#Infinity! Our Wings!!

[nanisorezura]

Infinity! Our Wings!! performed by Coco Hayashi (Hayamaru), Aguri Onishi (Agupon), Kaori Maeda (Kaorin)

I love getting to see songs performed like this for the first time, since by this time Tomoriru couldn’t give 100% in terms of dancing due to her diagnosis.

[possamble]

What I love about Dungeon Meshi is that it says “eat, or be eaten,” but not as in “survival of the fittest.” “Eat, or be eaten,” because there is no third choice—every day of your life, one or the other will happen. If you choose not to eat, you will be eaten. Eating is a mandatory part of being alive. The failure to acknowledge this makes you weak, guarantees that you will fail—as seen with Shuro, as seen with Thistle.

“Eat, or be eaten,” because “living things take other lives as sustenance, and no one is exempt.” If you eat—if you are a living thing—you will be eaten one day. Whether it's to literally be killed and eaten for your flesh, or decomposed down to the bone—violently or painlessly, quickly or slowly, you will be eaten and turned into sustenance for other living things. A dead body is always consumed as food, and there is no meaningful distinction between the two. The only way to avoid it is to have never been born at all.

“Eat, or be eaten,” because “eating is a privilege of the living.” And isn’t that incredible? To be a living thing is to have the privilege of eating. To have the ability to eat is a boon, an honour, a birthright. It is the unique, universe-given gift and right of all living things. It is synonymous with being alive—to live is to eat. To eat is to be eaten. We are eaten because we eat, we die because we were born, and the privilege of eating is earned through the inevitability of our deaths. The two cannot be separated. 

“Eat, or be eaten,” because “eating is a privilege of the living” and the reason why a mortal man could topple the personification of infinity—it cannot die, therefore it is not alive, yet it chose to eat. But to eat at all is to become a thing that can be eaten—choosing to take means you will have things taken from you in the same manner. The moment that Laios accepted this—after killing his sister with his own hands—was the moment the Winged Lion had already lost.

Dungeon Meshi is far from the first story to say, “memento mori.” But it takes the inevitability of death—a concept too distant and philosophical to grip the average person—and reframes it within the act of eating. Makes it visceral by using a universal part of daily life, a routine that every living thing is intimately familiar with. 

“Remember that you will die,” it says, but furthermore, “remember that your future death is a prerequisite for the food you are able to eat now—remember that other things die so that you can eat, remember that you will die to feed something else, and that there is no other alternative. There is no way to stop this. To take is to have things taken from you. To eat is to be eaten one day. There is nothing kind or cruel about this—it just is, and you must be the one to understand it and bring meaning to your own existence.

In light of all this, why wouldn't you choose to live as deliciously as possible?”

[elysianightsss]

ANAESTHESIA | PART ONE

Success comes with a lot of perks. The way people view you changes. I only found out after I succeeded that success is meaningless when you have no one to share it with.

I lost the only family I had. I lost the desire to make a family too. So, I traded a family home for a nice car. You smiled as you open the door to your black Volvo S90. The car smelled of cinnamon and pumpkin spice thanks to the new air freshener you had bought yesterday.

The light brow leather seats were what initially caught your eye when you bought this car. But then again with the money you had been offered in your hospital transfer, it didn’t matter what the colour of the seats were.

Placing your shopping bags on the seat behind you, you began to drive home. Home was an apartment above the restaurant Farah had bought. Your best friend had moved to the city with you to start her dream of opening the best restaurant slash bar slash karaoke joint in the city.

You were so happy when she told you, so happy that you weren’t going to lose her too. Still there are things you lose that you never forget. Simon comes to mind whenever you think about that. Your parents were both dead, that’s something you couldn’t have prevented, but loosing Simon. You could’ve stopped that.

You remember the first day you met him like it was yesterday; Both troubled. He owned a motorcycle and you wore short leather skirts. He’d punch guys for looking you up and down but never discouraged you wearing those outfits, it was almost like he was glad to have a reason to inflict pain. He was rough and immature. But you were so young back then, it almost seemed normal.

You know better now.

