#╳ ✯ :: ― ❝ my life is my own not an existence doled out by others. ( hc. )

[rherlotshadow]

'But you say, "come here my bird! I will give you the dangerous black night to stretch your wings in and poisonous berries to feed on, and a nest made of bones and thorns, perched high up in danger where no-one can climb to it." That's why we become witches: to show our scorn for pretending life's a safe business, to satisfy our passion for adventure... It's to escape...to have a life of one's own, not an existence doled out to you by others.'

Lolly Willowes (1926) by Sylvia Townsend-Warner.

Indeed. We become witches to live deliciously, obvs.

[lovecrumbss]

First loves take us like that. But because they rarely have any consequence (few marry the sixth-grade sweetheart), people slight them. They exist in the thin cliché of bad country tunes, thus becoming generic, sandblasted of peculiarities. Our own features in youth have not yet been sharply carved. So in some way, we don’t exist yet. Thus we mock ourselves for loving so easily and in the process choke the breath from our first darlings. Which denies their truth, I think, for my inner life took full shape around such a love. I learned to imagine around his face. Before such enchantment takes us, there are only the faces of parents, other kin. Those are doled out to us; they are us in some portion. These first beloveds are other. And we invent ourselves by choosing them.

Cherry, Mary Karr

[artdcnaldson]

and when tashi punishes you in front of art for letting you get out of hand in the Olympics!au what then. you expect him to stand up for you - all the things he said about caring about you and wanting you - but he just looks away. tashi says you can leave, you can leave and art will never talk to you again because if tashi demands it he'll listen. you wont even exist to him. it'll be like he never knew you.

or.

you can take a little consequences for your actions. she likes your spirit, after all. your fire and passion. you just need a little discipline.

Exactly <3 When she practically drags you back to their house after the pregnancy test comes back negative and every bit of your pathetic lies come tumbling down around you <3 When she makes you tell Art everything, and you’re not crying pretty for him anymore, they’re ugly, humiliated tears that you got caught, that you’re having to admit that you were lying to him about a baby, that you thought you could manipulate him.

You think the tears will bring Art back to your side— that he’ll defend you and tell Tashi to stop, that you’ve had enough. They’ve worked on him plenty times before, but never with Tashi there. His jaw is set tight— you know he’s angry, that he’s livid but he’s letting Tashi handle it, handle you.

So Tashi gives you two options— face some consequences for once in your spoiled, bratty life, or you can just leave. Art would never see you again, never look at you, you’ll be nothing to him. It’s not even a choice to you— not even something you’re willing to consider. So you accept whatever consequences because you’re expecting Art to be the one doling it out.

But it’s not Art’s lap you’re bent over, it’s hers. And it’s not enough to just spank you with her hand— she’s mean about it. She uses a fucking paddle, like you’re a schoolgirl who misbehaved in class. It’s hard, and you yelp and bury your face into the duvet to muffle your cries, but Tashi just pulls your head back up, tells you to keep looking at Art. It feels like punishment enough, that he’s watching, but he’s not defending you, won’t own up to anything he said.

And he’s getting off on it— on finally seeing you brought to heel. He couldn’t do it, but Tashi can. Tashi has you babbling out apologies, with your makeup streaked, your ass stinging red, probably black and blue by the next day. But you don’t pussy out, you take it all and you’d take more, because the alternative is losing your favorite plaything, the object of your obsession.

And you think that’s it. You’re going to have trouble sitting— doing much of anything— but it doesn’t seem as bad as it could have been. But you’re simply ignored at your spot on the bed as Tashi kisses her husband. You pout the longer it goes on— as their tongues press against each other and slip into their mouths, as she pins Art to the bed and strips off both of their clothes.

That’s your punishment. Thats what you’re there for. How many times had you gotten off on Art telling you that you fucked him better? That your pussy was tighter and sweeter? That he loved you? That he’d leave her? You didn’t think he’d been lying until you had to watch, but you couldn’t look away.

So you listen to Art telling Tashi all the same things he told you, watch him fuck into Tashi’s cunt the way he’d done to you time and time again. Watch him cum, panting and moaning against her lips.

“I love you,” he pants, and she smiles, scratching at his scalp.

Your bottom lip wobbles and you feel hot tears on your lashline, and you’re worried you’ll have to just tap out and leave and give him up because it hurts.

He pulls out, and you watch his cum slip from her pussy, dripping down and onto the sheets. Tashi meets your gaze, nods expectantly. “Clean up the mess my husband made.”

You exhale a weak whine, crawl between her thighs and start licking at her, hesitantly at first. Her hand is in your hair, almost soothing as your tongue explores her— licking up the mixture of her and Art’s cum. You lose yourself in it until you’re just laving at her from her drooling entrance to her clit, all just seeking the taste of more.

“Okay, that’s enough,” She tells you, pushing your mouth off. She looks down at you indiscernibly, and you just lay against her thighs and sniffle out apologies.

[ashes0909]

For your writing game! It was probably supposed to be 3 random words but I can’t get it out of my head for Drarry and it be “I fear you” also I hope you are doing good and may all the writing muses go your way!

Not sure if this was what you had in mind, but my brain fixed on the idea and refused to let go. I also tried out a mixed POV fic, which isn't something I've done often, but enjoyed playing with. Hope you enjoy!

-------

I fear...

Harry/Draco; Rated T

“I fear you have become obsessed with Draco Malfoy. Again,” Hermione said, over the brim of her teacup. 

Across town, over a shot of firewhiskey, Zabini doled out nearly the very same sentiment. “Harry Potter this, Harry Potter that--You’re completely obsessed with him. Again.”

At the same time, unbeknownst to the one another, Harry and Draco slumped back in their chairs and replied, “It’s not my fault. He’s completely insufferable.”

Their friends were very much over this constant state of existence.

The next morning, Draco did his best to shake Harry Potter out from under his skin. He took the long way around Diagon Alley, so he didn’t have to see Potter’s ridiculously wonderful new Broom and Flying Lesson shop. He avoided the best street carts at his lunch hour, in the off chance that maybe, possibly, Harry would be there too. And while he did, in fact, need to replace his broom oil, he went to a far inferior shop in Hogsmeade instead. 

It wasn’t until Draco was getting ready to apparate from Hogsmeade back to his potions shop in the heart of Diagon Alley, that he came to a horrifying realization: in trying to avoid Harry Potter, he spent the entire day thinking about him.

