingen and Ava were walking into the room. Cheers broke out from Shingen’s gathered vassals. “Alright! Lord Shingen is finally here!”

“Now the party can really begin!”

It was as if on cue that more food and drink was brought in and a troupe of performers began to play music. “Eat up, we made sure to serve all of the best dishes from Kai. All of your favorites, my lord.” Yuto said. 

“Thank you, I truly appreciate it.” Shingen said, smiling. He was then reaching for his chopsticks and picking up a bite of his favorite dish. He then held it to Ava’s lips. “Here my angel. You should try this.”

Ava’s cheeks reddened, but she smiled and parted her lips to accept the food. As soon as the food hit her tongue, her eyes closed and she had the most adorable expression on her face. “Mmm, that is so GOOD!” She exclaimed.

Shingen grinned. “You know, I think seeing you enjoying my favorite dishes makes them even more delicious.” He told her.

Ava blushed. She was then picking up her cup of water and taking a sip to hide her blushing face. “Well, I did feel that way when we were visiting my hometown, I felt the same sharing all of my favorite foods with you.”

Shingen happily ate his food and shared it with Ava…who managed to clear her tray and was still helping Shingen eat his. “I’ve never seen anyone eat so much.” Yukimura commented.

Saki was reaching over and smacking him on the shoulder. “She’s pregnant, dummy.”

Ava glared at Yukimura. “Yes, I’m eating for two.”

Shingen wrapped his arm around Ava and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. “Ignore him, my love. Eat as much as you want and I am happy to share. Especially when you make such cute faces.”

Ava smiled and blushed. “You might be a little biased there.”

Yuto was smiling as he watched them. “It’s good to see you settled down and looking so happy, my lord.” He told Shingen. “And my lady, I have to thank you for that.”

“I don’t know if I can take all of the credit for that.” Ava replied.

“Of course you can, my angel.” Shingen replied. 

“Can we find anything else to talk about?” Kenshin asked.

“For once, I have to agree with Lord Kenshin.” Yukimura said. He was then looking at Yuto. “So, you clearly know what we’ve been up to. What have YOU been doing while we’ve been gone?”

“Oh, mostly just taking care of things here as I always have.” Yuto answered. “Though I did recently remarry.”

“Wait, you didn’t think to tell me that upon my arrival? Or in any of your letters?” Shingen asked.

Yuto chuckled. “I was always saving it for when you returned.” He answered. 

“You should have brought her with you so we could meet the woman who won your heart.” Shingen said.

“I had planned on it, but she’s a midwife so she had a birth to oversee in town.” Yuto explained.

“I see.” Shingen replied. “So, how did you meet her?”

“She arrived in town around ten years ago.” Yuto explained. “She was lost and a bit disoriented. I’m not sure what kind of ordeal she had been through, but she had been through something for certain. I knew I had to help her. It took a while for her to trust me. But eventually she did and she came with me to my house. She started off as a maid and a cook, insisting that she did something in return for room and board. After a couple of years she and I both started to open up to each other more and became friends. Then she decided she wanted to be a midwife. Before long, I realized I had fallen in love with her. Which was something I didn’t think I could do again after my first wife died. But her gentle heart won me over before I even knew it.”

“Awe that sounds so sweet.” Ava said, before taking another bite of her food.

Shingen had to nod in agreement. “It sounds like quite the beginning for a love story.”

Yuto chuckled. “It took her even longer to trust me with her heart though.”

“Why is that?” Shingen asked.

“She had been wronged by her first husband.” Yuto answered. “He up and left her and their young daughter.”

Shingen frowned. “That’s terrible. How any man could abandon his responsibilities, is beyond me.”

Yuto nodded. “I don’t either. Especially with a woman as beautiful and kind as my Kana. She has the most dazzling green eyes.”

Shingen became aware when Ava seemed to stiffen next to him. She looked over at Yuto, a serious expression on her face. “Her name is Kana? You said you met her about ten years ago?”

Yuto nodded. “Yes.”

“You also mentioned she had a daughter…has she ever said anything about her?”

This question instantly clued Shingen into Ava’s line of thinking. He had to admit, what Yuto was saying did line up.

“She actually did. She said she was now a grown woman. She said she had had to leave her, but she didn’t want to. For a long time she tried hard to figure out how to get back to her, but she never could. She said she wanted her to know how proud she was of her and how much she loved her.” Yuto answered.

“I…I’d really like to meet her.” Ava said.

Yuto smiled. “She said if she had time after the birth she was attending, she would try to attend the party. With all of the wonderful stories I’ve told her about Lord Shingen, she said she really wants to meet him.”

“If she’s a midwife, it would make sense for her to meet you.” Saki spoke up. “I mean I know I’ve been attending to you, but to have someone who is actually a midwife and had that knowledge would be better.”

“I am sure my wife would consider it an honor to take care of you, my lady.” Yuto said.

Ava nodded. Shingen reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. He leaned in and whispered to her. “Do you think…”

Ava nodded. “Yes…I don’t want to get my hopes up…but given what we know about wormholes and her disappearance…it really could be her.” She whispered back.

Shingen could tell Ava was feeling all sorts of emotions at that moment. Her body was tense, filled with anxiety, anticipation, hope, fear…so many things all at once. He hoped Yuto’s wife would be able to show up. He had a feeling that until Ava knew, she wouldn’t be able to rest or enjoy herself.

Taglist: @limonzu @zulablaise @oda-princess @kisara-16

@tele86 @lovely-bubb1es @lucyw260 @queengiuliettafirstlady

@bjorkshire-pudding @eventinelysplayground

[zorossugarmama]

Here, have a piece of my soul. I wrote this to get out some of my feelings of the things that have been happening lately. Of course it’s technically a Whitebeard Crew x Reader (named) so you can enjoy! I’ll also post this to AO3 tomorrow in my one piece drabbles hehe this story can also be apart of my Project Pheonix chronicles 🙂‍↕️

🌊🏴‍☠️ enjoy

Walking back to the ship, the sand felt hot beneath my feet—scorching, like the sun had cursed it. I was quick to move, nearly hopping along the shore, wincing with each step. The lapse of water against the beach filled my ears in rhythmic crashes, offering a false sense of calm as I raced toward the distant shadow of the ship, its masts cutting into the bright blue sky like ancient spears.

