#Moby Rust

[alexa-yukiyu]

Could I request child reader where she ate the devil fruit that turns her into a spotted rusted cat( it's one of the smallest cats in the world, they grow up to 5'9 to 11 inches) i think it would be fun seeing her on whitebeards ship. Just a tiny kitty running around the deck, she was in her cat form and kinda dozed off. Maybe in a crate of supplies

Please just whitebeard holding this tiny kitten in his palm or by the scruff by the neck. She just turns back into a Human. She just feral because she's an orphan and looks after herself. She isn't scared to bite and scratch.

Claws out (Whitebeard pirates x f!Cat!reader)

Pt 2

A/N Guys I COOKED here, I have like one curse word here so be on the lookout for that, I also had to tease our favorite Freckled man on his origins on the Moby dick, just had to. Also double post today since I have homework I have been pushing back and have to do tomorrow so im not sure if I can upload tomorrow so wanted to feed you guys before

Reader here is replaced by dokucha which means Reader in japanese

Dividers by @/saradika

“How was the mission, Thatch?” Izou asked, walking next to his brother

“Ace and I rounded em in no time; he replied, making his way into the kitchen

“They never stood a chance,” said commander pipes in

“You should have- Is that a cat?” he asks, interrupting his statements as he glances at the feline freely dozing off on top of his kitchen’s oven

“Not again! Hey! Up and at’ em! Skedaddle!”

Dokusha opens her eyes as the sound of screams directed her way abruptly wakes her up, narrowing her eyes and hissing at the commanders

She shifts into her human form, taking a defensive position, ready to pounce on the two strangers

“Who are you?”

“Woah! It talks?” Ace asked his brother in disbelief with a broad smile

“Golly, Looks like it’s a zoan type,” Thatch says, glancing at the girl on his counter

“I don’t think she likes us,” Izou says, matching the stare of the stowaway and narrowing his eyes

“Get closer, and I'm clawing your eyes out,” she hisses

“Well, someone is grumpy,” Ace says, chuckling as he holds his hands up

“Now, aint that cute?” Thatch says with a small smile

“Hey, lil lady, how about you get off the counter, and we can talk things out?”

“How about you fuck off?”

“Aww, don’t talk like that lil’ one. Ya hurting my feelings,” Thatch says, smirking as he tries to come closer to the girl

“Careful, Thatch, this one is rather feisty,” Izou says

“Don’t worry, he can handle it,” Ace says, also coming closer

“Get the hell away from me!”

Ace and Thatch look at each other, smirking as they try to approach the girl

“Don’t be like that kitty, I just want to get to know ya,” Thatch says, trying to take another step forward

They hiss at him, pouncing on him

Thatch laughs easily, taking hold of her wrists and trapping her against him, bringing her closer to his chest, effectively hugging her trapped

“Sorry, Pumkin’, it’s gonna take a little bit more than that to take me down.”

Izou quickly steps close to the two, snapping a sea stone bracelet on her wrist

She frowns as her claws go back to normal, effectively leaving her defenseless, struggling against the hold Thatch had on her

Thatch keeps holding her close, ignoring her struggles with a grin on his face

“Quite the wild one,” Sighs Izou, glancing at the girl and ignoring the constant hisses and struggles

“Reminds me of yer early days, Ace,” Thatch laughs

“You think so?”

A smirk was visible on Ace’s face at this, and he replied with a sarcastic tone of voice

“I reminded you of a cat?”

“A dejected one, always trying to get to Pops,” Izou comments

“I was not a dejected cat! If anything, I was a fierce one.”

“If ya say so, Ace,” Thatch says with a grin on his face

“Let me go you lowlifes!” she continues hissing and struggling, unable to move and trapped in his grip

“Quit your bellyachin; we’re not even tryin’ to hurt you,” Thatch says, still holding her in his grasp

“Come on, we just want to talk,” Ace says

“Let’s talk without these on then,” she growls, gesturing to the bracelet now bound around her wrist

“Sorry, the bracelet stays on,” Izou says, smiling

“We should take her to Pops, see what he wants to do,” Ace comments, glancing at the cat girl, frowning when he notices the various scratches littering her skin

“We should also have Marco take a look at her.”

“Let me go, you giant troll!”

Currently, Dokucha had found herself once again under the hands of the pirates, held by the scruff of her shirt and under the scrutiny of the captain, who simply watched her with a laugh

“Well, aren’t you a squirmy one?” Whitebeard grins as the girl continues to struggle in his hands

“She does remind me of you, boy.”

“Not this again, Pops; I was not this bad, was I ?”

“You were, went at it hundreds of times before you came around,” Laughs Vista, looking at the Flame man

“Let me down!”She yells, continuing to struggle in the hands of the large pirate, now starting to kick her legs in the direction of the large pirate

“So what do we do with this one?” Ace asks

“Take her to Marco; it seems she’s in a rough shape,” he said, placing her down

“After she has been patched up, you can show her where she’ll be sleeping; you will have to take turns watching this one.”

“Will do Pops”

She takes advantage of the small handoff and makes a dash for one of the Junior Boats

“Woah there, slow down, Madam, you’re not going nowhere but the medic bay,” says Vista, quickly taking hold of the woman, making his way to the clinic with her

“Let me go, you damn brute!”

“Brute? I’ll have you know I'm far from a brute, Madam,” he retorts

“Don’t let her get to you, Vista; you know how the new ones are,” Izou pipes in, walking next to the swordsman

“I swear I will claw your heart out once I get off these!” Dokucha growls, pulling at the restraints that now held her to the examination table

“I apologize for the restraints, but I really need to take a look at you; you have wounds that need attention, and you are at risk of an infection if they are not taken care of-yoi, please understand” sighs Marco

“How did you get all of these wounds-yoi?” Marco asked curiously once she had stopped struggling

“I don’t need to answer that,” She hisses through gritted teeth, glaring at him, trying her hardest to keep her arms from pulling at the restraints

“You certainly don’t, and no one here will force you to; we just want to help you, is all; it’s the least you could do, seeing as you are a stowaway in our ship-yoi.”

She remains quiet for a few moments after that comment

“You don’t want to talk about it, right?” Marco asks, tilting his head to the side as he takes down notes about her condition

And the many scars she had

“That’s fine; you can speak when you feel more comfortable-yoi.”

“It’s none of your business,” she mumbles

“Alright, I won’t pry then-yoi,” he replies, taking down more notes before speaking again

“Do you feel anything weird lately? Like an uneasy sensation, headaches, fatigue, or anything similar-yoi?” he questions, glancing up when he receives no response

“Let’s do something. You seem to have calmed down, so answer me the question, and I‘ll get those restraints off-yoi.”