Earlier that same afternoon, Harry had Hermione’s words echoing in his mind. Over and over, he considered how, at so many different moments in his life, he’d become fixated on Draco. Now, it was because they somehow found themselves shop owners on the same street. But the part of him that seethed heat straight into his veins knew that no matter what, he’d find some excuse to focus on Draco Malfoy.

Enough was enough.

The familiar swoop of apparation hit Draco and Harry at the same time, minds fixed on each other, one suppressing his thoughts, the other newly determined. They arrived at Draco’s potion shop with a simultaneous pop.

“Potter--?”

“Malfoy!”

Draco had to do a double take, afraid that his single-focus had brought him to Harry’s shop instead of his own. But no, instead Harry stood surrounded by cauldrons and vials, looking like he was about to charge off into battle.

So, he looked breathtaking. 

Harry had gathered his courage but now, in front of Draco, catching sight of his famously pale hair and deceivingly soft features, the words froze in his throat.

Brazen, bold, fearless -- he was a Gryffindor and he could get through this.

“What are you doing here?” Draco asked, breathless.

“Let’s get a drink,” Harry garbled the words, too fast and voice low, but they were out there, in the open. Fear officially conquered. 

Draco hadn’t expected a lot from his evening, but there was an unsettling certainty in the pit of his stomach that no matter what, his night’s thoughts would orbit around this man. Mine as well go out to dinner with him. What’s the worst that could happen? What was there to fear? A part of him screamed: everything. But he was ambitious enough to grab onto this opportunity with both hands. 

That didn’t mean he had any intention in making it easy for Harry. He did like to see him squirm, after all.

Harry watched as Draco narrowed his eyes, and the expression shouldn't twist behind Harry's groin, but it did. Want mixed with fear, soaked with obsession. But he could tell by Draco’s smirk, he was just as into the idea. “Come on,” Harry pushed. “Say yes, or you're buying.”

Draco barked out a laugh. “That makes no sense at all. You make no sense at all.” Draco pushed past him and walked towards the exit of his potions shop, holding open the door. “You coming?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?” he asked with a smile, sliding past the door and onto Diagon Alley’s evening streets. He knew Draco would fall in step at his side.

“I have it on good authority, I can be quite insufferable when it comes to you.”

Harry knocked their shoulders together. It felt like he was on a broomstick, rushing towards the snitch. “I fear you and I have that in common.”

fin

[intcritus]

He was on his sixth bowl of rice, seasoned minimal but fluffy and warm. Haha-ue really knew how to cook it just right for his reawakened palette. He wasn't to say that all foods were bad, just bland, to a tongue that's been eating the same shit for hundreds of years, it was tiring. As he sat at the table, well rested, bathed, pampered and now filling his stomach - he wasn't at all bothered by the presence of the Uchiha-kai, they were a welcomed warmth. He seemed to slip into the family much easier than he thought himself too…

Though, as he filled his cheeks with rice for the nth time, he chewed in thought and sat up a touch when the conversation lulled abit due to them eating themselves. "May I ask what a Summon is and used for?" His bowl was lowered out of politeness, tea instead taken to be sipped upon and savoured at the moment as he raised his empty bowl towards Haha-ue when she came back for collection with a few other Uchiha's.

As she was giving him another bowl of the glorious grain, he moved to show off the inked tattoo upon his bicep to his family. Contract, as clear as day in its ink formed writing. "I was graced with a creature that came from someone but serves me due to naming it. How does one summon and look after it?" As he didn't know much ninjutsu, or magic in that manner, he could only ask the experts here.

Mikoto loved making sure her family had more than their fair share of food, feeding them means they were not going without and considering Kenta was practically skin and bones, she would not stop filling his bowl until he could eat no more. The fact that he silently asked for more rice merely smiled, collecting other bowls on her way back to the pot. The lull in conversation from the others in the kitchen let her hear his inquiry, a hum in her throat. Most of the Uchiha looked at each other then down to the ink on his skin in amusement and awe. It wasn’t often the deities assigned summons, especially not one as powerful as the one etched into Kenta’s skin. But before any of them could say anything, Amateratsu and Tsukuyomi glided into existence, Amateratsu pouring more tea for Kenta before ruffling his hair with a grin. 

❝ ━ Ohayō, my loves. ❞ She chirps, going around to give headpats and hugs to those she had seen days prior. Is it a common occurrence for the deities to show up ? Not really, but they were always around so it wasn’t a surprise to some of the older Uchiha in the vicinity. Amateratsu settles down after a moment with her own cup of tea, ❝ ━ A summon is life companion, someone to protect you when you cannot do it yourself. It’s essentially a friend that you cannot part with, someone that’ll grow with you while having it’s own autonomy. Aoku, the summon in question, was gifted to you by my brothers. From their perspective, you deserved a gift. Aoku is an incredibly powerful summon, one that can be used for a great many things, protection, errands, or if you need someone to bounce ideas off of. He’s intelligent, mouthy and extremely loyal. ❞

Tsukuyomi hums in affirmation as he takes the tray from Mikoto, doling out the rice bowls and setting Kenta’s infront of him, ❝ ━ Most summons are a rite of passage for most of this family, they range from imoogis, actual dragon eggs, tengu, and so forth. They are a lesson in perseverance, but in your case, you prayed at my shrine once, and while the summoning contract was accidental on Susanoo’s part, we don’t take it back. Aoku will be your right hand, your blade, your conflicting thoughts but he will always be your companion first and foremost. ❞

There’s a pause as he sets the tray back on the counter, leaning against it as moonlit strands tumble over his shoulder, pale eyes glimmering with power. ❝ ━ You need only say his name or think of him and Aoku is summoned. He also responds to the lightest flicker of your emotions. If you’re distressed, he will be summoned. As for looking after him, it’s more accurate to say he will look after you. Aoku is old, he can and will hunt for himself if he needs sustenance but I suppose it’s not farfetched to say that you can preen him, give him praise and talk to him. Nothing too strenuous, child, he is afterall, self-sufficient.❞ Tsukuyomi hid a smile at Amateratsu’s quiet yelp, pulling her hand away from the pot and Mikoto’s wooden ladle, a sheepish smile before she comes back to join the others.