You parked and made your way up the back steps to your front door, “I’m home!” You had barely taken your shoes off and slipped into your fluffy slippers when Farah came rushing out with a ladle in her hand.

“Here! Here! Taste this!” She pushed it against your lips and watched eagerly as you slurped down the rich tomato sauce. “Good?” She waited with raised eyebrows, only seeming to relax a little with my nod. “Ah I knew it was good! The new sauce for our pasta, I’ll have Frank make a bigger batch tomorrow.” She squealed and basically skipped back to the kitchen.

You laughed at her, such a cutie. Dropping your shopping bags by the door, you shrugged off your coat and followed her to the kitchen. Looking around to find saucepans and jars upon jars of red tomato sauce.

“Um Farah? Honey? I don’t think Frank will need to make anything with the amount you’ve already made.” You looked at her like she was a little crazy and maybe she was with the way she whipped her head around to look at you, left eye twitching slightly.

“But it needs to be fresh for the customers.” She almost pouted, you felt bad. Or you would have done if she didn’t look like she wanted to become an axe murderer just to hunt you down.

“Of course.” You backed out of the kitchen, slowly. “I’m gonna take a shower.” You whispered then darted out the room, making a run for the bathroom.

A long hot shower to wash away your day was exactly what you needed. You hadn’t even started yet officially, but you wanted to get a feel for the place. The massive place. It was three times as large as the last hospital you worked at, it had north, south, east and west wings and fourteen floors.

Infinity hospital was one out of four overpriced hospitals created by the Queen long before she passed. They were the top four hospitals in the country and you’d been asked to join the biggest and best one.

It had four huge cafeterias, one in each corner, and even sleep rooms for the doctors and nurses on call. Rooms with three bunk beds in each, scattered around the hospital for doctors on extra long shifts to rest. Common areas for studying and even a library there.

It was amazing when you’d gone in to see the place. You’d wanted to look around at your own pace and see exactly what you wanted to see not what the tour guide wanted when she rushed you around a week ago.

Then after hearing the commotion that a mob boss had a head injury and his gang was making a fuss about the doctor on call not being there. You pulled on your white lab coat and made your way to the emergency area, but they were already pushing you out the way for not being a male doctor. To say you had to fight some of the gang members was an understatement.

Your years of women’s self defence classes and jujitsu classes paid off as you kicked the gang out just as the boss had a hemorrhagic stroke. You rushed him to an emergency MRI to see he had bleeding on the brain.

A nurse you couldn’t remember the name of now, had told you how you couldn’t do the surgery as the on call doctor was in charge of all surgeries today. To then find out he’d left the building you’d scoffed and rolled your eyes moving swiftly to change into scrubs and perform surgery on the mob boss.

After the successful procedure, you passed the man over to the nurses to keep on top of his health until your rounds tomorrow. You even got a Thankyou from him when he woke up. Who knew your first day at your new job would be so eventful….and stressful.

Shopping was always therapeutic for you, so filling those bags that still sat by the front door was your way of blowing off steam after a hard surgery and a team of staff that were loyal to a surgeon who hadn’t even stayed at the hospital for any emergencies that could have happened.

You dried your hair, and got into bed ready to snuggle down after a long day when your phone dinged.

Come to level 8. East wing to discuss your actions today.

- DR. Riley

No.

You replied straight away and without hesitation. This doctor Riley could wait until tomorrow. It was midnight and you had an early and very long shift tomorrow. There was no way you were going back to the hospital now. Especially not to ‘discuss your actions’.

Must be the doctor in charge of the surgeries yesterday, you thought as you slowly drifted to sleep.

“Farah! I don’t tell you how to do your job, you don’t tell me how to do mine!” Frank huffed, looking down at the annoyed woman in front of him. Frank woods, a true gem that Farah had met during a culinary class. He had just quit his last job when Farah had contacted him about becoming the chef for The 141 restaurant. He snapped the job up quick.

“My job is to tell you how to do your job!” Farah scoffed, and the bickering continued.

“Why didn’t you tell me it started already?” Joseph Allen, courier by day, bartender by night came into the kitchen eyes on the pair fighting.

“They started early.” You answered, handing him a cup of coffee.