“I have been getting fatigued lately, lots of headaches,” she mutters

“See? Not so hard now, was it-yoi?” he said, taking notes of her comments, placing the clipboard down, and snapping off her restraints

She rubs at her wrists once they have been removed

“And the sea stone?”

“We’ll keep that on until we are sure you’re not a danger to anyone on board-yoi,” Marco replies, looking up at her

“Tell me more about those headaches-yoi. Are they the throbbing type? Do they come and go?”

“No, it’s pulsating and constant.”

“And the fatigue?”

“Constant, I always feel tired and end up dozing off.”

“Have you been eating?”

“I don’t have the liberty to eat as I please,” she growls

“Been struggling lately?”

“I have since my folks were killed.”

He glances up at her

“I ‘m sorry for your loss.”

“…I appreciate that.”

He smiles, ruffling her head

“There you go, you can relax her. None of us mean any harm-you”

Be pauses as he hears a rumbling sound, his smile growing into a wide grin

“Are you purring-yoi?”

She blushes, slapping his hand away

“No!”

This has potential for a part 2 doesn’t it 👀 okay so I feel like I always start it in the supply room so I decided to switch things up and started up in the kitchen this time, spice things up a bit 💅🏽

Taglist:

@imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

[senka-mesecine]

Still missing teeth, but now on pain meds!! #incoherent!! And still an American lit major unfortunately

Is it insane to compare Barnes to Captain Ahab and reader to moby dick? Not that reader is a feral whale, but Barnes is an obsessive hunter who needs to own reader, but also defeat him. He needs it to not only be equal, but he needs to win, and he needs those around to know, not from him openly bragging, but just from witnessing it.

And he would also absolutely die to his point over reader, and he would sacrifice others to do so as well.

---

I mean, the movie compares him to Ahab, so why not? Right in line with canon.

As for the reader being symbolic of the White Whale or rather, the incarnation of all of Barnes's obsessions and zeal, yeah, I can see it too. In a sense, not to reach, but I generally can visualize that for him love or even emotional attachment towards anyone could almost be like this untamed, aggressive, fully alien force of nature that has to be put down and killed inside of him; this great beast of an animal out in the open ocean that needs to be caught, detained and defeated before it devours and destroys everything in its path. See, Barnes would view his subjugation of the reader fully righteous and correct because how dare you distract him from what's right and necessary in his opinion, that being his fanatical focus on war, and a man in love is no good in war because a man in love just, you guessed it, wants to be in love. A man in love wants to, oh, I don't know; Go home. Be a pacifist. Lay about with someone all day. And what's worse --- be entirely content like that. Like, he would be fully aware and introspective you're taking his mind off of combat and being a hindrance as you tempt him into a life on the other side by doing nothing but existing and while some lesser man (from his point of view) might welcome daydreams and a focus on their beloved as a kindly distraction from the horrors of combat, Barnes sees it as an intrusion. A cog in the wheel. Something that is rusting the machine from the inside. You're messing with the well oiled system and so the system has to obliterate you because he might downright be convinced it'll lose him his war if he doesn't. And he's a death seeker, you see. He's written himself off a long time ago, and now, he so happens to have an itch to live again? Yeah, no.

Death and doom upon you for that.

Fact is, the only thing you would need as a requirement for Barnes to view you as this symbolic great White Whale he has to hunt down and in effect own is him starting to like you a little too much, god forbid love you. Admire you. Think about you a little way too often for his liking. What's even more interesting, the reader could be female and this fixation could be romantic and sexual in nature yes, but the great White Whale could just as well be another man Barnes has the itch to throttle beneath his bootheel. Or a combination of both. The White Whale is and can be genderless. It can be an idea. It can be a group of people. It can be a singular person. It can be someone he loves. Someone he hates. Someone he both loves and hates. It's merely symbolic of his zeal.

[queerliblib]

any nonfic book recs by lesbian authors? want to get into more feminist readings. whatever ya got :)

Hi! we don’t actively track down every author’s sexuality when we purchase their books so I don’t want to 100% guarantee when it’s possible some of these folks may be bi or some other flavor of queer, but I do imagine a lot of our non-fiction that’s about lesbians is also by lesbians, here are a few;

The Lesbian South by Jamie Harker

Lesbian Love Story: A Memoir in Archives by Amelia Possanza

No Modernism Without Lesbians by Diana Souhami

Boots of Leather Slippers of Gold by Elizabeth Lapovsky Kennedy & Madeline D. Davis

Mouths of Rain: An Anthology of Black Lesbian Thought by Briona Simone Jones

A Burst of Light (and anything else really) by Audre Lorde

Moby Dyke by Krista Burton

Rust Belt Femme by Raechel Anne Jolie

We Walk Alone by Ann Aldrich

& tons more!

[random-music-generator]

Yes, it is blasphemous, and an affront to the novel, but I wrote a 136th chapter to Moby-Dick because I wanted to and Melville is too dead to stop me. Spoilers because of course.

C H A P T E R  1 3 6

The Ocean

There are two things in this world which are infinite: the depth of the human soul, and the surface of the ocean. As I unyieldingly embraced that coffin which should have been mine, I found myself submerged completely within both; and while I do not claim to be a remarkable man, I maintain that no person, alive or dead, has ever drowned so many times in so many ways and remained sputteringly, ruthlessly alive. Staring out upon that endless expanse of rolling water, I was not gently carried away by distant reflections like all those times atop the mast-head; I was instead frozen in place, as if I clutched a fresh-broken chunk of iceberg, and struck over and over again by frigid waves, and made a chattering human corpusant by heavenly, sharpened lances of electricity; surrounded by water, beautiful and clear and shimmering, yet too paralyzed to swim, and too parched to scream, and convinced that rather than shakily holding my head above and my feet below, I had been turned upside-down, breathing in liquid and floating through air, staring up at the anglerfish lure of the sun as if it would swallow me whole and deliver me to the very same hell Jonah once talked his way out of. But I cannot talk, let alone pray; there is water in my desert, sunken lungs, seaweed and rope around my shuttered throat, driftwood and rust where there once was innocent flesh. To be surrounded by water, but unable to cry, unable even to drown; that is the bitter reality of Ishmael, the destined prison of Ahab, the unconsidered tragedy of Moby-Dick. As I floated, I imagined myself to be the white whale himself, stuck with the long-overgrown harpoons of a million windward traumas, witness to massacre after massacre at the hands of some wooden leviathan and its rabid, starving young, piloted by my hunters, the monomaniac, iron-browed sharks, tails nicked once by a flying harpoon, drawn back by the smell of blood from miles around for vengeance, biting at my toes, my feet, my legs, already dead, already bone, already broken, already stabbed, already picked clean of meat, fallen to the bottom of the ocean and picked clean of nutrients, feeding the cycle of sustenance, hunger, starvation, murder, death, and picked clean of memory, all particles—all my righteous, sinning particles—scattered across the infinity of the ocean, and, over an uncountable number of years, boiled till crackling in the try-works of the Earth’s core, fished out, and deposited into the furnace, spitting oil, coughing up water, peeling open eyes I hadn’t realized were plastered shut, lying face-up in a coffin, utterly unsure if the bearded face above me was God himself or the softly smiling captain of the poor, cursed Rachel. I could not recognize the feeling of my own skin wrapped around my aching bones. He asked my name. You ask my name. I forget. Call me Ishmael. Get up. Blow out your cannibal candle. Walk to your front door. Walk out onto the street with your eyes closed and spin. Spin until you feel sick. Spin until you hear the wind in your ears. Spin until you hear the screech of the albatross. Spin until you feel suspended in air, tangled in rope, submerged in the oil of your own head. Spin until you breach out of the dark, dreary, infinite forecastle depth of your soul. Spin until you feel the unwaning, infinite, atheistic, divine, natural and supernatural magnetism of the ocean; and walk forward, step by mismatched step, into the cavernous belly of the whale.