❝ ━ You, child, ❞ Amateratsu drops a kiss to the top of Kenta’s head, ❝ ━ have nothing to worry about. You can share thoughts, he’s good for information scouting too. ❞

Mikoto came over as well, shooing both deities to proper seats so Kenta could eat in peace without them hovering, ❝ ━ In short, Aoku and you will learn about each other, you will grow together, and you will take care of each other. If you need to fly, he will be your wings and if you need aid, he will be that for you.Its a lot to take in, but get to know him as he will know you, okay? Now eat, you’re still too thin.  ❞

kenta gets a forever buddy, again. | @nvrcmplt

[risingsouls]

Nabooru, why do you think Vegeta is worthy of being forgiven? He too has killed many innocents -- Earthlings, Namekians -- and just out of mere cruelty. Why do you think he deserves a chance of redemption while others don't? Do you think you may be biased about him?

Wednesday W's || Open!

" It's about time someone asked me rather than whining to someone else about it. " She rolled her eyes. " Let me correct the record for you. "

" For starters, I have never once said or implied Vegeta is worthy of redemption or forgiveness or anything. Neither of us are, in my opinion, and neither of us should have gotten a second chance. We died on Namek and should have stayed dead. Just as our people did. No matter the reason, we both committed mass atrocities, and Vegeta even enjoyed it. While his goals have changed, he is still unapologetic for the things he did. Vegeta himself, I imagine, would not ask for forgiveness nor consider himself redeemed or a 'better person'.

" So, again, I have never said he deserves forgiveness or redemption or whatever else you want to call it. It is everyone else tacking such terms to him, not me, and not him. I will never understand why. My guess is to make themselves feel better since they either aren't strong enough to take him out or don't have the guts or desire to do so anymore. Perhaps this question is better posed to them, rather than, me.

" But I understand why you've come to me, and I'll get to that. First, I want to explain why it might look like I've forgiven him or accepted some narrative of redemption when I've allowed him to be close to me and helped him where I could. Why I've allowed a close companionship with him. It's simple: the two of us committed the same crimes. It's not for me to dole out his punishment. To point my finger and berate his crimes when I have done the same. It is not my place to play judge, jury, and executioner for him. That is someone else's job, and I can't force anyone to try and take on that role if they do not have the desire to. As I said, I know for my part and I'm sure, to a degree, for his, if someone did seek their vengeance, we would let them have it. I'm not sure I would even fight back unless it's what they wanted.

" If you want to see this as me forgiving him, enabling or saying what he did wasn't that bad, or as, perhaps, me being a coward for not killing him and then taking my own life or something, then I can't help that. But this is the truth: I have no more forgiven him than I have forgiven myself. I do not believe either of us are worthy of anything, least of all this second chance we were accidentally granted. "

" Now, to address your obvious attempts to defend Ninazu and her idiotic decision to 'reform' and protect someone who wanted to erase every single mortal just because he decided he didn't like them, who started his zero mortals plan and has likely already killed countless innocents just for existing, who tormented one of her closest friends, and why you think me being kind to Vegeta makes me a hypocrite. For starters, I'm not and never was looking to reform Vegeta. At best, I offered him a place to go and someone to talk to that would understand him at least on some level, since we've been through similar under Frieza' rule. I have and will never defend his actions. I have and will never say he should have been given this second chance. I will never say that anyone who thinks he's a good person now is correct. I would never protect him from someone who wishes to exact their revenge or kill him for his crimes.

" Unlike Ninazu.

" Nina doesn't know Zamasu. This garbage that she 'sees something in him' is unfounded and, frankly, insane. He is a psychotic god who would have killed her if Vegito and Trunks weren't there to protect her. The only reason he is behaving is because two foolish child gods who are more powerful than him and can erase him with the snap of his fingers will do so if he does not comply. Not to mention, he was stripped of his powers, so, technically, he has no choice but to comply.

" And you're probably thinking, 'Then what's the big deal Nabooru? He's been stopped! That should be enough!' But it's not. He should have been ended then and there. Not given some stupid second chance because two god children and a woman with the maturity of a child desired it. "

She paused then, golden eyes blazing, memories of her past--on Hyrule with its denizens working to starve her people out of existence if they did not eventually kill them outright, of working for Frieza, of the tyrant's petty destruction of her race, of the Saiyans, of so many others--turning pain to fury. " Those who commit genocide deserve nothing but death. Not retribution, not a second chance, not redemption. Zamasu should have been killed. Frieza should have been killed. Myself...Vegeta...we should have been killed. "

[kikanawj]

Hey, uh, a little RP moment between sessions has me realizing a whole other side to my character Yūji.

She recently grew wings and needs her clothes modified to work with her new appendages. So an few NPCs helped her sew her existing jumpsuit, but also gifted her a backless dress. Which led to me realizing that Yūji has never owned a piece of clothing that was pretty, that was made to just be aesthetically pleasing, that wasn't entirely utilitarian.

Yūji also went through the ages of 12 to 18 without any sort of stable companions. Her backstory is that she's been traveling between post-post apocalyptic human villages/settlements and doling out some violent change when she saw it as necessary. And before that she and her sister were born into being captive workers in a large underground mine.

So yeah, this is a moment where Yūji gets to be and feel pretty. Like, for the first time in her life.

And I'm having feelings about it.

[theblurbwitchproject]

Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner

Published: January 1, 1926 Publisher: Chatto & Windus

The Author

Sylvia Townsend Warner was born in Middlesex, England, in 1893. As a child she was homeschooled after being kicked out of nursery school for mimicking her teachers. Lolly Willowes was her debut novel, published in 1926, and from this work onwards Warner focused on subverting societal norms; later heavily using the themes of rejecting the Church, a need for female empowerment, and independence in her works.* Warner eventually met Valentine Ackland, the two women falling in love and moving in together in 1930. Despite her clear literary skill, she remained a somewhat ghostly and marginal presence in the English literary landscape*. Scholarship and commentary on Townsend’s work has burgeoned over the last twenty years, and as of 2021 all her novels were in print simultaneously for the first time.

˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗

The Story

Lolly Willowes, always so gentle and accommodating, suddenly announces that she is moving, alone, to the countryside. To her overbearing family in London, it is a disturbing and inexplicable act of defiance. But Lolly will not be swayed, and in the depths of the English countryside she gradually discovers not only freedom and independence, but also, unexpectedly, her true vocation.

˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗

The Vibe: satirical, city life to country village, whimisical, pagan villagers, deals with the devil, nature appreciation, living authentically

The Style: comedy of manners, wry humour, feminist, social critique

Trigger Warnings: parental death

˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗

The Review

Lolly Willowes; or The Loving Huntsman was written by Sylvia Townsend Warner and published in 1926. It is an early feminist classic that was written, as Warner said, because she “happened to find very agreeable thin lined paper in a job lot”. It’s a novel I’m genuinely surprised isn’t discussed morewidely in online reading circles, especially with the increased interest in witches and paganism that has boomed in recent years.

I’m always reticent to share reviews of classic books; what on earth could I possibly add that hasn’t been said more succinctly and more thoughtfully by any number of people before me? However, I absolutely adored this book and wanted to share my appreciation in a small way.

“One doesn’t become a witch to run around being harmful, or to run around being helpful either, a district visitor on a broomstick. It’s to escape all that - to have a life of one’s own, not an existence doled out to by others.”

First and foremost, Lolly Willowes is an examination (and rejection) of traditional Edwardian gender roles. Laura Willowes lives with her loving father at their family home in Somerset. Early in the novel in the wake of her father’s death, Laura finds her life turned upside down as she is forced to move to London to live with her brother Henry and his family. She is naturally absorbed by the household, becoming “Aunt Lolly” after a mispronunciation by her niece. I found it poignant that while living in London Laura is not able to live authentically, and is not even referred to by her actual name. She becomes “of use” to her family, but begins to become weary of the role that she is forced into. The novel is split into three sections, with the first building the examination of the need for single women to remain under the guardianship of a male family member.

During her time at her brother’s house, Laura creates small rebellions from this lifestyle in the form of “impulses of secrecy”, at one point exttravagantly buying out all the Chrysanthemums at a florist and purchasing a guide book and map of the location that the flowers were grown (somewhere in the Chiltern Hills northwest of London). While poring over her map and guide book, Laura appears to come back to herself as she imagines living enveloped in this countryside idyll. In another moment of impulse, Laura announces to her family that she will be moving to Great Mop, a small village in the Chiltern Hills. She is adamant about her choice, and going completely against social expectation, moves there alone.

“When she had come to the top of the Ridge she stopped, with difficulty holding herself upright. She felt the wind swoop down close to the earth. The moon was out hunting overhead, her pack of black and white hounds ranged over the sky. Moon and wind and clouds hunted an invisible quarry. The wind routed through the woods. Laura from the hill-top heard the various surrounding woods cry out with different voices.”

Nature itself has a huge presence in this story, from references to bodies, particularly female ones, in relation to nature and returning to their most essential forms, to the comparison between the natural world vs. cities and the expectations of living in “civilised” society. The descriptive passages about nature truly speak to Townsend’s deep love of the natural world. They are so evocative, they really make you feel the appreciation and awe that Laura felt whenever she explored the area around Great Mop. I wanted to move out to the countryside and explore just like she did.

Rudely, Laura’s nephew Titus decides that he would like to move to Great Mop too. This intrusion is too much for Laura, who tires very quickly of becoming socially and domestically relied upon once again. The book gets truly witchy (and hilarious) when she makes a pact with Satan in order to get rid of Titus through a series of worsening annoyances (Titus being chased by a swarm of wasps is a stand-out moment). This was my very favourite section of the story, especially so as her familiar, a kitten she names Vinegar, appears suddenly in her house, and she is invited to a witches Sabbath attended by other towns-people. It is during the sabbath that Laura truly comes into her own, as she decides that this form of socialising and expectation is absolutely not for her either. “’How are you enjoying your first Sabbath, Miss Willowes?’ he said. ‘Not at all,’ answered Laura, and turned her back on him.” She knows what she wants and will no longer entertain social pressure.

Laura is very much a reflection of Warner herself, who was left devastated after the death of her father. Like Laura, Warner also worked in a munitions factory during the First World War, and I feel that the transference of these major imformative moments brings and extra life to Laura that I personally found very moving. The fusion of very “real” details like this with the supernatural elements of the story give it an extra level of heart that makes the examination of gender roles all the more affecting. Warner put so much of herself into this novel.

The role of women, spinsters and widows is expertly addressed with her final discussion with Satan, who, unlike the fake representation of him at the sabbat, is not horned and oh so evil, but looks like a regular country gent. Even in this scene Satan remains an ambiguous character; is he really there to help or is he just another male figure taking control of women? The reader is able to make up their mind on that one.

“And think, Satan, what a compliment you pay her, pursuing her soul, lying in wait for it, following it through all its windings, crafty and patient and secret like a gentleman out killing tigers. Her soul - when no one else would give a look at her body even! And they are all so accustomed, so sure of her! They say: “Dear Lolly! What shall we give her for her birthday this year? Perhaps a hot-water bottle. Or what about a nice black lace scarf? Or a new workbox? Her only one is nearly worn out.” But you say: “Come here, my bird! I will give you the dangerous black night to stretch your wings in, and poisonous berries to feed on, and a nest made of bones and thorns, perched high up in danger where no one can climb to it.”

Lolly Willowes is a wonderful novel of living authentically and embracing ones own individuality and freedom. It did well in England when it was first released, but even better in France and the US (which is somewhat surprising given the subject matter; it would likely be banned pretty fast in many states if it was released in the US today). If you enjoy Jane Austen’s fantastic prose, I’m certain you will enjoy Sylvia Townsend Warner’s style just as much. If you haven’t already, please pick up this fabulous book and enjoy!

Rating: 🌕🌕🌕🌕🌕

[Goodreads]

[kaliido-s]

Headcanon on kaiju u say?

Something to share on the Queen??🎤

I wanted to answer this earlier but tumblr crapped out and deleted my thing but whatever I’m doing it again Moth time

- Mothra considers it their responsibility to look after the earth’s wellbeing. She’s less of an Alpha or Queen and more of a Guardian/Caretaker. Her goal is to keep the planet alive, healthy and balanced, and to make sure the natural order of things is upheld and respected. This is why they began to work with Godzilla in the first place, since Mothra isn’t strong enough on her own to deal with some problems.

- Mothra has persisted throughout millions of years through reincarnation, and is technically the oldest living organism alive.

- She’s either the only one of her kind to ever exist, or a surviving member of a longlost species, I haven’t really decided what I like more lol. Whether these other lepidopterans were benevolent or not, Mothra was the only one with a strong motivation to take care of the planet.