“How long they been at it?” He pulled up a stool next to yours and sat down.

“Ten minutes already.” You sipping your own coffee as you watched the entertainment in the form of Frank and Farah arguing about how the onions are supposed to be sauté.

“Okay I gotta get to work, fill me in later please. I wanna know who wins this time.” You giggle at Joseph who shakes his head with a laugh of his own but ultimately agrees to your terms.

You leave with a bye to the kitchen staff and head on over to the hospital. It was like fate when Farah managed to buy the building practically next to the hospital you had just been moved to. You took one last glance as the lit up 141 sign above the doors before heading over to start your shift.

Simon’s head was about to explode if he had to hear how great this new fellow was one more time. It was only breakfast and the cafeteria was full of people who were talking about how amazing she was.

So amazing she couldn’t even meet him to discuss her performing surgery on a patient without his consent. “Well don’t you look happy this morning. Someone spit in your coffee?”

“Piss off John.” He cursed the man who had placed his food tray on the table and sat down in the chair opposite him. Kyle sitting down next to John with a fat grin plastered to his face.

“Seen Johnny this morning? Need to go over some things for surgeries today.” John had asked Simon who seemed to be in a particularly bad mood this morning. But if the news spreading around the hospital was anything to go by, he could guess why.

“No. Why don’t you use this miraculous thing invented. It’s called a phone.” Simon gave him a fake smile before a real smirk began. “Though since they were invent before you were even born I suppose I can let it slide you not knowing and all.”

“Oh shut up.” John barked but laughed non the less. He was a good sport like that, he wasn’t even that old but his friends just loved to poke fun, even with the small age gap between him and Simon.

Pulling out his phone and hitting the contact named ‘Scotland Yard’ he put the device to his ear. A few rings and Johnny answered, the two discussed matters of the day while Kyle continued to tease a very grumpy Simon.

“I know there’s a new fellow but we don’t know if she’s even fully trained yet——yes I did hear about yesterday but-“ Johnny continued to argue with John about his beauty sleep being majorly important. He’d been assisting with all of John and Simon’s surgeries while the hospital looked for a new fellow after the last one left. Now that she was here he could finally get some rest.

The murmuring that was already loud in the north cafeteria began to get even louder. It had all three men looking around confused to see where the outburst had come from. A huge crowd of people drew them in, all of their eyes landing on the one thing they never expected to see again, you.

“John? John!” Johnny’s voice came through the phone but John couldn’t look away from you, couldn’t even form a single thought. “Ah fuck this. I’m coming down there.” The beep beep beep from the call ending was ignored just as much as Johnny had been. John was star struck looking at you how gorgeous you were. You didn’t look that different from that night, so beautiful under him and so willing. The picture forever burned into his memory, but he never thought he’d see you again.

Kyle’s eyes were wide as he watched you smile and shake hands of the staff that were gushing over you and your actions yesterday. After your break up he did so much to try and get over you, some things he’s not so proud of. Going to medical school because of your determination to be a doctor was something he was very much proud of. He thought of your patience every time he dealt with a difficult patient, he thought of you. But he never thought he’d see you again.

Johnny arrived from one of the sleep rooms where he’d been napping to see a crowd of people, unusual for Infinity. His breath caught in his throat when one of the members of staff moved to the right a little to reveal you.

You, his friends with benefits buddy that had eventually had him wanting more. Had him wanting dinner and a movie. Had him asking you to come with him to Scotland so he could introduce you to his parents at Christmas. Then things had turned sour, you had never wanted any of that. You made that clear and so had he. Getting attached wasn’t supposed to happen and finding your things packed up and gone when he was went to apologise the next day after your fight was like a wound on his heart that still throbs every time it rains. It was throbbing now, he never thought he’d see you again.

Simon had short circuited. He was sure someone would need to rewire him to work again. He was frozen. You, his Bonnie. The Bonnie to his Clyde, stood there all made up like you had been born with a silver spoon in your mouth. You hadn’t. Was your hair always that colour? He’d pushed you so far into the back of his head to forget his precious Bonnie that he couldn’t remember. Fuck, how could he not remember? But then again, he didn’t think he needed to remember. He never thought he’d see you again.