[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.

[horsesource]

“In order to make the tacit speak, what is required is to want, to do violence and to violate, and not at all a secret or something that would resist being said.” Fernand Deligny

“The Pequod’s whale being decapitated and the body stripped, the head was hoisted against the ship’s side—about half way out of the sea, so that it might yet in great part be buoyed up by its native element…that blood-dripping head..Silence reigned over the before tumultuous but now deserted deck. An intense copper calm, like a universal yellow lotus, was more and more unfolding its noiseless measureless leaves upon the sea. A short space elapsed, and up into this noiselessness came Ahab alone from his cabin…‘Speak, thou vast and venerable head,’ muttered Ahab, ‘speak, mighty head, and tell us the secret thing that is in thee. Of all divers, thou hast dived the deepest. That head upon which the upper sun now gleams, has moved amid this world’s foundations. Where unrecorded names and navies rust, and untold hopes and anchors rot; where in her murderous hold this frigate earth is ballasted with bones of millions of the drowned; there, in that awful water-land, there was thy most familiar home…O head! thou hast seen enough to split the planets and make an infidel of Abraham, and not one syllable is thine!’” Moby Dick

[hobbitsetal]

Tagged by @connanro to list one song for each letter of my url. (I am just now realizing how long my url is...)

Hold On Forever ~ Rob Thomas Oceans Between Us ~ The Icarus Account Believer ~ American Authors Blame ~ Bastille I Am ~ Awolnation Tongue Tied ~ Grouplove Send Me On My Way ~ Rusted Root Extreme Ways ~ Moby Top of the World ~ The Carpenters All These Things That I've Done ~ The Killers Lisztomania ~ Phoenix

tagging @starwarmth, @atlantic-riona, @ru-tabega, @gracefullysaint, @lightblueminecraftorchid, and anybody else who's interested

[savagesneversleepnyc]

COLORS OF JULY

RED is what she said

As hands that never tire

Pluck tender coals

To cast the ORE

Of the hammer to crack

The broken wheel

Grinning at the sky

Ants scurry to chase

The grace of shadows that

Cast cool silhouettes and

Hues of RED

7.2.24.00003 HOD OGE

ORANGE dots and spots of

sidewalk chalk as

Dogs squat with piercing eyes over

The steel rain guard

The rust of the industry

Drips into the gutter

A copper finger so filthy

No one could love it

Not even a mutha

2:01pm HOD BK 7.1.24

GREEN

PETALS WAIT AS BEAMS BREAK

DEWY DROPS APART

LULLING THEIR TIRED EYELET

TO QUENCH THE THIRSTY MUD

SLENDER ROOTS CREEP IN TINY

INCREMENTS NEXT

TO EARTHWORMS

AND SQUIRRELS BURROWS

FROM LILLY PAD

TO LICHEN

AND MOSS TO

GREEN EVERGLADES SLURRY

FROM CANOPY

TO FIRMAMENT BELOW

GREEN

11:32am YARDIE 6.30.24.0000003 OGE

VIOLET

VIOLET TIPS OF TULIP

DRIPS AND PUDDLES

ON PUTNAM THAT JIMMY’Z

DOG MADE AGAIN

THE BREAD IS FRESH

BUT THE PRICE OF

FLOUR AND OIL STAY STEEP

AS SAPPHIRE EYE CAST SMILES

THROUGH ANCIENT

STAINED GLASS TEETH

THE HEART OF PURPLE

GLORY ON THE CARD

IS ODD

BUT SO

IS THE

VIOLET BALL

10:56am NYU NYC 7.2.24.000003 OGE

Blue

Tiles fish platelets and rays coveted dismay

ELLs prone lurched as URCHINS spines unwind ALGEE and PLATYPUS papyrus siren’s beckon call roll in ORCA and SEA CUCUMBER clamor PUFFER’S at BAFIN BAY

Cold torrent trust over straits and PENGUINS gate WALRUS tusks sink vessels as lesser vassals of MACREL, SNAPPER, FLUKE and GROUPER slap the flailing sailors bailing BLUE buckets of CHUM and DUCKETTS too shiny to be mined in ocean beds were OCTOPUS GARDENS are REEFS that have old teeth TOO HUMBLE to MUMBLE back LAUGHTER over the claps of tiny GULLS picking CLOWN FISH from SHALLOWS so clear BLUE reflecting the under from the sand and rock that keep the BOX JELLY cozy and lonely LIKE a TIGER SHARK swims back up the canal in a VOW to somehow sniff out and BITE the RIGHT one who HARPOONED his brethren GATOR while cackling like HILLBILLIES chugging warm BUSCH BEERS out of a BLUE COOLER half over flowing with CATCH and the snouts of COPPERHEADS that slink over the rail

THE DEAD WOOD of the flooded floor below the BLUE blanket that hangs all the CATFISH and TICKS back when TIMBER RATTLERS all charge the beach at SUNSET

BLUE as ABOVE and BELOW and the NOTE we summon and LIVE LOVE KNOW AS NONE OTHER or the interval we command the tiller with in the GALE… Athe eye of MOBY DICK blinks again before thinking which one them to EAT FIRST…

FOR the OCEAN is a JUNGLE and the LAW of ORDER as such shall make WEAK into FOOD to sustain a BROOD as this the WAY as tides turn slowly to MERMAIDS and DREAMS I CHOOSE TO SEE… BLUE