The dinghies had already been hauled up onto the beach, half-buried in warm sand and cluttered with the usual cargo—crates lashed tight with salt-stiff rope, coils of spare rigging, rust-flecked hooks, a dented ammo box, and a few splintered paddles. I could smell the gunpowder from here, faint but sharp. It mingled with the briny air and the sunbaked scent of driftwood.

I picked up my pace, half-jogging, ignoring the way each footfall scorched the soles of my feet. My sun-kissed hands gripped the prow of the dinghy, the wood dry and splintery beneath my fingers. With a grunt, I began pushing it back toward the sea, muscles tight with exhaustion but eager to be done with this hellish beach.

The moment the cool, salty water rushed up around my ankles, I hissed—a sharp breath through clenched teeth before a drowsy weakness engulfed me. A moment respite into relief washed over me, literally, and I stood there for a moment, letting the ocean soothe the sting of the blistering sand. A gull cried overhead, circling lazily as if mocking my misery.

Today was far hotter than this morning. Rakuyo, in all his misplaced confidence, had guessed it would be a temperate day—a light breeze, maybe some cloud cover. Said the cold front had passed when we made landfall. But the New World never listened. If anything, it laughed in our faces. The moment we dropped anchor, the sun rose like a god with a grudge, and hell decided to throw a beach party.

Now, sweat clung to every inch of me, sand stuck to my legs, and my shirt had long since been discarded and tied around my waist. I looked back once at the island, its jungle edge a dark, humid wall of green. Whatever we had come here to find—we’d found it. Hopefully, it was worth the trouble.

I climbed into the dinghy, the boards creaking under my weight, and took the oars in hand. My eyes flicked back to the ship—a floating haven of shade, wind-swept decks, and most importantly, my room. Cool sheets. A wind dial. A pitcher of whatever cold drink Thatch had managed to chill. I could almost feel it.

One last push. One last row. And then I was done with this cursed sand.

I dreamed of getting there and using the wind dials that I had conveniently stolen from a Sky Island—liberated, really, considering how overpriced everything was. I'd set them up around the room to create a perfect cross-breeze, then just sit in the dark, maybe on the floor or that hammock I strung up between the beams. Maybe I’d crack open a book, something I'd already read a dozen times but still couldn’t part with. The idea of just listening to the creak of the ship, the wind whispering from the dials, and the distant lull of the sea… it was heaven.

I briefly thanked whatever gods were out there—whether they were the ones from the Blue Sea, the Sky Islands, or some forgotten temple below the sea—for the miracle placement of my room. Sub-level three, nestled like a secret treasure between the training room and just beneath Thatch’s culinary kingdom. The man was loud, especially when he was singing, but the insulation—bless Marco’s carpentry—kept most of the chaos muffled. And heat rose, so my room, buried down in the belly of the Moby, was by far the coolest one onboard. In every sense.

A soft giggle slipped from me as I climbed into the dinghy and took up the paddles. The anticipation of cold floors and solitude made my limbs feel lighter. I adjusted my grip and started rowing, the oars slicing through the surf with steady determination.

The waves pushed back at first, stubborn and heavy with the tide. I grunted, throwing my weight into each stroke as salt spray stung my cheeks. The sea had a way of testing you, even on calm days—it didn’t care if you were tired or sunburnt or fantasizing about wind dials and dark rooms. It demanded effort, and I gave it.

Behind me, the island shrank, its cruel heat already feeling like a distant nightmare. Ahead, the Moby Dick loomed larger with every stroke, its great white hull casting long shadows over the ocean’s glittering surface. The Jolly Roger flapped lazily from the highest mast, a familiar beacon that made something in my chest loosen.

I paused briefly, letting the boat drift as I wiped my brow and took a deep breath of the salty air. Home. No matter how long we spent chasing islands or tangling with the unknown, the Moby was always home.

With renewed strength, I plunged the paddles back into the water and carried myself the rest of the way. The sound of laughter and footsteps echoed faintly over the waves, but I had no intention of joining in. Not today.

Today, my only mission was to disappear into the cool embrace of sub-level three, let the wind dials hum around me, and just… exist.

As I came up to the looming side of the Moby, I latched the boat to a rig and began the slow climb up the ropes. Salt clung to my skin, and the sun beat down on my back like it had a grudge. The coarse hemp dug into the arches of my feet with every shift of weight, and I hissed through my teeth as I pulled myself up, step by aching step.

Totally going to have a fucking sunburn. My shoulders, back, arms—hell, even the tops of my thighs from where my shorts rode up. I could already feel the heat blistering under my skin. I grimaced at the thought. Maybe Marco would heal me with his flames—just a quick burst to take the edge off—but I had already asked too much of him this past week. More than I should’ve.

My mood soured, the salt in the air turning bitter on my tongue as guilt settled like a weight in my chest. I didn’t like being a nuisance. Never had. It wasn’t like I meant to cause trouble. But ever since we brought on those new recruits to the first division, things had shifted.

They had this way of looking at me—half amusement, half malice—and whispering just loud enough that I could hear. Quick, cutting jabs about how I wasn’t “really first division,” about how Marco just kept me around because he felt sorry for me. I knew it was bullshit. Marco didn’t do pity. He was blunt, fair, and didn’t keep dead weight. But still... words had teeth.

He knew, of course. He always did. He watched everything, even when people thought he wasn’t. I didn’t tell him right away—I didn’t want to be that crewmate—but he picked up on it faster than I could hide it. And when he’d stepped in, it had only made things worse. The recruits started walking on eggshells, shooting me tight smiles, but I could feel the resentment in their silence.