Yet here you were.

To be continued…

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

I mentioned this in the tags of an earlier post, but I wanted to explain a bit more about the alienated, shattered, exiled, othered imagery of the Divine in Judaism, and how that image of the Divine speaks deeply to me as a queer, non-binary Jew.

The Shechinah, the Divine Presence, is described in feminine terms and She goes with the Jewish people into galus, exile, at the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. What does it mean, for us to imagine G-d as being in exile with us? It's a profound image. We are exiled from our land, from the Beis HaMikdash and the closeness to the Divine Presence that it allowed, yes. But we are not totally cut off; the grief we feel is shared by Hashem Herself as we build a sacred remnant together in the diaspora. What does it mean, for the Divine Presence to be in exile with us, instead of whole? What do we learn from the idea that the sacred feminine is broken, exiled, and alienated along with the rest of klal Yisrael from the masculine Malchus? What does it say that the world will only be perfected (takken olam) when Hashem is One and Ha-Shem is One?

There is another image of the Divine that I've described here before, the holy darkness. The sacred dark that was before the beginning, that begins our days with ma'ariv, and that teaches us the lessons of infinity as the backdrop of the universe. To me it is a beautiful image, this idea that we are all sheltering under the wings of the Shechinah - that our darkness is the protective dark of an embrace. That we are held in a sukkat shalom - a shelter of peace. Like our sukkot, this does not mean we are safe or protected from the elements, but more that our home - our true home - is under the stars, and that no matter what, we are not alone. This article had a lot more fascinating things to say about this as well.

And finally, this image of a hidden G-d, a G-d that weeps for our suffering in G-d's hidden place (mistarim), who speaks silently, in the still small voice within our hearts. There's a drash that I'm still trying to track down about this because it was from several years ago, but it was about this hidden place of Hashem that G-d retreats to in order to grieve the sorrows of the world and how, if we truly want to be close to G-d, we will sit silently in that hidden place alongside Him.

These images and metaphors for G-d are not what is typically imagined. Most concepts of G-d are majestic in scope and elevated in stature. They are filled with the piercing bright light of clarity and gilded with the gold of the Mishkan, the First Temple, and the Second Temple. But we live in a humbler time. Hashem is Avinu Malkeinu - our compassionate, forgiving Father and the Ruler of the Universe, but what does that divine concept do for us when we live in a broken and unredeemed world? How can that traditional understanding of G-d speak to us when we are calling out to G-d from the depths? And especially for those of us who are seen as broken, dwelling in darkness, often hiding our true selves, and exiled from where we belong, how much more powerful is an understanding of G-d that goes into that exile with us and holds us in our grief and hard-won joy, as we endure together?

[author-morgan]

Title: Daylight Rating: M Pairing: Arthur x fem!Reader Summary: Arthur always knew you and he would make a fine match. ...hiding all of our sins from the daylight... I've now collected all(?) your husbands for my infinity gauntlets. a late merry christmas and an early valentines for you boo. @mrsragnarlodbrok.

“SORRY,” ARTHUR MUTTERS, “hands are rough.” He noticed how you pulled away from his calloused touch as he pressed the stained damp cloth against the bloody wound on the back of your shoulder—remnants of an arrow after Bedivere and the Mage helped him dig out the bodkin point. It’d likely been meant for him in the heat of the battle and he cursed himself seeing you fall nigh feet from him, pulled away to shelter by his kingsguard. Even with the power of Excalibur, he’d been unable to protect you—an age-old promise broken.

You lift your gaze from the charred stone floor, looking at your reflections in a fogged-over mirror on the opposite side of the room. Focus has his brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. “You always say that,” you tell him, words slurred from the pain, exhaustion, and strongwine, and voice rougher than normal. This isn’t the first time Arthur Pendragon has tended your hurts and woes, and at this rate you doubt it’ll be the last.