5:06am YARDIE HOD

7.4.24.00000003

OGE IZU

INDIGO

INDIGO BLIND

GAZING WITH EYES SLAMMED SHUT

WANDERING AS A MOLE TO THE HOLE

BUT AS A MAN IN THE HEATH OR DESERT

OR SEA ALONE TO PONDER THE SOUP OF POINTS OF LIGHT ABOVE THAT ARE ALL SO FAR OFF YET GLEEM LIKE A BILLION SUNS OF INDGO HUES SHE USED TO TAKE THE SHINE INSIDE US AND GUIDE THROUGH CHOPPY WATERS AND PUT ON A WHITE KNIT BERET IN MIDTOWN WITH A FROWN AND IDIGO WENT IN MY HEART AS THE TRAIN ROLLS TO THE BLUE TUBE WE USED TO HOLD HANDS WAITING FIR ANYTHING ANYWHERE TO TRANSFORM OUR MESS INTO A GEM WE KNOW AND ALWAYS HOLD GLOWS IDIGO

5:14am YARDIE HOD

7.5.24.0000003

[deimonspikelet777]

Song covers by Bugs Bunny's voice AI.

Disclaimer: it's no more than the experiment in style "What if?..." and there is no evil thought about bullying over cartoon idol and his voice actors.

Although, I believe, that nobody will read it and everyone will accuse me of mocking the toon, as it was on DeviantArt in the case between Krypto451 and Anti-LU. Am I correct?

You can criticize me for using voice AI and inappropriate songs to cover, but without trolling or sarcasm. I'm already fed up with them. And yeah - I WON'T DELETE IT.

There is list:

Robbie Williams - Only you know me

Michael Jackson - Bad

Eminem - Without me

Thousand Foot Krutch - War of Change

Sean Paul - Get Busy

Linkin Park - One More Light

Static-X - The Only

Adema - Immortal

Lostprophets - Ride

F.R. Davis - Words

Wham! - Last Christmas

Баста - Раз и навсегда

Will Smith - Men In Black

Essenger - Half Life (#1)

Essenger - Half Life (#2)

Jah Khalib - Порвано Платье

The Prodigy - Diesel Power

Scandroid - Datastream

Daft Punk - One More Time

Daft Punk - Digital Love

Celldweller - One Good Reason

The Qemists - Our world

Дискотека Авария - Планета Любовь

Last Fighter - Morlock

Last Fighter - Awake and Unite

Юрий Шатунов - Белые розы

Moby - One Time We Lived

Poets of the Fall - Carnival of Rust

Сергей Минаев - Сиреневый кадиллак

Дима Билан - Держи

Eгор Крид - Слеза

Джокер - Магия

Gayazovs Brothers - Малиновая Лада

Smash Mouth - Everyday Superhero

Starset - The Future Is Now

Linkin Park - Breaking the habit

Пицца - Человек из зеркала (orchestra edit)

Enigma - Why

Modern Talking - Geronimo's Cadillac

Gary Jules - Mad world

Glee cast - Scream (Michael Jackson cover) (#1)

Glee cast - Scream (Michael Jackson cover) (#2)

Cee Lo Green - I want you

Наутилус помпилус - Матерь богов

Борис Моисеев - Звездочка (#1)

Борис Моисеев - Звездочка (#2)

Limp Bizkit - Behind Blue Eyes

DJ Slon - Бумер

Nirvana - Come as you are

Dub FX - Made

John Newman - Fire in me

Эндшпиль - Под одним солнцем

Чиж - Фантом

The Police - Every breath you take

Plazma - Take my love

Thomas Anders - Geronimo's Cadillac

Modern Talking - In my heart, in my soul

The Rasmus - In the shadows

Limp Bizkit - Behind Blue Eyes (russian cover by CoverOK)

P.S.: When I converted the singers' voices to AI voices and listened to them later, I wondered: why didn't the voice actors try to sing the songs with toon voices, like they did in the old Tiny Toon Adventures, but not then, but now, in the 2030s? I won't be surprised, if someone of Bugs Bunny's fans would want to his idol would sing something from 80s for returning of nostalgia.

[leeflagoon]

The Fanfiction Files: introduction.

About a year ago I started—on my school email—a google doc where I would get ideas from classmates and write the most vile fanfictions—ON MY SCHOOL ACCOUNT—into a section of the document.

“Fanfiction is a concept. It is a way of writing that should’ve never been written. Fanfiction comes from the depths of hell itself. My eternal punishment is to go through this labyrinth of filing cabinets full of horrible fanfiction. There is fanfiction about everything, Draco Malfoy, Dream SMP, Anime -so. much. anime.- and I have to read it all. I have all the time in the universe, after all. I should stop speaking to space, and start reading my next file again.”

FILE A9985, TIMOBY:

“Tim worked day and night for years to build Moby, a sexy brazen robot that has his own mind and personality and answers questions from kids around the world with his BrainPop technology. “I think I did it….finally…it's DONE!!!!” Tim squealed in delight as his Moby started to awaken.

“BeEp!”

His beeps translate in Tim’s head with the chip that Tim implanted in his cranium.

“Yes, my creation! Speak! You are alive!!”

“BeEp!”

Tim was overjoyed and excited. He grew more excited with every beep his little pet made.

“BeEeEeEp! BeEp! BeEp!”

“Oh Moby~” Tim was flustered with what Moby just said to him. The excitement and accomplishment that he just gave a robot emotion brought Tim pleasure. His member was pawing at the fly of his jeans, throbbing and begging to be released. “What is this feeling -ngh-...Moby?” Tim was confused on why his length was rushing with blood, reaching out to try and enter the robot’s walls. A piece of paper printed out of the robot’s huge pecs, containing the question that Tim just asked. Moby flushed, the bronze around his cheeks heating to a fiery red. His metal flaps moistening with crude oil.

“B-b- beEp”

“Moby..”

Moby started shutting down with embarrassment. Tim rushed to his side and caught the warm metal creature. Their faces are inches apart.

time froze between them.