- Godzilla is Mothra’s one true friend, and his companionship means a lot to her. Mothra had never made any meaningful connections before Godzilla, and is a lot more close with him than others. She’d be beside themselves if something happened to him that she could’ve prevented.

- While forgiving, Mothra is not hesitant to dole out divine punishment

- They’re particularly disgusted and repulsed by Titans like Ghidorah, who have no respect for the planet’s natural order, and disrupt it for their own selfish motivations

- She is Asexual Panromatic, and uses she/they pronouns

- Her size seen in KOTM is actually smaller than her regular size, a side effect of her having to rush her metamorphosis.

- Because of how long Mothra has lived, and their own supernatural abilities, her appearance has changed and adapted with the times. Tweaks have been made to her design over millions of years

- Mothra has no fear of death, and accepts it as natural. She does not accept reckless killing and disregard for life however.

Also please ask me more questions about headcanons! I have a lot more time on my hands right now (sick with covid but really don’t feel sick) so I can answer stuff quicker, potentially even draw stuff

[romeythehomie]

ao3 stats tag meme

give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the fewest words.

my friend mav @thebrandywine tagged me to do a fic stats ask game!! so here is da thing.......a LOT of these are since-anonymized fics from my MCU days and i don't have any real connection to most of them anymore but i ALSO don't have six non-MCU fics to pull from. some of the one-shots hold up pretty well still i just...wouldn't publish them today, i don't think. anyways! onward and upward. enjoy~

most hits: you've arrived at last, my friend, MCU, 8 chapters and 61.5k words

It’d be easy enough for him to move silently, slip out through the window, down the fire escape and away from Steve and his little Brooklyn apartment. He doesn’t have to stay, wouldn’t have to come back. Doesn’t have to but can. He thinks he wants to.

second most kudos: carrying the weight together, MCU, 3.2k oneshot

So maybe Bucky’s a little clingy, maybe the separation anxiety is worse today than it is usually. That’s fine, they can handle clingy. No big deal.

third most comments: repaint the walls and roll me up with the carpet, my only currently posted resident evil fic, 3k words

He worries about Leon: his rare seconds of downtime on missions are so often spent wondering how Leon is doing back home, if he’s been eating and sleeping and taking care of himself. He worries about him at work, where from his office he can see Leon quietly chipping away at the latest task doled onto his desk. He worries about him when he wakes up, never sure what type of day it’s going to be for him. He worries when he goes to sleep with Leon in his arms, warm and solid and calm, and when he goes to sleep alone, Leon with only Buddy for company in his sad small one-bedroom house on base.

fourth most bookmarks: i take my cue from you, MCU, 2.6k words

His head hurts. He knows that he’s hungry and exhausted and skittish, but the only thing he’s able to feel is the pounding in his skull and the way the light feels like it’s burning through his fucking corneas. Steve’s been nagging him all day, which Bucky can’t blame him for. He knows he’s being frustrating and uncooperative and harsh and a dick and Jesus, how he wishes he could just stop, but nothing in life is that easy because why would it be. It’s not like anything else is.

fifth most words: kotenok, MCU, 3.2k

There is a cat. This in and of itself is not exceptional because one thing that hasn’t changed over seventy-odd years is the existence of alley cats. He does not know how to take care of a cat but he knows he can not leave it here to bleed and yowl and be upset. He has decided to take care of her and in her own way, she takes care of him.

fewest words: tineretului, MCU, 1.2k

He falls asleep praying that a safehouse in Romania isn't the closest he ever gets.

i'm actually kind of shocked that none of these are repeats and that it coincidentally completely avoids the other three fics i have posted lol. i'm not going to tag anyone because everyone i can think of i've already seen @'ed, but thank you for the game mav!!

[theprodigypenguin]

Good morning it's raining I'm gonna scream about my other new OC! :D thank you to picrew for literally just existing so I can make references of characters 😩❤️

OC #2, Sys' best friend, is Jade. He has pale, sometimes sickly looking skin (explanation for this coming), pale grey eyes, jade green hair and a splash of freckles across his nose and cheeks.

As far as Jade knows, he was born into slavery. As far back as he can remember, he'd been shackled on Marie Jois and used mainly for hard labor, entertainment, or experiments (one such example, reminiscent of the Boa sisters, is when the Celestial Dragon who controlled him forced him to eat a Devil Fruit just to see what would happen).

He's enslaved until he's brought to Sabaody by the Celestial Dragon (a very controlling and possessive monster who dragged Jade everywhere he went because he was paranoid about him escaping). This is where Sys witnesses the Celestial Dragon doling out "punishment" for something. She breaks Jade from shackles he'd worn for the majority of his life (she stole the key of course) grabbed him around the wrist and ran.

They traveled alone for a while before joining the Revolutionary Army together. Like Sys, Jade currently works under Sabo’s command.

He seems to be the exact opposite of Sys in personality and how he carries himself. He's very quiet, cautious, thoughtful, and jaded. He carries immense trauma from his past, but is unquestionably a kind person who just wants to help people, live his life, and change the world so no one else has to suffer like he did.

Unexpectedly quick witted and terribly sarcastic, has a deep, dark gallows humor that will shock people if they aren't already used to him. It surprises people when he makes jokes because he looks so serious all the time and doesn't talk a lot if he doesn't have to.

As a young child, he was forced to eat the Tetsu Tetsu no Mi: Model Blood, classified as a Paramecia. With this unusual ability, he's able to manipulate the iron particles in his own and other people's blood. Over the years, he taught himself to weaponize the ability. With a cut on his hand, he can make weapons like swords or long sticks similar to Sabo’s pipes. Utilizing Armament haki, he can transform his own blood into bullets and shoot them at targets or enemies.

However, this ability has limits, in that he can only use it so long as he has blood in his own body. If he uses it carelessly, indiscriminately, he can end up fainting or passing out from blood loss mid battle. Occasionally he'll collapse from anemia and fatigue during daily tasks (fucking sucks at taking care if himself).

In addition to weaponizing his ability, he can also use it for medical purposes by stemming the blood loss of injured comrades. Dragon has more than once suggested that Jade step back from the frontline to act as a medic rather than a soldier since it's less taxing on his body, but Jade has refused every time.

In addition to this ability, he has Armament and Observation haki, which was taught to him by Sys.

Bonus: In the future, when Ruan joins to revs, they end up in a relationship (i want them to kiss okay okay okay).