Dried blood and sweat washed away, Arthur picks up the piece of tree bark with a salve prepared by the Mage to stave off the pain for a while and keep the wound from festering. Then, Arthur binds the wound with fresh linen and wipes his hands, kneeling in front of you—hands resting on your hips. You lay your hand on his cheek, thumb sweeping across his cheek, marred with dirt and soot. Leaning toward him, he meets you halfway, and you set your lips on his—a soft, fleeting kiss like the touch of butterfly wings.

“Thank you, Arthur,” you tell him, fingertips mindlessly combing through the scruff on his jaw. He straightens to full height but does so with a grimace. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?” You ask again.

“Just bruises,” he assures you, and this time, it seems like he’s being truthful, besides the few scratches on his hands and the slim, already scabbed-over, cut on his forehead. 

Arthur sits next to you on the edge of the bed, looking toward the open balcony. You both can hear the joyous shouts and chants. Bedivere and the others will only be able to satiate the men for so long. They will want to hear from the one who led them to victory. From the Born King. “They’ll be waiting for you to give a speech,” you tell him. 

“They’re waiting to go headfirst into the barrels of grog,” he amends, but if the out-of-tune songs are anything to go off of...  

“Sounds like they already have,” you laugh. Tonight, there will be revelries for the victory against Vortigern and his forces. In the following days, there’ll be feasts to honor the fallen and growing lists of preparations for a coronation. But right now, Arthur Pendragon doesn’t want to be a king just yet. Right now, he’s content just to be Arthur the street rat, especially when you lean your head against his shoulder and link your fingers through his—and then he’s certain there’s no one else in all of England for him except you.

“HIDING FROM ME? Or everyone else?” Your head quickly swivels to the side, only to relax at the sight of Arthur approaching. You cannot help but wonder how he isn’t cold. He's not dressed anywhere near as layered or warm as he should be for the winter evening, but somehow, he manages to look cozy even in just a scarlet linen-and-wool doublet. Stepping back, your eyes flit up to the scarlet-tinged leaves, still clinging to the branches of the white-bark birch, before looking beyond to the fresh falling snow. 

He stops at your side and looks up, too. “Was just thinking about what a bad influence you’ve been on my person,” you tell him, a small half-smirk creeping onto your features. Arthur tilts his head back in amused question, then stares up at the leaves and the silver sliver of the moon peeking through the winter clouds. “As I recall, I was an innocent girl before you came along and ruined all that.”

His blue eyes narrow, arms crossing over his chest. “You’ll have to refresh my memory on how I did that, darlin’.” He moves a little closer, and you sense his ploy, twisting and ducking when he moves to grab you. 

You face him with brows raised, smiling. “Such a brute,” you taunt, “grabbing at innocent girls in the castle courtyards at night. Is that any way for the King of England to behave?” 

Arthur only rolls his eyes, trying to smother another smirk, and this time, he catches your arm as you move around him. It takes little strength to move you how he wants—pressing you into the trunk of the great tree at the heart of the courtyard. His hands press against the smooth bark beside your head as he leans in enough to look down at you. The glint in his eyes is mirthful, but there’s something else shining in his gaze too—you’ve seen that look a dozen times now, and you’re almost afeared to think about what it can mean. “Maybe you have a point,” he drawls, wearing that crooked, boyish grin that makes your heart flutter.

Your laugh almost catches him off guard. His hand slips down to run gently along your waist, the other toys with the hair at the side of your head. You lean back into the tree more, relaxing as your hands find his waist to rest on. “My father sends his kind, innocent daughter to study in Londinium, and what does this strong, noble boy do?” Arthur raises his brow. “He shoves her against a wall in an alleyway because he has no reasonable way of expressing his feelings with words.” He was just a street rat orphan and you were the daughter of some fancy lord from far away—opposites in nigh every way but more alike than you ever could have imagined. “I was never the same after that.”

His head dips down into the crook of your neck, nose training across your throat and inhaling the scent of roses and lavender. “No,” he smiles, voice low—more of a muttering husk—lips twitching as he pulls back, glancing to your lips and up, “but you’re more fun now.” Your expression falls flat, and Arthur laughs. It’s nigh impossible not to grin or melt at the sound and how little it seems you’ve heard it of late—and by Merlin’s beard, he’s impossibly handsome with laugh lines crinkling the edges of his eyes and a lopsided smile. Leaning further into him, his breath dances across your cheek, the back of his fingers brushing along your neck. 