[god how I wish time would stop, this story is torture]

Both Tim and Moby wished that this moment would last forever, the standstill and swinging scale in both of their minds wondering whether to make the first move or not. Tim extracted the courage from his mind to kiss Moby. Moby could do nothing but melt in his arms, still being held up by the tall lanky man. Moby wanted to do more, give Tim pleasure, and contribute, so Moby pushed away from Tim and started kissing his neck. At this point they slowly sat up and were both just kissing on the floor. Now, it was Tim’s turn to melt. Moby caressed Tim’s body and stopped at his ass, using his hydraulic strength to smack it. Tim moaned in pain, delicious, addictive pain. Moby positioned the beta in heat so that Tim would be straddling the robot. Moby used his robot abilities to change from a robot hoochie to a large, girthy, copper length. The forest around his man-bothood was not hair, but rust-a last minute design from Tim himself. Tim accepted his fate and let the robot’s hydraulic fucking machine poke through his jeans and ravage his colon. Tim screamed in pain and rapture, satisfied with every pulse, throb, and squelching pound, but somehow with all this satisfaction he couldn’t get enough and was shaking and quivering for more.

“M-M-Moby~” Tim begged for him to stop and for him to keep going. His voice was shaky and breathless, trying to hold in his climax.

“BeEp” Moby pulled out, cutting Tim off completely, leaving him tired and empty.

“Moby..*inhale* …Why’d you stop?*exhale*” Tim says exasperated.

“BeEp, BeEeEeEp!” Moby replied

Tim was about to cry, how did his robot learn to edge? He didn’t like it at all, all Tim wanted to do was get back on the metal tube. Moby grabs him and inserts his bothood back into Tim’s bloody, queefing hole. Moby goes back to pound town and makes sure to gag Tim in the process, Tim’s husky moans muffling.

“Moby-mmh-stop-ngh-OOUUUH!” Moby quickly removes his tin foil cock and Tim’s back-door releases an ocean of fluid. Tim screams in climax as his mess and anal squirt gets all over the floor. Moby’s tube releases vaseline as he reaches the summit.

“BeEp!”

*Tim exhales, tired*

Tim and Moby cuddle for the rest of the day and night, in harmony, in the anal squirt.”

*I close the file*

*I sigh, tired of this punishment*

And so we are done with FILE A9985. It's been hundreds of years of just reading for me; and for the first time in centuries, I am so close to reaching the next aisle. Aisle B. I don’t know why I feel a sense of hope that this will end, even after the English alphabet is done, with 10,000 stories per aisle, it just moves on to a different alphabet in a different language, even ancient ones. That is all I was told, I don’t know what will happen eons later once I finish the last Alphabet.

[tsuzukerukoto]

People I'd like to know better!

alias / name: Alex!

birth: December 16th

zodiac: Sagittarius

height: 5′9 (Dead average for an American guy, lmao)

hobbies: Reading, writing, gaming, and also researching about whatever topic springs into mind. Recently gaming's been grabbing me like crazy though.

fav colour: Tossup between a light grass green and denim blue. Also a fan of the color of the sea; that kind of peculiar blue-green.

fav book: That's a really hard question... I've got so many books vying for first place in my mind. The Lord of the Rings trilogy? Blood Meridian?

last song?: Steel Haze (Rusted Pride). "I won't stop! I'll chase the clouds from over Rubicon... Only I can fly high enough!" RUSTYYYY

last show?: I honestly can't remember the last show I watched, I usually read or game. Maybe one of the free South Park episodes they host on their website?

recent reads: No Longer Human, Moby Dick, Muv-Luv, and the Secret Book of John. Me when I am reading obscure Christian esotericism for my silly anime games (Xenopeak Chronicles and Genshin)

inspiration: Whatever I read! Books, visual novels and other story-based games, things from my writing partners... When I read something I really love, it's hard not to get inspired.

story behind url: It's a pun! My old blog's URL was dekirukoto, which referred to Makoto's ability to accomplish incredible things (dekirukoto means, roughly, "can do it") even though he's a normal (and unlucky) person. I wanted to do something similar, so "Kotaerukoto" can both mean "can endure" and "can answer"-- "endure", because this magnificent, almost absurd perseverance and tenacity of his are some of Makoto's defining characteristics, and "answer", because in writing I've enjoyed the idea of "the answer" comes up, I've noticed. And it's even in Makoto's character song, so it's not irrelevant to his character! This is technically a multi, but the URL ended up being inspired by Makoto again, haha... Though I think it can apply to some other muses of mine too! Lot of tenacious guys here.

fun fact: I once broke my nose and all I could think of in the moment, the single thing going through my mind at all, was that I had to clean up the blood that had gotten everywhere on the floor. And I started cleaning it up pretty much immediately. Truly a Shirou moment

tagged by: @spiritmaiden! Thanks for tagging me! tagging: Do it if you'd like to!

[enchi-elm]

Location FAQ: The Sound

[for ambience: listen to the sound of a wild sea here]

What is the Sound?

AE: In our story of ambiguously defined concepts, the Sound is least touched on of them all. The Sound is what connects the Frontier to the realm of the living, our regular world. The name comes from the Long Island Sound, the stretch of water between the Connecticut shoreline and Long Island. And that’s kind of where you can imagine our story taking place. It’s not clear how you cross over but it’s implied that the Sound connects to the realm of the living either through or as an extension of the Long Island Sound. Swim long enough in one direction and you might hit a shore of some kind…

SL: I’m going to cheat again and use another quote, because you can’t talk about the ocean and not bring up Melville, especially if you’re moving in New England. In Moby-Dick, he writes of the sea as the place where “unrecorded names and navies rust , and untold hopes and anchors rot; where in her murderous hold this frigate earth is ballasted with bones of millions of the drowned”--

AE: And the Sound is where the Drowned Men reign. It’s where they get their information about wrecked ships and drowned souls and it’s where those drowned souls turn into Drowned Men. So it’s a spooky place, full of mysteries. In Greek mythology, water is often the boundary between the land of the living and the land of the dead. There are also all manner of psychopomps in the water, who escort the newly deceased to their afterlife…

SL: Fittingly enough, the chapter that the above quote is from is titled “The Sphynx”. But yeah, even though the action of most of our story takes place on land (such as it is), the Sound is never far off; it’s there, lingering on the margins of our awareness. The Lighthouse keeps drawing our attention to it, and it’s also the place where our story comes full circle, at the opening and the close.

Does everyone who drowns in the Sound become one of the Drowned Men?

AE: There are no absolutes in the Frontier. But the Drowned Men will certainly make their move first, if they can.

____________________________________________

Read the story on AO3 here. // Read the DVD Commentary on AO3 here.

____________________________________________

Search the tag #The Lighthouse AU on @enchi-elm’s and @meretriciouslyloquacious’s blogs for the complete experience as it goes on.