[luveline]

“I really hope I can do better by you all and get it together”

You do well by everyone when you take care of yourself, for however long that takes. Not when you calm down, not when you summon the energy to post all the time, not when you answer every single person that is demanding something of you. You are an incredible writer and I love everything you write, but those stories wouldn’t exist without you. You’re what matters the most, and your mental health, life, responsibilities, future, and relationships are what matter the most. Spreading yourself too thin serves no one, and it especially doesn’t serve you. You need to rest and be tender with yourself, and be picky with who or what gets your energy, don’t even worry about Tumblr.

The people that are hateful or demanding are the same people who are talking during a movie or making a ton of noise at the library. They’re just the loudest people in the room because they lack awareness or they’re straight up desperate for attention. They know you’re sweet and kind to everyone so they pick on you because they’re weak willed. It’s not a reflection of you, simply their inability to be satisfied with themselves. You’re wonderful, and you come back whenever you feel comfortable enough to do so. Even if that means never!

You’re a delight, and I wish nothing but peace for you 💖

I will try to answer this like one line at a time but it made me cry a little bit and I'm frazzled.

Firstly, you made me feel much better. And like I know it sounds silly for me to say this but it's invaluable to me. I don't know if you're saying this because you think I want to hear it, but I (maybe shamefully???) Really really do want to hear it, and it's a unbelievable generosity in my eyes of you to take the time but also the heart maybe to have said this to me.

I really do take care of myself. I think, pathetically, that this is the thing people ask me to do most often. Genuinely and especially from my lovely friend Lu, I think I'm always being reminded to take care of myself and people might not believe me but I do— I'd argue I'm too nice to myself because I'm lazy and I eat too many biscuits after tea and I take extremely long and unnecessary showers, I'm selfish in weird ways and I really don't do things I don't wanna do (to my own detriment sometimes) but I really am taking are of myself, so if that's doing right then I glad for it.

It's really odd to see it and it really did make me cry to think these stories can't exist without me. I'm not delusional I know both the redundancies and the importance of fic and tumblr especially like it's just a website but its the small slice of community I've managed to carve out here that is important to me. Never in my life have I experienced something like this and I know how valuable it is to me even if it isn't to others, so though I know you're right that spreading myself too thin won't serve anybody, I really would regret not fostering my connections here, and also I'm dumb and I don't want people to forget about me.

As for hateful and demanding, I really do agree with you. I think it's a disservice to other people to pretend I deserve some of the shit I've been sent, and you're right that they're loud. I don't know about sweet and kind but I do know it's usually an attention thing or personal hill to die on, I really know it, and I'm gonna try my best to just not pay attention because there's bigger fish to fry, like thanking you for being an angel.

I really appreciate you and your ask. It is never lost on me the pure untouched kindness that goes into trying to make others feel better, especially when there's no skin in the game and you won't get anything out of this. You're really speaking up out of the goodness of your heart and I love and owe you for it, thank you for being so kind, for doling out some load bearing advice that I'll be resting my weight on for a while, and for the sweet compliments. I really hope I can be back more often because this shit is breaking my heart lol

[vapidfrivolity]

Mobile Nav

Hey, the name’s Azar and these are my links

Personal Rules | Muse list (a WIP atm) | Click “Keep reading” for rp excerpts.

Imo it’s important to know each other to find a good roleplay partner, so I’ll try my best to get to know you, slow as I am. I ask you to have patience, I love to roleplay, but my pace is often times a crawl for others.

The following are some rp excerpts, from newest to oldest. I don’t expect you to mirror my style, I simply get curious how someone rp’s firsthand, so I offer you a peek likewise.

-

     “Life in HOME had never been easy. Tranquility and attrition always came hand in hand. NAME’s headspace and thoughts were all organized in neat boxes, sorted and labelled to pick and discard in the midst of a nebulous space in between. The ones tossed away were never truly gone, the material worn-down in a way that meant misuse, but still held together by never-fading snaps in time and enough feelings to drown in if he wasn’t careful. PLACE was never a box; it’d be a fool’s errand to cage nearly decades chockfull of memories when he never meant to forget about them in the first place. It was a gradual thing, but the moment he woke up safe and warm with a roof over his head that wasn’t made of stalagmite, no longer afraid of the darkness that lurked in the safe walls of too-expensive material, NAME knew. He would give his life for this place.”

-

     “In PLACE, there is no stronger scent than that of freshly spilled blood. It permeates through the burning cold, and for NAME it is the single memory that rings in his mind like no other. He can taste it on his tongue, feel the tangy aftertaste on a single smack of his lips as his body relaxes preemptively for a fight. It's an instinctive reaction, one bred by the horrorterrors and nurtured later by his own will. NAME would compare it to vodka; both ignite the same spark of anticipation singing underneath his skin. It keeps him moving and alert, warding off the natural call of sleepy warmth from his uniform's bulk. It often was a welcome distraction from his most recent, assignment--the same one that had been doled out for the better part of a year now. [ … ] An assignment that was being toyed with a couple of miles from the furthest camp in his division. [ … ]

 NAME could feel the beginnings of laughter bubbling in his chest. If he were to "help" now, this would be a lovely piece of blackmail; maybe he would be snagging that one long-con mission right under COWORKER’s nose. "Let's see... Why don't I help you out a little, friend?" In a flash of steel, NAME carefully measured the strength of his shot. He didn't want to kill his unsuspecting accomplice. This guy was his ticket outside, after all.”

-

     “When NAME opens his eyes, sunlight is streaming out of the window. Gentle amber spills across his sheets in a soft glow; the more he stares at it, the more something as pure and bright loses its touch with reality in his mind. If haven were to exist in pockets and small moments, this would be one of his. Seconds tick by and he gets restless.

Radio static. Morning calm...

It’s all white noise.

He can't tell seconds apart from minutes anymore, there are no clocks in his room. Instead, he knows it’s time to get up when his hands start to tremble. His fingers twitch and curl around the sheets, dislodging the calm. The world fades back into awareness from his safe haven in bits and pieces.

Leaves rustle, his heart beats. Slow breaths, sheets crease.

He’s awake now.

Gentle breeze runs through his veins, echoing in his bones and between his fingers like crossing hollow caverns and mountain peaks. His posture sways as he sits like a baby deer and it's both frustrating and familiar. His body feels weak today again as if it can barely move without taking a gargantuan effort to articulate all of his muscles and joints the right way.