You exhale shakily, and Arthur teases you again with light presses of his lips along your jaw and neck—hands smoothing up and down your waist as he does. For a moment, your hands find their way to his chest before you remember how open the courtyard is and that anyone can happen upon the two of you like this. Glancing around, you breathe his name in a flustered whisper, hand pressing against his chest—the last thing a new king needs is rumors to turn into scandal. 

Arthur takes a step back, giving you both room, but then there’s a new glint in his eyes. The playful mirth disappears from his cornflower eyes, replaced by something more serious—kingly, even. It’s something he’s been thinking about for years. Maybe even since the two of you first met by happenstance in the streets of Londinium and struck up an odd friendship. But over the years, Arthur thinks he cannot just call you a friend, not anymore. What he feels runs deeper than that, and given his newfound title and responsibilities...“I’ve been thinking,” he starts.

“And does it pay well?” You quip in a poor attempt to lighten the now solemn mood.

He rolls his eyes, exasperated, unable to hide how his lips quirk upwards. “Would you let me finish?” And so you do, unsure what he must say or ask that warrants such a dramatic change in his usual demeanor. Arthur reaches for your hand, the rough pads of his fingers curling around and into your palm. He stoops forward, lips brushing against your knuckles—reverent. “I’d like you to stay,” he breathes, straightening back to full height. Your brows furrow. “Here,” he adds, “with me.”

You know what he is asking of you—marriage—and it should be an easy answer. Yes, of course. You’ve loved Arthur since before you knew what the word truly meant. But given the events of the last few months and the precipitousness of his proposal, you’re left speechless, heart beating in your throat until all you can do is run to the haven of your chambers with tears pricking your eyes.

A LOUD KNOCK on the great wooden door echoes in your bedchambers. You rouse from sleep, righting the oversized tunic hanging off one shoulder in an attempt to appear decent at the late hour. Part of you already knows who will be waiting on the other side, but when you crack open the door, it still surprises you to find him standing before you—wearing only a loose, nigh threadbare tunic and pair of dark britches. “Arthur,” you greet, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before motioning for him to come in.

There’s still an uneasy air between you after the earlier events and conversation in the courtyard—his proposal. “I shouldn’t’ve….” he starts as you do. “I should not...” You both fall silent, eyes searching the other’s face for an indication of who will be the first to speak, the first to act, but there’s only silence. 

“Yes,” you quickly tell him—the shock of his initial proposal has faded, and now you’ve never been more certain about something in your life. You still can’t say what it is that caused you to react in such a way—Arthur’s the only man you’ve ever loved, the only person you could have ever thought of having a life with, even before all this Born King shite. The answer is ‘yes.’ It had always been. 

“Yes?” He repeats with furrowed brows, not sure he’s heard you correctly.  “I’ll stay” —you reach to comb your fingers through his close-shorn beard, and he leans into the touch— “with you.” Forever.

He smiles, and it’s as though a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Arthur cradles your face in his hands, thumbs running over your cheekbones. You smile for him, and he leans toward you, closing the distance. His lips are on yours in an instant.

You answer his kiss, slowly at first, then with more fervor when you settle your hands on either side of his neck, drawing yourself closer. Parting, you press your forehead against his and meet his heated stare. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that?” Arthur asks, breathless.

Then he’s kissing you again and again—hands straying to your waist and backside, pulling you closer, tighter. And it fans the embers burning low in your belly to flames. Arthur breaks the kiss with an anguished groan—fighting a losing war with himself. He brushes back the hair falling in front of your face, the rough pad of his thumb running over your lips. “Tell me to stop,” he mutters—it’s almost a plea. And then he’s adrift in your soft and dark gaze, knowing if you do nothing to stop this, he’ll be acting on countless years of love and pent-up desire.

“No,” you breathe, catching his wrist and sliding his hand up from your neck—peppering his fingertips with gentle kisses. He watches you, lips parted and heart aching. Closing your eyes, you draw in a slow breath, and with a final kiss to his palm, you guide his hand to rest on one of your clothed breasts.