Stay up to date on Apfel’s Blog // Stay up to date on Sheep’s Blog

[brookston]

Holidays 11.14

Holidays

American Teddy Bear Day

Children’s Day (India)

Chinggis Khan Day (Mongolia)

Day of the Colombian Woman (Colombia)

Dobruja Day (Romania)

Fappiano (Thanksgiving on Melmac, in “Alf”)

International Day Against Illicit Trafficking in Cultural Property

International Farmers’ Day

National Figure It Out Day

International Girls Day

International Selfie Day

International Street Vendors Day

Inuit Asking Festival (Eskimo)

Leftover Trading Day

Loosen Up, Lighten Up Day

Mobile Brigade Day (Indonesia)

Moby Dick Day

Momentum World Day of Giving

Monet Day

Movie Day (South Korea)

National Block It Out Day

National Education Support Professionals Day

National Family Pajama (or PJ) Day

National Figure It Out Day

National Marie Day

National Metallurgists’ Day (India)

National Pride Day (Mongolia)

National Seat Belt Day

National Survivors’ Day (Australia)

Odd Socks Day (UK)

Operating Room Nurse Day

Orange Day (French Republic)

Readjustment Movement Anniversary (Guinea-Bissau)

Remembrance Day (Cayman Islands)

Spirit of NSA Day (Nat'l Speakers Ass'n)

Streetcar Day (NYC)

World Diabetes Day (UN)

World Sexual Purity Day

World Syphilis Day (India)

Food & Drink Celebrations

Coast-to-Coast Toast Day

National Pickle Day (a.k.a. Pickle Appreciation Day)

National Spicy Guacamole Day (a.k.a. Homemade ‘Guac’ Day)

2nd Tuesday in November

International Wear Your Summer Camp T-Shirt Day [2nd Tuesday]

National Young Readers' Day [2nd Tuesday]

Feast Days

Alberic of Utrecht (Christian; Saint)

All Saints of the Carmelites (Christian; Saint)

All Souls of the Benedictine family (Christian)

Bal Diwas (India)

Barlaam of Kiev (Eastern Orthodox Church)

Claude Monet (Artology)

Diwali, Day 3 (Hindu, Jain, Sikh), a.k.a. ... 

Bhai Duj (Parts of India)

Bhau Beej (Parts of India)

Chitragupth Jayanti (Parts of India)

Dawat Puja (Parts of India)

Day of Cows

Deepavali Holiday (Manipur, India)

Deepawali (Sikkim, India)

Festival of Lights, Day 3

Gai Tihar

Laxmi Puja (Sikkim, India)

Ningol Chakkouba (Parts of India)

Tihar Festival (Nepal)

Yam Pancake (Nepal)

Dubricius (a.k.a. Dyfrig or Devereux; Christian; Saint)

Equorum Probatio (Old Roman cavalry parade)

Feronia’s Day (Pagan)

Gustavus Adolphus (Positivist; Saint)

Hypatius of Gangra (Christian; Saint)

John Steuart Curry (Artology)

Josaphat Kuncevyc (Roman Catholic)

Joseph Pignatelli SJ (Christian; Saint)

Justinian I (Eastern Orthodox and Lutheran Church)

Laugh Like a Lunatic Day (Pastafarian)

Laurence O'Toole (Christian; Saint)

Moccas (Celtic Pig Godess Festival)

Nikola Tavelic (Christian; Saint)

Philip the Apostle (Eastern Orthodox Church)

Samuel Seabury (Anglican Communion)

Sappho Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Serapion of Algiers (Christian; Saint)

Sidonius (a.k.a. Saëns; Christian; Saint)

Sonia Delaunay (Artology)

Venera (a.k.a. Veneranda; Christian; Saint)

The Whipley Triplets (Muppetism)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Fortunate Day (Pagan) [46 of 53]

Taian (大安 Japan) [Lucky all day.]

Umu Limnu (Evil Day; Babylonian Calendar; 52 of 60)

Premieres

Anastasia (Animated Film; 1997)

The Art of Skiing (Disney Cartoon; 1941)

Bah, Hummock! A Looney Tunes Christmas (WB Animated Film; 2006)

The Black Album, by Jay-Z (Album; 2003)

Black or White, by Michael Jackson (Music Video; 1991)

Bosko’s Soda Fountain (WB LT Cartoon; 1931)

Buried Treasure, Part 1 (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S3, Ep. 125; 1961)

Close Encounters of the Third Kind (Film; 1980)

Conspiracy of One, by The Offspring (Album; 2000)

Dumb and Dumber To (Film; 2014)

End Game, by Taylor Swift (Song; 2017)

The Facts of Life (Film; 1960)

Father of the Bird (WB LT Cartoon; 1997)

Future Man (TV Series; 2017)

Hoosiers (Film; 1986)

The Jackal (Film; 1997)

Let’s Talk About Love, by Celine Dion (Album; 1997)

Little Beau Porky (WB LT Cartoon; 1936)

Live Rust, by Neil Young (Live Album; 1979)

Looney Tunes: Back in Action (WB Animated Film; 2003)

Love Actually (Film; 2003)

Mail Dog (Disney Cartoon; 1947)

The Man Who Knew Too Little (Film; 1997)

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (Film; 2003)

Mother Pluto (Disney Cartoon; 1936)

Murphy Brown (TV Series; 1988)

The Ocean Hop (Disney Cartoon; 1927)

Of Rice and Hen (WB LT Cartoon; 1953)

Quantum of Solace (US Film; 2008) [James Bond #22]

Raging Bull (Film; 1980)

Smooth Criminal, by Michael Jackson (Song; 1988)

Suspicion (Film; 1941)

A Ticket A Casket or The Bury Box (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S3, Ep. 126; 1961)

Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson (Novel; 1883)

What to Listen for in Music, by Aaron Copland (Music Book; 1939)

Yellowjackets (TV Series; 2021)

Today’s Name Days

Nikolaus, Sidonia (Austria)

Filio, Filip, Filipa (Bulgaria)

Laurencije, Nikola, Nikolina (Croatia)

Sáva (Czech Republic)

Frederik (Denmark)

Alve, Alvi, Alviine (Estonia)

Iiris (Finland)

Sidoine (France)

Karl, Nikolaus, Sidonia (Germany)

Filippos, Gregory, Philip, Philipia (Greece)

Aliz (Hungary)

Giocondo, Venera (Italy)

Fricis, Fridrichs, Vikentijs (Latvia)

Emilis, Judita, Ramantas, Saulenė (Lithuania)

Fred, Freddy, Fredrik (Norway)

Aga, Agata, Damian, Elżbieta, Emil, Emiliusz, Jozafat, Józef, Judyta, Kosma, Laurenty, Lewin, Ścibor, Ścibora, Serafin, Wszerad (Poland)

Filip, Grigorie (România)

Irma (Slovakia)

José (Spain)