Technically, I had seniority. Fifteen years on this ship, surviving storms, battles, raids, the Grand Line, and now the New World. But I wasn’t a platoon lead, and I damn sure wasn’t a commander. I didn’t want to be. I liked my place—as an able-bodied sailor. It kept my hands busy, my head clear. I could wake up, check the ropes, help with the sails, patch the hull, run cargo. There was always something to do.

And when the work was done, when the sea calmed and the stars began to creep into the sky, I could vanish into my room—my sanctuary. No eyes, no whispers. Just the creaking wood, the low hum of the ship, and the lazy spin of the wind dials swirling cool air against my face.

I reached the railing and hauled myself up over it, feet landing hard on the warm deck. The boards swayed slightly under my weight, familiar and steady. A few crew members glanced over, offering nods, some smiling, but I kept my head down and moved fast. I didn’t want to talk. Not now.

The faster I could get below deck, the faster I could disappear.

My room was the one place on this entire massive ship that felt entirely mine. Not just assigned, not just where I slept—but where I could be. A little sanctuary tucked into the belly of the Moby, filled with nick-nacks and worn trinkets from ports I'd probably never see again. Shells from distant beaches, carved tokens from quiet villagers, the occasional shiny rock I swore had some kind of meaning when I first picked it up. Pictures—some drawn, some stolen, some faded—lined the walls. Maps, too, curled or pinned or strung up with twine, telling the story of every journey we’d taken. My life laid out in ink and string.

It was my proof that I’d lived. That I had dared, wandered, fought, and survived. I hadn’t been carried through these years—I’d clawed and climbed and chosen every step. And my room? My room was the quiet reward for it all. My personal freedom, my peace.

I felt giddy just thinking about it. I could already picture myself sinking onto my hammock, kicking my boots off, and letting the wind dials hum cool air against my sunburnt skin as I sat in the dark. Just existing.

And thank the sea itself—today was my first proper break in months. Three days off. No shifts. No rigging repairs. No haul-ins. Just me, the wind, maybe a book, and a well-earned silence. Even my Devil Fruit, dormant but pulsing in my core like a coiled ribbon of energy, seemed to squirm in anticipation. It wanted relief too, eager to cool off, stretch, breathe.

I hummed under my breath, a soft tune I didn’t quite remember the origin of, cooing at the wild power within me like I was trying to soothe a restless animal. It calmed a little, the sensation easing like a tide pulling back.

My bare feet padded across the main deck—still warm as the sand, damn it—and I winced, cursing low under my breath. “Stupid sun. Stupid summer. Stupid cursed oven of a sea.”

I picked up the pace, hurrying toward the galley. As much as I wanted to vanish straight into the cool shadows of sub-level three, there was no way I’d survive a minute longer without water. I was going to be the next Sandman if I didn’t hydrate soon—cracked lips, dry throat, delirious mumbling and all. And I wasn’t about to faint in the hallway and give the new recruits something else to snicker about.

Thatch’s kitchen was just up ahead, and I prayed he’d be busy elsewhere so I could just slip in and grab a barrel. I didn’t need a full meal, just a drink. Maybe something cold, if the gods of luck were still in my corner.

"Five minutes," I muttered to myself. "Water, shadows, hammock. Just five more minutes."

The thought alone was enough to push me faster.

As I pressed past the door that led to sub-level one, a gust of slightly cooler air greeted me—barely noticeable, but enough to keep me going. Just as I rounded the corner, I nearly bumped into Haruta. His uniform stuck to his frame like a second skin, a bead of sweat trickling slowly down his temple, catching the dim corridor light.

He gave me a tired grin and lifted a hand in a lazy wave. “Hey there.”

I smiled wide despite the heat, glad to see a familiar, non-annoying face. “Hey, Commander,” I greeted, slowing my steps just slightly to pass him.

“I wouldn’t go outside if I were you,” I teased with a small giggle, nudging my chin toward the hellish weather above deck.

He snickered, already wiping at his brow with a cloth. “Noted, but Thatch sent me to get something from the storeroom. Pray for me.”

“I’ll light a candle,” I joked, and he chuckled as we went our separate ways.

The hall stretched ahead, the wood cool under my feet compared to the deck, though it was still a far cry from my room’s blessed chill. The further down I went, the quieter it became. No more hammering sun, just the distant hum of the Moby’s great hull slicing through the sea. I moved past sub-level one and descended to two, the scent of salt giving way to roasted spices, sizzling oil, and baked bread.

Thatch’s kitchen.

Gods help me.

The moment I stepped in, it hit me like a wall—heat. Thick, muggy, clinging heat that wrapped around my body like a damp blanket soaked in pepper oil. Flames roared under multiple stoves, steam billowed from boiling pots, and the sound of shouting cooks and clattering pans created an orchestra of chaos.

And there, right in the middle, stood Thatch himself—grinning like a madman, ladle in one hand, towel slung over his shoulder, and laughing as one of his sous-chefs nearly dropped a tray of skewers.

I yelled over the kitchen noise as I darted toward the storage barrels.

“Seven Hells, Thatch! How can you work in here? It’s so fucking hot—like Hell’s own kitchen!” I dodged a bowl of flying fruit and nearly collided with a steaming pot.

He looked over, face shiny with sweat but still stupidly cheerful. “What can I say, I’m built for the heat, sweetheart!”

I rolled my eyes, nearly slipping on a slick patch of floor as I grabbed one of the smaller water barrels off the rack and hoisted it into my arms. “You’re built for madness!” I called back as I danced around a frantic sous-chef holding an enormous pan of grilled fish.

The moment I escaped the steamy kitchen, I nearly collapsed in the hallway, gasping as if I’d just escaped a volcano.

“Note to self,” I muttered, taking a long, greedy gulp from the barrel, “don’t fucking go back in there…”

The water tasted like heaven. Cool, crisp, slightly salted from the long-term storage, but I didn’t care. It trickled down my throat and cooled me from the inside out.