“Arthur.” You speak his name as though it is a quiet prayer. “I want you.” He pulls on the string at the neck of your nightshirt, loosening it until the gauzy material falls off your shoulders—puddling around your ankles, 

Though bare, you still hold his clear blue gaze. He goes silent as he draws in a sharp breath—eyes dart over the length of your body. His eyes darken, though, a mix of lust and adoration. “Think this is the longest you’ve been qui–” He cuts you off with a kiss, and one of his hands rises to cradle your cheek—the side of your neck again—and his lips coax yours open.

You sigh into his mouth, hands instinctively dipping under the hem of his roughspun tunic, fingertips trailing over the taut muscles of his abdomen and the scar on his ribs. Arthur breaks the kiss, quickly shrugging off his shirt, and lets the undyed piece of wool fall to the floor.  

Then, suddenly, he lifts you off your feet effortlessly. You hastily grip his shoulders for balance until he lays you on the bed—standing back to take off his trousers, and you watch him with a weird mixture of hunger and wistfulness as he strips. Arthur kicks aside his discarded clothes, then crawls onto the bed, making room for himself between your thighs—his clear and cold gaze burning with the warmth of the Sun and never once straying from yours.

You gaze tensely at his face as he studies you. His expression is greedy and appreciative, and the firelight glowing in his eyes just makes him look all the more ardent, and the longer he stares at you without doing anything, the more restless you are for him to act. You want his touch, his cock, his lips on yours, and all he’s giving you is this appreciative greedy stare, and it’s not enough.

Arthur kisses you again, and then he leans away from your lips and kisses the angle of your jaw. His mouth travels to the side of your neck, and your pulse flutters in your throat. His lips are surprisingly soft, and as his mouth trails from your neck to your collarbone, the delicacy of his kisses makes you feel lightheaded —a mix of pleasure and disbelief. 

He nuzzles your collarbone, then places a kiss just above the swell of your breast, and you arch helplessly toward his mouth. The heat of his breath wafting over your breast, making your nipples go taut with anticipation, and when the scruff of Arthur’s beard brushes over your nipple, you jolt and make a helpless little mewling sound. You twine your fingers into his golden hair, trying to hold him in place against you. But Arthur shoots you a quick smile, then shuffles lower on the bed still and kisses your breast —and you twist your hips, hands slipping from his hair to his shoulders.  

A sob leaves your throat—not a crying kind of sob, but an instinctive noise tore from your throat without your permission. He lifts his mouth from your breast and smiles at you, and you stare stupidly at his handsome face—the spark in his clear eyes and the boyish smirk twisting his lips.

Arthur palms your breast and squeezes gently. He shuffles lower still on the bed and places a sweet, open-mouthed kiss on your navel, and your sense of surreal disbelief ratchets to a nearly unbearable degree. His mouth drifts lower now, the scruff of his beard tickling your belly as he presses his lips to the skin below your navel and eases your thighs further apart.

Arthur places a kiss between your legs, and your mind goes blank with pleasure. 

“You alright, darlin’?” He smirks. You stare at him, too stunned by pleasure to find a clever response. Instead, riled by the teasing sparkle in his face, you spread your knees wide. His gaze drops between your legs, and his expression darkens with interest as he places his hands on your knees—stroking up to your thighs. He places another firm, wet kiss between your legs, and a helpless moan leaves your lips, and he hums with approval, a smug, half-growly little hum.  

You gasp in a breath, realizing you haven’t been breathing at all. Arthur lifts his head to look you in the eye. “Relax, love,” he croons, smoothing his palm over your belly as he laps at your cunt with slow hot sweeping strokes of his tongue. It’s not long before a finger presses into you, working you slowly open.

Your hips jerk softly along with his movements, and there’s unspoken interest in his gaze as he stares down at you, relentless in his efforts to see you come undone. His tongue and lips are at your clit, fingers stroking and curling deep within you. You jolt, and then he moves slower, dragging over the sensitive spots he’s discovered inside you and leaving your nerves tingling with every touch.