Emil, Emilia (Sweden)

Philip (Ukraine)

Aphrodite, Chrystal, Cristal, Crystal, Kristal, Krystal, Venecia, Venice, Venus (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 318 of 2024; 47 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 2 of week 46 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Ngetal (Reed) [Day 15 of 28]

Chinese: Month 10 (Gui-Hai), Day 2 (Bing-Zi)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 1 Kislev 5784

Islamic: 1 Rabi II 1445

J Cal: 18 Mir; Foursday [18 of 30]

Julian: 1 November 2023

Moon: 2%: Waxing Crescent

Positivist: 10 Frederic (12th Month) [Gustavus Adolphus]

Runic Half Month: Nyd (Necessity) [Day 4 of 15]

Season: Autumn (Day 52 of 89)

Zodiac: Scorpio (Day 22 of 29)

Calendar Changes

Jumādā al-ʾŪlā (a.k.a. Jumada I) [جُمَادَىٰ ٱلْأُولَىٰ] (Islamic Calendar) [Month 5 of 12] (First of the Parched Land; Pre-Islamic Summer)

Kislēw (a.k.a. Kislev, Marcheshvan, Chisleu & Chislev) [כִּסְלֵו / כסליו] (Hebrew Calendar) [Month 9 of 12]

November (Julian Calendar) [Month 11 of 12]

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 11.14

Holidays

American Teddy Bear Day

Children’s Day (India)

Chinggis Khan Day (Mongolia)

Day of the Colombian Woman (Colombia)

Dobruja Day (Romania)

Fappiano (Thanksgiving on Melmac, in “Alf”)

International Day Against Illicit Trafficking in Cultural Property

International Farmers’ Day

National Figure It Out Day

International Girls Day

International Selfie Day

International Street Vendors Day

Inuit Asking Festival (Eskimo)

Leftover Trading Day

Loosen Up, Lighten Up Day

Mobile Brigade Day (Indonesia)

Moby Dick Day

Momentum World Day of Giving

Monet Day

Movie Day (South Korea)

National Block It Out Day

National Education Support Professionals Day

National Family Pajama (or PJ) Day

National Figure It Out Day

National Marie Day

National Metallurgists’ Day (India)

National Pride Day (Mongolia)

National Seat Belt Day

National Survivors’ Day (Australia)

Odd Socks Day (UK)

Operating Room Nurse Day

Orange Day (French Republic)

Readjustment Movement Anniversary (Guinea-Bissau)

Remembrance Day (Cayman Islands)

Spirit of NSA Day (Nat'l Speakers Ass'n)

Streetcar Day (NYC)

World Diabetes Day (UN)

World Sexual Purity Day

World Syphilis Day (India)

Food & Drink Celebrations

Coast-to-Coast Toast Day

National Pickle Day (a.k.a. Pickle Appreciation Day)

National Spicy Guacamole Day (a.k.a. Homemade ‘Guac’ Day)

2nd Tuesday in November

International Wear Your Summer Camp T-Shirt Day [2nd Tuesday]

National Young Readers' Day [2nd Tuesday]

Feast Days

Alberic of Utrecht (Christian; Saint)

All Saints of the Carmelites (Christian; Saint)

All Souls of the Benedictine family (Christian)

Bal Diwas (India)

Barlaam of Kiev (Eastern Orthodox Church)

Claude Monet (Artology)

Diwali, Day 3 (Hindu, Jain, Sikh), a.k.a. ... 

Bhai Duj (Parts of India)

Bhau Beej (Parts of India)

Chitragupth Jayanti (Parts of India)

Dawat Puja (Parts of India)

Day of Cows

Deepavali Holiday (Manipur, India)

Deepawali (Sikkim, India)

Festival of Lights, Day 3

Gai Tihar

Laxmi Puja (Sikkim, India)

Ningol Chakkouba (Parts of India)

Tihar Festival (Nepal)

Yam Pancake (Nepal)

Dubricius (a.k.a. Dyfrig or Devereux; Christian; Saint)

Equorum Probatio (Old Roman cavalry parade)

Feronia’s Day (Pagan)

Gustavus Adolphus (Positivist; Saint)

Hypatius of Gangra (Christian; Saint)

John Steuart Curry (Artology)

Josaphat Kuncevyc (Roman Catholic)

Joseph Pignatelli SJ (Christian; Saint)

Justinian I (Eastern Orthodox and Lutheran Church)

Laugh Like a Lunatic Day (Pastafarian)

Laurence O'Toole (Christian; Saint)

Moccas (Celtic Pig Godess Festival)

Nikola Tavelic (Christian; Saint)

Philip the Apostle (Eastern Orthodox Church)

Samuel Seabury (Anglican Communion)

Sappho Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Serapion of Algiers (Christian; Saint)

Sidonius (a.k.a. Saëns; Christian; Saint)

Sonia Delaunay (Artology)

Venera (a.k.a. Veneranda; Christian; Saint)

The Whipley Triplets (Muppetism)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Fortunate Day (Pagan) [46 of 53]

Taian (大安 Japan) [Lucky all day.]

Umu Limnu (Evil Day; Babylonian Calendar; 52 of 60)

Premieres

Anastasia (Animated Film; 1997)

The Art of Skiing (Disney Cartoon; 1941)

Bah, Hummock! A Looney Tunes Christmas (WB Animated Film; 2006)

The Black Album, by Jay-Z (Album; 2003)

Black or White, by Michael Jackson (Music Video; 1991)

Bosko’s Soda Fountain (WB LT Cartoon; 1931)

Buried Treasure, Part 1 (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S3, Ep. 125; 1961)

Close Encounters of the Third Kind (Film; 1980)

Conspiracy of One, by The Offspring (Album; 2000)

Dumb and Dumber To (Film; 2014)

End Game, by Taylor Swift (Song; 2017)

The Facts of Life (Film; 1960)

Father of the Bird (WB LT Cartoon; 1997)

Future Man (TV Series; 2017)

Hoosiers (Film; 1986)

The Jackal (Film; 1997)

Let’s Talk About Love, by Celine Dion (Album; 1997)

Little Beau Porky (WB LT Cartoon; 1936)

Live Rust, by Neil Young (Live Album; 1979)

Looney Tunes: Back in Action (WB Animated Film; 2003)

Love Actually (Film; 2003)

Mail Dog (Disney Cartoon; 1947)

The Man Who Knew Too Little (Film; 1997)

Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (Film; 2003)

Mother Pluto (Disney Cartoon; 1936)

Murphy Brown (TV Series; 1988)

The Ocean Hop (Disney Cartoon; 1927)

Of Rice and Hen (WB LT Cartoon; 1953)