With the worst of the gauntlet behind me, I hoisted the barrel again and began the final descent toward my room—my precious, dimly lit, blessedly cool room. And this time, nothing was going to stop me.

I finally made it to sub-level three and was about ready to sprint to my room. If this heat didn’t kill me, the headache it was brewing surely would. My muscles ached, my arms burned from lugging the damn water barrel, and I could feel that distinct trifecta of heat stress, desperation, and a slow, bubbling rage crawling up my spine. I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore it—tried to hold on to the promise of my sanctuary just a few doors down.

And of course, that’s when the hallway had to be fucking crowded.

A cluster of ABS—able-bodied sailors, same rank as me, probably escaping the sun like rats abandoning fire—lazed about in the corridor, sweat-slick and sprawled like it was a damned common room.

I grumbled under my breath as I scooted past them, tightening my grip on the water barrel. I get it, I thought bitterly. The sun is a tyrant today. But don’t you have your own damn rooms?

One of them barely shifted to let me through. I didn’t care to catch his name. If I stopped, I might scream.

My breath hitched in my chest—not from exhaustion, but from the bubbling excitement. I was so close. Just a few more steps and I’d be home. Safe. Cool. Alone.

I turned the corner, heart thudding with anticipation—and then froze.

Grug.

Fucking Grug.

He and a few of his little shadows lounged along the wall like they owned the place, leering, loud in that way where even silence felt like a threat. My heart dropped somewhere near my stomach. I didn’t look at them—wouldn’t give them the satisfaction—but I could feel their eyes. I kept my gaze low, body small, slipping past like I wasn’t worth noticing.

They chuckled.

That sound. That damn sound. It slid under my skin like fishhooks. I didn’t stop. I didn’t look. I just told myself it didn’t mean anything.

But my gut said otherwise.

And then, just when I thought I was safe, just when I was reaching for the handle of my door—ready to collapse into the one place in this world that was mine—I stopped cold.

The lock.

The fucking lock was gone.

No… not broken from rust or old age. Bashed in. Smashed. Bent, warped, splintered like someone had taken a crowbar—or a boot—and kicked the shit out of it.

My breath caught in my throat.

The barrel nearly slipped from my arms.

My heart went numb.

I stared, willing it to be a trick of the light, a hallucination from heatstroke. But no. The damage was fresh. Splinters littered the floor. The door hung crooked in its frame, and through the narrow crack, I could see the shadows of things that weren’t where I’d left them.

My sanctuary…

Violated.

Ruined.

And just behind me, down the hallway, I heard them chuckle again. Louder this time.

Mocking.

And suddenly, the water in my arms didn’t feel heavy anymore. It felt like an anchor. Like weight. Like purpose.

My devil fruit stirred beneath my skin. Not eagerly. Not wildly. But slowly. Like something ancient opening one eye. Not for power.

But for vengeance.

I didn't move.

Not yet.

But that laughter?

It wasn't going to last.

I sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, nostrils flaring as I turned back down the hallway—empty.

Grug and his fucking-loser-ass-wannabe-sycophants were gone.

Gone.

They had bolted the second I’d noticed the door. Like the goddamn cowards they were. Not even brave enough to stick around and take the heat when it wasn’t just the sun cooking everyone alive. They had probably sprinted like hellhounds were on their heels—and honestly, they weren’t wrong.

They should be scared. They should’ve run.

Normally… normally, I tried not to give a shit. Not worth it. They were assholes, sure, but I stayed busy—kept to my duties, my space, my peace. I’d always managed to outrun their pettiness by just not engaging. Kept my head down. Kept my heart light.

But this?

This wasn’t harmless.

This was my room. My sanctuary. My one place on this massive floating fortress where I could just be.

And they knew it.

I stepped in, the door creaking uselessly on its busted hinges, and immediately threw the barrel of water across the room. It smashed against the far wall, cracking open and flooding the wooden floor as water splashed against the base of my shelves. I barely flinched.

"FUCK!" I barked, loud enough that it echoed off the walls, sharp and guttural. "Fucking grub-ass, bootlicking, dogshit sons of—!"

I stopped.

Not because I calmed down. No, far from it.

But because my body had slipped into auto-pilot.

I was pacing now, fists clenched, boots scuffing the wet floor, breath ragged. My chest rose and fell like I was on the verge of tearing the whole ship apart with my bare hands. My devil fruit twisted in my gut—angry, molten, thrumming just beneath the surface of my skin. Not uncontrolled. Not out of hand.

But ready.

The air shifted subtly around me. The damp, post-barrel spill should’ve cooled things, but it didn’t. My heat—our heat—was winning.

My mind kept chanting stupid shit. Shit happens. It's not a big deal. It'll be fine. Lies, all of it.

It wasn’t fine.

It wasn't fine, and my fruit knew that. It could feel the surge of adrenaline, the wrath, the violation. It stirred hotter in response—responding to the betrayal like it was personal.

Because it was.

They hadn’t just broken a lock.

They’d broken the unspoken law of survival out here—don’t fuck with someone’s safe place. Not in the New World. Not on Whitebeard’s ship.

I kicked over a chair. Then a small crate. Then a pile of clothes. I didn’t care what it was. I just kicked.

My breaths came faster, louder. My vision blurred a little. I pressed my hands to my face, dragging my fingers down over my skin like I could claw the frustration off.

But it clung to me, burning.

And somewhere beneath the rage, a whisper.

They don’t get to win. Not this time.

I stood still in the mess, in the silence, heart pounding against my ribs. I blinked, sweat mixing with the ocean’s salt still on my skin.

No more pacing.

No more pretending.

If they wanted a fucking storm, I’d give them a goddamn typhoon.

And yet, as quickly as that thought came—it deflated. Like a sail catching no wind, it just… collapsed. The weight of it all hit me square in the chest. My shoulders slumped forward. My lip trembled.