It's one of those days again.”

[imp-journals]

entry 6: "troubles"

October 18th, 2024

Twisting, turning, tearing at my insides while I plaster a wide grin on my face. I bare none of my worries plainly, my troubles fading under scrutiny. Only while in the light, though. Nasty little things, troubles. Coming out when it’s nearly the least opportune time, usually without warning or even cause. Sometimes all the cause they need is simply to exist, to remind you that you’re not alone. They’ll keep you sweating on cold nights, hyperventilating in open rooms. They’ll keep you company while refuting and disregarding your words begging otherwise.

The smile I act out works against me, too. Its purpose is to dissuade others from worrying too much about me, yet it seems to go too far. One turns to two, then a few until it’s many. Many complimenting me on how well I’m handling myself considering all that I’m going through. Many outright telling me they couldn’t even tell I was anxious at all.

Scratching, scathing, burning in my throat, my troubles clawing to break free. To make me break down. Some of the many assigning blame for my troubles on the season, as if that would be the cause for all of my issues. They’re well meaning, but there are too many stories and fables detailing why well meaning people are often more dangerous than malintents. In their honeyed words laced with attempted reassurances, they end up holding my head down while I drown.

Ticking, clicking, clock counting seconds I’m terrified to waste. When you’ve picked out your own urn, time becomes a dichotomy of nothing and everything. What had owned your attention quickly loses importance, and things overlooked suddenly are granted second and third chances. Glances turned into longing stares, thoughts stepping deeper and deeper into a fathomless ocean. There’s a certain peace in lifely terror. A peace in letting go. Not of everything. Not yet.

Friends scared and concerned, unable to help because even you’re unsure of what they can do. They do their best, but you know they yet feel inadequate. They hesitate to accept anything you offer, worried they take advantage of you. You want nothing more than to give what you can, while you’re still able to. While you’re still here. You understand their concerns and truly you relate, despite how much you wish things were different.

As I write, I find I’m distancing myself from my feelings once more by instead writing in second person. I suppose if I separate myself from my jumbling words, maybe I won’t find them as pertinent. If only, if only.

A friend recently marveled at how wonderful it would be if a doctor one day found a cure for whatever cruel illness haunts me. It was beautifully bittersweet, having him hope for me in such a way. I envied him for it, yet I still couldn’t escape that eternal voice wondering when his hope would die as mine had. Even now, it wonders which will die first; his hope, or my life. It’s a morbid curiosity, one I’d rather not entertain, even if only for the sake of my friends.

I’ll be making a call in the morning, asking how much time nine hours is worth waiting for. How much money it’s worth doling out to fan or smother the weak embers of reborn hope. Less reborn, more undead. It creeps in the back of my mind, lurking with an aggravatingly light step. It should be dead. Then again, so should I. Perhaps it’s borrowed that trait from me.

[wesper-ao3feed]

Jezelf Leren Kennen

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/syGAPBF by DreamTigress This piece exists in the space directly after Crooked Kingdom, during KoS/RoW, and serves as a prequel for my series Kanej Wansen. Exploring Inej’s reunion with her parents, her discovery of who she can be as Captain Ghafa, hunting slavers and doling out justice, and her path to reclaiming her own body and sexuality. Exploring Kaz building his empire in the Barrel, and his journey through practicing touch and examining his armor; seeing him hit despair, and clawing his way back out again. See also: Inej’s family reunion, Battling with PTSD, Things go wrong, Kaz & Inej deal with feels separately, Building an empire, Revenge takes it toll, Words are hard for everybody, Trauma sucks, Unkind voices, Jordie is mean sometimes, Captain Ghafa is a badass, Hunting slavers, Reclaiming sexuality, Ferocious killers need snuggle time, Self love is important, Evil people getting their karma. Words: 9428, Chapters: 2/12, Language: English Fandoms: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo, Nikolai Series - Leigh Bardugo Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa, The Crows Ensemble (Six of Crows), Original Characters, Jesper Fahey, Wylan Van Eck, marya hendricks, Pim (Six of Crows), Anika (Six of Crows), Roeder (Six of Crows), Keeg (Six of Crows), Rotty (Six of Crows), Specht (Six of Crows), Tante Heleen (Six of Crows), Pekka Rollins (Six of Crows), Nina Zenik, Nikolai Lantsov, Sturmhond, Zoya Nazyalensky, The Ghafas Relationships: Kaz Brekker/Inej Ghafa, Kaz Brekker & Inej Ghafa, Jesper Fahey/Wylan Van Eck, Jesper Fahey & Wylan Van Eck, Hanne Brum | Ilya Grimjer/Nina Zenik, Nina - Relationship Additional Tags: POV Kaz Brekker, POV Inej Ghafa, Kaz Brekker Needs a Hug, Protective Kaz Brekker, Kaz Brekker Has PTSD, Kaz Brekker Loves Inej Ghafa, BAMF Inej Ghafa, Captain Inej Ghafa, Inej Ghafa Needs a Hug, Soft Inej Ghafa, Inej Ghafa Has PTSD, Protective Inej Ghafa, Inej Ghafa Loves Kaz Brekker, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Kaz & Inej Deal with Feels, We Never Stop Fighting, Practicing Touch, Unkind Voices, Trauma Sucks, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, words are hard sometimes, Personal Growth, Introspection, Alcohol Abuse, Mortal Wounds, No Major Character Death, OC/minor character death, battles, Hunting Slavers, Dealing with Sexual Assault Trauma, Dealing with Horrible Past Trauma, Crimes and misdemeanors, Blowing Shit Up, Making Life Hell for Tante Heleen & Pekka Rollins, Adventures in Piracy, Family Reunions read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/syGAPBF

[ruminativerabbi]

There Will Yet Be Singing

Every so often, we encounter stand-up moments—opportunities to, well, stand up and show (to yourself, to your children, to the world) if you actually hold the values you claim to espouse, if you are the person you think of yourself—and wish others to think of you—as actually being. I had a moment like that last week, which I thought I’d share with my readers this week. Life doesn’t dole out these opportunities so often. But this this was my moment and, because Joan was part of the discussion and the decision, it was hers too.