Quantum of Solace (US Film; 2008) [James Bond #22]

Raging Bull (Film; 1980)

Smooth Criminal, by Michael Jackson (Song; 1988)

Suspicion (Film; 1941)

A Ticket A Casket or The Bury Box (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S3, Ep. 126; 1961)

Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson (Novel; 1883)

What to Listen for in Music, by Aaron Copland (Music Book; 1939)

Yellowjackets (TV Series; 2021)

Today’s Name Days

Nikolaus, Sidonia (Austria)

Filio, Filip, Filipa (Bulgaria)

Laurencije, Nikola, Nikolina (Croatia)

Sáva (Czech Republic)

Frederik (Denmark)

Alve, Alvi, Alviine (Estonia)

Iiris (Finland)

Sidoine (France)

Karl, Nikolaus, Sidonia (Germany)

Filippos, Gregory, Philip, Philipia (Greece)

Aliz (Hungary)

Giocondo, Venera (Italy)

Fricis, Fridrichs, Vikentijs (Latvia)

Emilis, Judita, Ramantas, Saulenė (Lithuania)

Fred, Freddy, Fredrik (Norway)

Aga, Agata, Damian, Elżbieta, Emil, Emiliusz, Jozafat, Józef, Judyta, Kosma, Laurenty, Lewin, Ścibor, Ścibora, Serafin, Wszerad (Poland)

Filip, Grigorie (România)

Irma (Slovakia)

José (Spain)

Emil, Emilia (Sweden)

Philip (Ukraine)

Aphrodite, Chrystal, Cristal, Crystal, Kristal, Krystal, Venecia, Venice, Venus (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 318 of 2024; 47 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 2 of week 46 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Ngetal (Reed) [Day 15 of 28]

Chinese: Month 10 (Gui-Hai), Day 2 (Bing-Zi)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 1 Kislev 5784

Islamic: 1 Rabi II 1445

J Cal: 18 Mir; Foursday [18 of 30]

Julian: 1 November 2023

Moon: 2%: Waxing Crescent

Positivist: 10 Frederic (12th Month) [Gustavus Adolphus]

Runic Half Month: Nyd (Necessity) [Day 4 of 15]

Season: Autumn (Day 52 of 89)

Zodiac: Scorpio (Day 22 of 29)

Calendar Changes

Jumādā al-ʾŪlā (a.k.a. Jumada I) [جُمَادَىٰ ٱلْأُولَىٰ] (Islamic Calendar) [Month 5 of 12] (First of the Parched Land; Pre-Islamic Summer)

Kislēw (a.k.a. Kislev, Marcheshvan, Chisleu & Chislev) [כִּסְלֵו / כסליו] (Hebrew Calendar) [Month 9 of 12]

November (Julian Calendar) [Month 11 of 12]

[libraryofandrasta]

"Speak, thou vast and venerable head," muttered Ahab, "which, though ungarnished with a beard, yet here and there lookest hoary with mosses; speak, mighty head, and tell us the secret thing that is in thee. Of all divers, thou hast dived the deepest. // That head upon which the upper sun now gleams, has moved amid this world's foundations. Where unrecorded names and navies rust, and untold hopes and anchors rot; where in her murderous hold this frigate earth is ballasted with bones of millions of the drowned; there, in that awful water-land, there was thy most familiar home. Thou hast been where bell or diver never went; hast slept by many a sailor's side, where sleepless mothers would give their lives to lay them down. Thou saw'st the locked lovers when leaping from their flaming ship; heart to heart they sank beneath the exulting wave; true to each other, when heaven seemed false to them. Thou saw'st the murdered mate when tossed by pirates from the midnight deck; for hours he fell into the deeper midnight of the insatiate maw; and his murderers still sailed on unharmed—while swift lightnings shivered the neighboring ship that would have borne a righteous husband to outstretched, longing arms. O head! thou hast seen enough to split the planets and make an infidel of Abraham, and not one syllable is thine!"

Herman Melville, Moby Dick, Chapter 70: The Sphynx

[demon-blood-youths]

"A guy who can kill you just by touching you," Ink said, as a way to repeat to remind herself. That's....what would Rust and Navarro call it? Broken? OP? "He must be a tough guy to fight." Ink stated.

But the other guy....this Guild Leader used money as his power. When she listened to Ryunosuke about the battle against him with his weretiger rival. "Wow. He must be super rich if he uses money as his power! What does he do with it? He just throws money at you?" Ink asked. But still....what would happen if the guy is poor or when his money gets hacked or burned. That wouldn't be good. Still...he sounds fun to fight against.

"Moby Dick???" What the heck is that?

"What's a Moby Dick?" Ink said. She doesn't read a lot of books, just a lot of comics. Though the name sounds familiar to her. "Also what kind of name is Rats in the House of the Dead?! That name sounds too long! It sounds like a video game!" Ink said.

"But anyway! America is like....a lot of places depending on which state you go to. It has its own thing. With New York, it gets crazy in the city but everything is a bit calmer if you go upstate. There is a lot of stuff to do in New York! Like there's New York Style pizza! The art and uh....a lot of stuff to go to like the biggest park; Central Park. Lots of lights like Times Square and we have beaches like Coney Island and Far Rockaway. Plus Niagara Falls!" If Yokohoma is bigger than NYC, Ink believes it. She heard Tokyo is bigger than NYC. They have lots of districts than boroughs.

"I wonder what kind of stuff that Yokohama has." Ink thought out loud.

"Yeah there's a lot unwanted action.. Right now we've been dealing with another man.. A man that can supposedly kill you just by touching you. I have not met him yet, but I wish to challenge him... And kill him..." He only knew tid bits what the Russian man was after. To wipe off all gifted from the world. To cleanse the world. What a hypocrite though, that man was a gifted user too.. What made HIM above THEM? The thought of it annoyed the mafioso and he tried to ignore his thoughts by turning his attention to Ink.

"I have never been to the States before. So I don't know what New York is like. But I can imagine Yokohama is probably bigger. It's where a lot of gifted users come from all over." Which was sometimes good, sometimes bad... It was always good to gain new members, but bad if they didn't join the Port Mafia...

"Yes, the Guild leader used money as his power. Me and there Were Tiger drained his funds when we fought him.. Though I have been hearing rumors he's been making a come back.. But only rumors.. I have not seen him myself, nor has anyone in the Mafia seen him or anyone of the Guild here.."

"We sent him flying off the Moby Dick. The thing he was using to crash and ruin Yokohama. It then got hacked by the Rats in the House of the Dead... The leader of that group is the same man I spoke of earlier-- the one that can kill by touching.."