The fury that had scorched through me only moments ago evaporated into something far more bitter.

Sadness.

Loss.

My stuff—my fucking stuff—was ruined. The photos were torn, the ink on some of the maps already bleeding into useless stains, colors warped and curling in the pooling water. Trinkets I’d bartered for, earned, fought for—they were scattered across the room, stomped or snapped like they were nothing.

My adventures.

My treasure.

My memories.

Gone.

Or worse—mocked.

I pressed my knuckles hard against my lips, trying to swallow the sob that surged up from my chest. Told myself, over and over again, it’s fine. It’s fine. You’re fine.

I wasn’t fine.

And no matter how tightly I clenched my jaw, the tears slipped free. They carved hot trails down my cheeks and along my neck, the salt stinging where the sun had kissed my skin raw.

I cursed under my breath at the burn—damn sunburn—but it didn’t matter. Nothing really did in that moment.

I sank to the floor, knees hitting the soaked wood with a soft thud. My hands fell to my lap, helpless, trembling.

I sniffled. Tried to breathe slow. Tried to get control of myself. But the more I tried to hold it together, the faster the cracks spread.

For all the fire in my blood, for all the unholy fury my Devil Fruit carried through my veins—I was nothing in this moment.

I couldn’t afford to lose control. Not again. Not like before.

Never again.

I wasn’t like him. I wasn’t like the man who had fathered me.

No.

I wasn’t like that monster who let his anger define him, who let it rot everything he touched until there was nothing left but damage.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the heels of my palms to them until little stars blinked in the dark behind my lids.

But the thoughts kept coming. Kept digging.

I’m not even like Pops, I thought bitterly.

He would’ve raised hell. He would’ve stormed through this ship and tossed those sorry excuses for sailors overboard before they even had the chance to explain themselves. He protected what was his. With pride. With ferocity.

And here I was.

Frozen.

Teary-eyed. Barefoot. Sore. Alone. In my destroyed space.

My sanctuary, my fucking sanctuary.

It was like they’d come in and smashed a part of my soul.

And all I could do was kneel in the wreckage of it.

I sniffled again, the sound too loud in the quiet. The ship groaned gently with the waves outside, the only thing that hadn’t been ripped apart by Grug’s cruel idea of entertainment.

My hand reached for one of the few things still intact—an old, waterlogged photo of me and Izo on some random island years ago. I couldn’t even remember the name of the place. We were laughing. There was seafoam in my hair. His eyeliner was smudged.

I held it close to my chest and whispered, voice hoarse and cracked:

“…I don’t want to be like them.”

And in that moment, it wasn’t about revenge.

It wasn’t about fire or fury or showing strength.

It was about holding on to whatever pieces of myself I could salvage—before I lost them too.

After several long minutes of kneeling there, still and crumpled like the remnants of my room, I finally pushed myself to stand.

My legs buzzed, needles pricking at the numbness in my calves as the blood rushed back to them. I wobbled for a moment, grabbing the doorframe for balance as I exhaled shakily. My eyes swept over the wreckage once more—slowly, solemnly.

Everything was scattered. Smashed. Trashed.

The torn tapestry from Wano hung by a single nail, the edge frayed and fluttering slightly from the draft seeping through the hallway behind me. A little hand-carved sculpture from a child in Flevance had been shattered into pieces. The tiny shells from Sabaody were scattered like bone fragments across the floor.

Even my bed—my nest, carefully woven with fibers that helped cool my body and calm my fruit—had been ripped apart. Slashed, kicked, gutted.

A soft, broken hum left my throat, almost instinctive. My Devil Fruit stirred inside me, an angry coil of energy that pulsed against my skin, biting at my nerves like lightning trying to strike. I didn’t even know if it understood words sometimes, but I cooed to it anyway. Like a lullaby for a storm.

“Aut viam inveniam aut faciam,” I whispered.

I will either find a way… or make one.

The Latin felt steady on my tongue, like it belonged there. Like it needed to be said. Not just for me. But for it. For the power inside me that always teetered on the edge of becoming something I couldn’t contain.

I stepped carefully through the room, over the broken glass and splintered wood, my bare feet silent even in the mess. My hand curled around the one thing that hadn’t been shattered.

My log pose.

I turned it over once in my palm, surprised it had survived. The leather strap was a little scuffed, but the dial still pulsed with direction. Still pointing forward. Like it was mocking me. Or reminding me.

I slipped it around my wrist, feeling its familiar weight settle there. And then, from beneath the upturned remains of my desk drawer, I pulled the only other thing I needed.

Pops’ vivre card.

It was worn and curled slightly at the corners, but it still felt warm. Still tugged at me gently like a heartbeat. A promise. A tether.

I stared at it for a moment. My thumb brushed over its edge.

“I’m sorry…” I muttered, voice caught somewhere between guilt and resolve. “I just… I can’t anymore. Not right now.”

Grug and his buddies—they’d always poked, always laughed, always tested me. I had endured. I had stayed. For five years, I had endured. And maybe that was the problem. I thought that if I just ignored it long enough, they would get tired. That I wouldn’t have to fight, that I could just stay out of the way.

But this?

This crossed the line.

I wanted to start over.

No, I needed to.

To run. To disappear. To breathe without the fear of being watched.

“Prodire…” I whispered again, calling on my fruit—willing it to listen to me this time. The surge I expected didn’t come. The power inside me just flickered, flicked its tail and sulked in the corner of my chest. Rebellious. Stubborn.

I swallowed hard as my lip quivered, heat brimming behind my eyes again.

It was like even it thought I was being weak.

Begging, almost.

I shook my head quickly and wiped at my cheeks with the back of my hand. “Fine,” I hissed under my breath, voice cracking. “Don’t help. I’ll do it without you.”

My hands clenched. My feet moved.

I stepped through the wreckage without another glance back.

The hallway was empty now, quiet. Still hot, but the walls didn’t feel like they were closing in anymore. Not when I had made up my mind.