Like every student of Scripture, I have my favorite Tanakh personalities. I actually identify with bits and pieces of lots of different biblical personalities and regularly have “wow, that guy in that story is just like me” moments in the course of which I suddenly see the text before me as a kind of mirror in which I suddenly—and mostly unexpectedly—find myself reflected. That is a feature of all great literature, I suppose: that ability to function both as a gateway into the author’s world and, simultaneously, as a mirror in which the reader (or, in the theater, a member of the audience) is suddenly possessed of the conviction, impossible yet fully real, that the play being watched or the book being read is actually about him or herself. Historically speaking, of course, that conviction is lunacy. Shakespeare lived and died centuries before I was born and there are no secret messages meant just for me in any of his plays. But that is not how it feels when I am seated in the theater and my level of engagement with the dialogue makes it feel preciselyas though King Lear has stepped out of time to speak directly to me. Or, far more disconcertingly, to others about me.

For me personally, the biblical personality I’ve always identified the most meaningfully with has been the prophet Jeremiah. And, yes, I understand fully well that this makes no sense at all. For one thing, his life could not have been less like mine. He had no wife and, as far as anyone knows, no children. He spent a serious portion of his adult life under arrest or in jail. His was the epitome of bravery in the face of impending doom, speaking the oracles of God aloud and in public regardless of the danger that he knew fully well inhered in doing so. He was beaten, mocked, pilloried. He was brave, but he paid a gigantic price for that bravery and was considered a traitor to his king and country by most of his fellow Jerusalemites. He was nothing at all like me.

But he was also just like me. Or rather like the version of myself I would like to think I could yet become. He was fearless. He was righteous without being self-righteous. He was the both articulate and eloquent. And he was secure in his faith, unrattled by the existence of phony prophets who insisted that their good-news messages were the true oracles of God sent to guide the people forward and that Jeremiah’s jeremiads were just the depressive ravings of a seriously depressed person blinded by his own pessimism. Despite it all, though, the man had it in him to stand up in public and speak honestly—and that is the quality I'd like to find reflected in myself, in my own preaching, in my writing. I want to be secure in my faith and unequivocally honest. And I want also to be suffused with hope—which Jeremiah also was, and at the same time (this is the big trick, at least for me) that he was both realistic and honest.

The prophet had been vouchsafed a double-screen vision of the future. There was still time for the people to avert catastrophe by embracing the core values of their faith, but otherwise destruction and devastation were on their way. And this was a make-or-break moment: the destiny of the nation was in its own hands if they had the courage to seize it. But even if the people refused to mend their ways and proved unable to avert catastrophe, there would always be a future for the Jewish people in the Land of Israel. There would be exile. But there would also be return. There would be devastation, but there would also be renewal. There would be a miserable past, but there would also be a future.

And then the opportunity presented itself to put his money where his mouth was. It was the last year the kingdom of Judah would exist. The Babylonians were already at the gates of the city. The king had put Jeremiah in jail for refusing to lie to the people about what the future was about to bring—to them, to their city, to their nation, and to their king. And then, out the blue, a cousin of Jeremiah’s named Haname’el showed up in prison with the news that a parcel of land outside the city in a place called Anatot was Jeremiah’s to purchase if he wished it. Why exactly this offer came to Jeremiah is not made clear; probably he was the closest male relative to the recently deceased owner of the field. But the point was that this was the worst real estate deal imaginable, buying land in a nation at its lowest point, facing implacable foes, its very future uncertain. But Jeremiah had it in him to look past the moment and see a bright future for the land and for its people. He closed his eyes and saw bridegrooms and brides standing beneath their chuppah, children playing in the city streets, young people out together drinking and singing. And so he bought the land, using his fellow prisoners as witnesses to the transaction. (The whole story is in the thirty-second chapter of Jeremiah for those who wish to read it. Shul-goers will recognize part of it as the haftarah  assigned to the Torah portion called Behar.)

So the other morning, Joan and I had a Zoom call with our kablanit, a nice woman whom we have engaged—but without yet signing a contract—to undertake some renovations on our apartment in Jerusalem. When we first conceived the project, it was just fun. We are hoping soon to spend a lot more time in our apartment and there were repairs that needed to be made. There were some cracks in the flooring. There wasn’t enough storage space in either of the bathrooms. There wasn’t the kind of closet in which you could hang coats or winter jackets. The oven wasn’t big enough. There was no shade on the balcony, which problem we wished somehow to address without making it impossible to build a sukkah on the balcony. That kind of stuff. In the world of renovations, small potatoes. But not to us: for us, this was a way for us of staking out our future in a part of the world we love and in which we want to spend maximal, not minimal time as the years pass.

But that was last summer. Then we had the chagim. And now we have Gaza. The stories we’ve read are horrific. The story is nowhere near over. More loss is, I’m afraid, on the books. The IDF has shown remarkable forbearance to date, but who knows what tomorrow might bring? And the stories of the pogrom itself—the violence, the Shoah-style brutality, the almost unimaginable savagery of the attack—all that has made the bathroom storage space issue seem—to say the very least—strange to worry about, almost bizarre to discuss seriously. We were going to sign the contract before Rosh Hashanah, but then the contractor’s father died and she was busy with shiva and dealing with her loss. We obviously stepped back, told her to take her time, promised her we didn’t mind waiting a few weeks to settle things up.

Should we move forward as planned? Are we being ridiculous to worry about the sukkah-on-the-balconyissue at a time like this? We both dithered for a while, unsure how to proceed. But then I caught a glimpse of Jeremiah, my guy for all these years. I noticed him in a few different places, actually. He doesn’t speak—at least not to me personally—but I somehow know who it is. And then I somehow see that poor man in his jail cell pondering his own real estate decision and, somehow in my mind’s ear, I hear him singing his own words to himself: od yishama ba-makom ha-zeh…b’arei Yehudah u-v’chutzot Yerushalayim, kol sason v’kol simchah, kol chatan v’kol kallah. There will yet be heard in this place, in the cities of Judah and in the streets of Jerusalem, sounds of joy and merrymaking, the voices of bridegrooms and brides. And that was enough.

The man bought the property in Anatot. And we signed on with the contractor.

Israel is facing tough times. The enemy is savage and violent. The devastation left in the wake of the massacre will take years to repair, the psychological damage to the national psyche even longer. But I am possessed of the unshakeable faith that the state will endure, that Jewish life will never again be uprooted from the Land. And we will yet—one of these years—enjoy our Sukkot dinner in our own sukkah on our own balcony overlooking Gad Tedeschi Street, and I know that just as surely as I also know that God will yet spread out God’s own sukkah of peace over the land and over its people.