Let them clean it. Let them trash it again. Let them turn it into storage for all I cared. That place, that room—that version of me—was staying behind.

Because I wasn’t coming back.

Not for a long while.

And maybe… maybe not at all.

The flickering sconces cast long, warped shadows on the painted hardwood walls as I weaved through the maze of narrow hallways leading to Sub-Level One. The air was damp with the scent of oil, wood and sea salt , and my boots echoed with each step, marking my steady ascent into the underbelly of the ship.

Then, as if summoned by the bitterness in my veins, fate spat in my path.

Grug.

He lumbered into view from the corner of the hallway like some beast dredged up from a nightmare. I sucked in a sharp breath and kept walking, hands clenched into fists so tight my nails dug into my palms. I wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. It was worse—I was furious. That kind of rage that coils in your chest, wild and hot, begging to be loosed.

But I kept walking.

I told myself I wouldn’t stop. That I could pass him. That if I ignored him, maybe the devil would look the other way this time.

No such luck.

Grug stepped forward with a heavy thud, blocking the narrow passage entirely. His hulking frame cast a shadow over me, stretching across the cold concrete like a threat. No gang today. No sneering backup. Just him.

And me.

He was taller—by a lot. Broader, too. His shoulders were practically scraping the corridor walls. Every inch of him was a silent provocation, from the lazy slump of his posture to the glint in his eyes that said he knew I’d stopped breathing for half a second.

Could I take him in a fight? Absolutely. On a good day, with room to move, and no distractions, he’d be on the floor in thirty seconds. But then—his face morphed.

Not Grug’s.

My father’s.

The ghost of him—the real monster—flashed through my mind, all snarls and fury, the memory of rage soaked in blood and spit. A memory of being small and helpless and learning what fear tasted like before I could spell it.

The phantom passed, but the chill it left lingered.

I swallowed hard, forcing my legs to stay locked, forcing my voice to rise, even if it cracked like glass.

“Move,” I said curtly, my tone teetering on the edge of courage and fear. Not quite strong, not quite broken.

Grug tilted his head, that smug little grin tugging at his cracked lips.

And he didn’t move.

Grug tilted his head down toward me, that familiar, twisted grin pulling at the corner of his mouth like he knew he’d already won something. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t budge. Just stood there, arms loose at his sides, posture relaxed—but that smug, square shape of him filled the hallway like a boulder blocking a stream.

“Oh, come on,” he said, voice slick and condescending, like oil spilled across a calm sea. “After all the trouble I went through to improve your room, that’s all I get? ‘Move’?”

His tone was mockery dipped in honey. Sweet. Sarcastic. Rotten.

I stiffened, throat dry, heartbeat rising like a war drum in my chest. I could feel the heat crawling up my spine, my fruit stirring, trying to rise. I shoved it back. Hard. My skin prickled. Sweat beaded at the nape of my neck, more from tension than the heat now.

“Move,” I said again, sharper this time. Less fear, more fury. But still—I held myself steady.

Grug’s eyes narrowed, some lazy amusement curling around his lips. “Y’know, I’ve been wondering…” he drawled, inching closer. “What does someone like you even do to keep Pops’ favor? Huh? You think being here fifteen years makes you better than me? Makes you family?”

I clenched my fists. My nails were cutting half-moons into my palms.

“Answer me.”

“Move.” I spat, my voice cracking just a little.

Grug’s expression hardened. The lazy edge fell away, revealing something sharper underneath. Cruel. Vindictive.

He raised his hand.

My body tensed, my mind flooded with memories I never wanted—shouts, snarls, fists through walls, blood on floors that should’ve stayed clean. The kind of memories that don’t whisper—they scream.

The slap came fast, loud, and jarring.

My head snapped to the side. My skin burned. My ears rang.

The sting echoed in the silence, my breath caught between gasps.

I didn’t move.

“Answer my fucking question,” he hissed.

I turned my face slowly back toward him. “Move.”

Another slap—backhanded this time. Cowardly. Petty.

Still, I didn’t budge.

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He hit me again. Harder. My cheek throbbed with heat, and the taste of iron flooded my mouth. I could feel my fruit flaring, flames building behind my ribs, claws of heat scraping at my lungs.

Sile, I commanded it again, mind sharp. Quiet.

“Answer me,” he snarled.

I lifted my eyes to meet his. My voice, when it came, was a whisper made of steel.

“Move.”

He stared at me.

Maybe he thought I’d cry. Maybe he thought I’d snap. Maybe he thought he could push me into becoming the monster he already believed I was.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t flinch.

Didn’t break.

I was shaking like hell on the inside, my devil fruit screaming for justice, for release—but I stood there like stone. A storm frozen in place.

And for just a second, something flickered in his eyes. Uncertainty.

He stepped back.

Coward.

The hallway was silent—deathly silent.

Then came the chill.

It crept like frost over bone, a sudden unnatural cold that warped down the corridor, curling around my limbs, making the hairs on my neck rise. My breath hitched. My hair hung in front of my face, hiding the flush on my cheek and the fire in my eyes, but I didn’t move. I stared at the wall—at the chipped paint and warped wood—this hallway we’d all walked a hundred times before. Suddenly, it looked old. Damaged. Like the ship itself had flinched at what had just happened.

Then came the voice.

“What’s happening here?”

Cool. Low. Sharp enough to draw blood.

It wasn’t raised—but it didn’t have to be. The weight of it cut through the air like a blade. I felt it on my skin like pressure. Like warning.

Marco.

Haki poured from him like a slow tide, thick and suffocating. The very air around him hummed, crackling at the edges like lightning waiting for permission to strike. Somewhere far off, thunder rumbled—slow and ominous.

Grug stiffened.

I snapped my head up and looked past the slab of muscle in front of me, gaze locking on the figures at the end of the hall.

Marco stood at the center, arms relaxed at his sides, yet every inch of him screamed don’t test me. His blue eyes burned with something ancient and untamed beneath the calm—like the eye of a hurricane.

On his right stood Thatch, arms crossed, mouth tight. On his left, Ace.

Ace, whose fists were clenched, smoke curling between his fingers, his eyes locked on Grug with a heat that promised hell. He looked like he was one second from turning this hallway into a furnace. Good. Let him.

But it was Marco who held the moment in his hands—quiet, unmoving, and lethal. The kind of rage that didn’t need to roar to be known.

No one moved.

I crossed my arms, steeling myself as the last of my courage pushed me forward. With one last breath, I slipped past Grug’s looming form without looking back. I was done. Finished. No dramatic declarations, no goodbye speeches—just gone.

I didn’t think anyone needed to know. Hell, I didn’t care if they did.

This place, this ship, this so-called home—I was done letting it dig its claws into me. I’d return when I felt like it. On my terms. If ever.

As I walked toward Marco, I could feel the heat still clinging to my skin, could feel the way my pulse buzzed like wildfire beneath it. My eyes must’ve looked wild, red, raw. I felt stretched thin, like every nerve in my body was singing with rage and shame and grief all braided together.

Marco looked down at me when I passed him, his eyes that soft, piercing blue that had once made me feel safe. Now, all I saw was pity. Or maybe it was guilt. Something deep swam there, something like remorse. But he didn’t know the half of it. None of them did.

And I wasn’t in the mood to enlighten them.

I scowled, the weight in my chest shifting. My rage—my curse—it didn’t just belong to Grug anymore. It was spreading, infecting everyone and everything I’d ever cared about.

And I was done caring.

I shoved past Marco. Then Ace. Then Thatch. Their eyes burned holes in my back, but I didn’t falter. My face was carved into a glower so cold it could’ve frozen fire.

“What happened?” Marco’s voice rang out behind me.

I paused.

The words punched a hole in my chest. That’s what he asked? What happened?

Not Are you okay?

Not I’m sorry.

Not even Don’t go.

Just that. And it sank in deep.

I turned slightly, just enough for my voice to reach him, low and bitter.

“My fucking space happened…” I muttered. Then I turned fully and ran.

Ace was the only one who called out my name. The only voice that cracked through the fog. But I didn’t look back.

I sprinted into the searing heat of early afternoon, the sun high and cruel above me. I didn’t stop. Not when the tears threatened. Not when my knees ached.

I didn’t stop until the ship was a memory behind me, and the wind screamed louder than the fury in my chest.

I tore across the ship’s main deck, my breath ragged, feet pounding against the worn wood. The sun caught in my eyes, the wind whipped my hair back, but I didn’t slow—not for a second.

That’s when I saw him.

Pops.

He was back.

His massive frame was unmistakable, seated in his great throne at the center of the deck like some ancient guardian. His halberd rested lazily across his knees, gleaming despite the shadows cast by the sail overhead. His presence always demanded reverence, even when I didn’t want to give it.

I could feel his gaze on me before I even looked up. Heavy. Knowing.

“Violet,” his deep voice rumbled behind me, calm but commanding. “Where are you off to?”

The lilt in his tone—it was subtle, but it told me everything. He knew.

Someone had snitched.

Someone had heard the crashing, the shouting, the silence that followed.

Figures.

I didn’t look back. Didn’t answer.

I had to keep going.

The rage still boiled in my blood, but something else was rising now too—something that felt like freedom, bitter and bright.

“Prodire!” I shouted, voice ringing with a force I hadn’t summoned in years.

And the fruit—my fruit—answered.

In a blinding rush of light and heat, wings burst from my back. Wide, burning with power, as if the sun itself had loaned me its fire. For the first time in a decade, I felt like I could breathe.

I crouched low, strength flooding into my legs, and with one push, I launched myself into the air.

The ship fell away beneath me, the voices, the gazes, the weight of all of them—gone.

In a flash, I was soaring above the glistening ocean, the wind tearing past me, salt on my lips, tears drying instantly as they slid down my cheeks.

I was free.

————————————

It wouldn’t be for an age before you ever laid your eyes on the Moby again.

The day you left, you didn’t think it would be permanent. But time has a way of slipping through your fingers when you’re trying to hold yourself together.

Fifteen years. That’s how long the Moby had been your home. Your sky. Your sanctuary. A place where you had carved out a piece of the world that was yours. Not borrowed, not shared, not something you had to fight tooth and nail to keep—but truly yours.

And you had guarded it like a dragon over gold.

Even in the chaos of that ship—the laughter, the battles, the chaos of brothers and storms—you had your room, your space, your quiet. That room had been more than four walls. It had been proof you belonged somewhere. That you had a place. A right to exist.

Then he came aboard.

Grug.

You could never quite put a name to it—what it was about you that made him hate you so much. You turned it over in your head for years. Still do, sometimes. But the truth is, some people are born like oil to your fire. And no reason in the world can make it make sense.

When he destroyed your space, it felt like something broke. Not just the furniture. Not just the walls. You.

You’d been considering leaving long before that day. The thought had crept in quietly, uninvited, the way doubts do when they’re most dangerous. But his arrival made it impossible to ignore. The way the air shifted around him, the tension he brought, how your instincts never settled when he was near—it wore you down.

And when your sanctuary was defiled—violated—it felt like the final straw in a story that had been fraying for too long.

So you left.

Getting back on your feet took time. Years, even. The world was different without the Moby beneath you. Quieter. Lonelier. Sometimes freer, sometimes not.

Now, you're older. Maybe a little wiser. The rage doesn’t burn quite the same way anymore—it smolders, quieter, tempered by time and scars. But the questions remain. The ache. The memories.

And now, as the silhouette of the Moby Dick comes into view once again—its massive sails catching the light like a ghost from your past—you feel something stir in your chest.

You don’t know what waits for you aboard.

But you know you’re not the same person who flew away that day.

And you never will be again.

Those sails—white and vast and shining like a memory that refused to die—called to you.

Even from the distance, across the ocean and sun-soaked sky, they stirred something deep inside you. Something painful. Something tender. Something real.

After ten long years away, after carving a life for yourself beyond the reach of the sea, the crew, your family—the Moby had found its way back to you. Or maybe… you had finally found your way back to it.

Your heart lurched.

The Vivre Card shivered faintly in your palm, tugging you forward like a whisper on the wind. You looked down the steep mountainside, the shore stretching out far below, and there it was—home. Or what used to be.

But shame.

Gods, the shame riddled your bones now.

Not the righteous fire that carried you away, not the raw wound that made your exit feel justified. This was colder. Heavier.

It had lived with you for years.

You had left so fast—like the world was ending. And maybe for you, it had been. You hadn’t said goodbye. Hadn’t looked anyone in the eye. Just gone. Left your family in the wake of your fury and grief.

You thought of your room. Of what it must look like now.

Maybe they gave it to someone else. Maybe they scrubbed the walls clean of you and filled it with someone easier. Someone less… broken.

The mess was probably gone. The cracks in the paint. The smell of you. Replaced. Renovated. Forgotten.

The thought made your stomach twist.

You sighed, and turned around, boots crunching against gravel as the wind pulled at your coat.

You weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be.

But the Vivre Card still trembled softly, always pulling you softly, steady.

It didn’t judge.

It didn’t blame.

It just… pointed home.

[inviolatist]

Ambition would later be a myth.

And maybe to people like Shoma, dreams are best regarded as what they are. Solely as dreams. A lofty, idealistic picture illustrated by hope.

Prologue

Shoma’s grandfather would tell him it’s fine.

It’s fine that he doesn't have to become anything. Be anybody. That in the end, it’d be fine if Nakajima Shoma didn’t aspire to become anything at all. That he could come home almost as if he never left. As though Hasami preserved itself against change with memories of nothing.

His grandfather assured him that he’d wait. Alongside with grandmother, they’d wait when it’d be time for Shoma to return home. They’d make preparations to acquire a relative’s carpentry business. He’d fancy a woman from high school, purely lukewarmly, and revise the cycle he intended to sever. He’d resurrect a forsaken trail of companions left stranded and forgotten upon mounting a city.

Ambition would later be a myth.

And maybe to people like Shoma, dreams are best regarded as what they are. Solely as dreams. A lofty, idealistic picture illustrated by hope.

He can’t lose heart now. Shoma would be a fool to. He’s used to having nothing; it’d be difficult to bend his commitment.

In a world growing increasingly unkind and an academic environment that breeds competition, insecurity, and resentment, how do they sustain themselves? What does self-preservation look like for them?

Shoma’s undergrad years was likely the most stressful out of his entire academic career. While juggling full-time job positions that pay a smidge better than minimum wage, it’s no wonder he was often holding onto his last bit of yen when he could (he absolutely hated those days when he’d run out of everything in his home at the same time—toilet paper, dish washing soap, laundry detergent, foaming cleanser, 4.5 kg of white rice, a pack of black ankle socks, you name it). And just like most, he has coping vices that he isn’t the most proud of. Running through cigarettes in his early twenties was a dopamine fixer and instant stimulant reliever. This, he’d do when stressful deadlines were approaching, or during breaks while on foot at work for a mere nine hours. It’s not the healthiest bit of self-sustainability, but it works the fastest.

Onto the healthier bit: he’d get energy to push through from his peers. From relaxing study groups of similar majors, to toasting away a dreadful week of finals, Shoma finds that a sense of community allows him to persevere. Surrounding yourself among broke twenty-something-year-olds with just enough money for beers and izakaya outings, while not entirely miserable has fit the bill for him. To blow off some steam, he’d engage in small, unceremonious games of football out on Kyodai’s field. He’s not the world’s next Honda Keisuke or Jude Bellingham, nor does Shoma want to be, but its a lively outlet that keeps himself active and removed from stressors that he’ll later confront.

What are their long-term goals, and how do they preserve their ambitions?

A long-term goal in which Shoma began to steadily chip the ice with has been contributing to scientific research. This, he’s been orchestrating with the help of various academic institutions and research centers. However, he’d like to dispatch his own independent research in favor of a publication under his name. As linear as his objectives has been, he isn’t looking to take a step-by-step route to getting there. Rather, his motivations are a bit sporadic—irregular as they present themselves. From continuing to teach professionally in universities, to resuming his own research, and/or contributing expertise in industry-based positions concerning pharmaceuticals, public healthcare and biotechnology.

You see, Shoma isn’t restricting himself to a single possibility as he’s largely receptive to most career-advancing opportunities. Especially in this day and age where job insecurity is at large in most parts of the working world, he finds it futile to limit himself to one goal aspect. Though, in the end, he’d likely want to obtain a leadership-based position in some sort of academic or research-based conservatory.

Who are they when blinding expectations and observant gazes aren't on them?

Ironically? Just some guy. Without all this, Shoma’s truly unremarkable as they come. He’s easier to relate to and recline on a sense of familiarity. Or security—and maybe stability? Could be both.

He enjoys drinking, exercising, eating, watching baseball games and football matches. Shoma would like to adopt more hobbies. It’s a pity that his time is constantly borrowed on labor.

He wants to take care of his family and (tentatively) have one on his own, if only the climate of the world wasn’t so increasingly harsh. He’s relentlessly frugal with his money, though he enjoys treating himself to celebratory meals. He’d like to make a day trip to a winery he’s been watching documentaries on, or purchase a new cologne (or watch) that’s been on his notes app wishlist for far too long. The habitual “would-like-to-haves” and “would-like-to-dos” fill up his time in the form of daydreams. Anything to give himself a pat on the back.

But seriously speaking? He loathes an unending succession to near-poverty as he’s always been subjected to. Doesn’t want that for himself, nor for the people that brought him up. It’s the one thing that keeps him going. The thing is, Shoma won’t say it out loud just for any pair of ears.