Pleasure washes over you in waves, making your calves twitch, your fingertips feel numb, and that high-pitched mewling noise leaves your throat. Overwhelmed—enraptured—you buck your hips toward his face and clench your fingers convulsively in his hair, and he keeps licking and kissing you until you can’t take it anymore. You pull on his hair to stop him, and he finally pulls away, lips glistening in the moonlight and fading glow of the firelight. “Enough,” you groan. “Need you.” It’s nigh a broken plea.

You shudder as he moves, situating himself between your thighs, calloused fingers dipping into your cunt to gather your slick and spread on his hard cock as he strokes himself. “Arthur, please,” you whimper, impatient, and he won’t keep you waiting.

He slides his cock through your folds before his angle changes just slightly, and on the next pass, your breath stutters as his cockhead presses just inside you—barely splitting you open. Arthur’s hand grabs your hip and angles you up just a bit so he can slide deeper inside you, and you cling onto his biceps—feeling his scars press into your palms and admiring the way his muscles flex under your touch. 

Arthur hisses through his teeth when he fully seats himself inside your warmth, then releases his breath slowly and smiles at you. “You’re lovely,” he murmurs, twining his fingers through yours, pressing the back of your hands into the mattress. From the moment Arthur first saw you in the Londinium streets, he knew your fates were intertwined—just as your bodies and hands were now. He trembles at this personal heaven, then draws his hips back, starting to move.

You laugh breathlessly, mindlessly. “Charmer,” you pant, hooking your legs around his waist. You roll into his thrusts, pulling him deeper. His ragged breaths and grunts mingle with your sighs of pleasure—panting scarcely keeping up with your racing heart. 

He huffs in amusement. “Can’t say that’s something I get called often,” Arthur says as he pumps his hips slowly, teasing you and pleasing you almost more than you can bear. Then he lowers his lips to yours in a kiss—there’s something sweet on his tongue, like honey wine. 

His whole body begins moving, surging, and writhing against yours. One of his hands releases yours and caresses your cheek before he slides it down your body. Without thought, your body arches into his hand as it moves, ripening under his touch—thoughts clouded by lust and love. His fingers find your clit at the same time his mouth latches to your neck.

Another guttural cry bursts from your lips. He’s pounding into you now, and he’s still holding your hand while his other grips your hip. Your breathing is loud, and so is his, and his hand is tightening on your fingers. He drags in a breath, then expels it in a strained groan.

He shudders, then pounds into you hard, twice, thrice, and then he pauses with his cock deep inside of you. His jaw clenches, and his grip on your hip is so tight that it’s almost painful, but you like it—just as much as you like the guttural sound he makes as he shudders in completion. A few long seconds later, he gasps in a breath, then sighs and releases your hand. “Fuck,” he groans, holding his weight above you on shaking arms. 

You beckon him to lie atop you, his golden head pillowed on your breasts as his breathing steadies, sighing when you kiss his hair and whisper a quiet, I love you, for him to relish. He stays sheathed inside your warmth, unwilling to part just yet. “I love you,” he murmurs in turn, never tiring of how you smile when he says the words. Sighing, he rolls to the side, and you whine at the loss of him and the empty feeling between your thighs.

He lays on his side, and you pillow your head on his outstretched arm, nuzzling close against his chest and threading one of your legs through his. Arthur presses his cheek to the crown of your head and strokes your hair as the first dregs of daylight break over the horizon, shining upon England, Camelot, and his future wife and queen.

[Forever taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rigshak ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my forever taglist, or any other character/fandom taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[sanctus-ingenium]

I love the moth guy a lot. Such a cool design! He's a photographer, too? What a funky little guy. Do you have more to tell about him?

Patches is a large (about 1.6m long) sphinx moth descended from the family Sphingidae. He is based off of a combination of striped hawk moth and tersa sphinx moth and he is distantly related to both :)

(source) (source)

I have to explain some of the setting - so every few million years, a mountain appears. It appears in the same spot on multiple different parallel dimensions, and it is there for maybe 45 years at a time. During this time is the only time these parallel worlds can touch, intersect, or meet one another. The last time this happened, members of the class Insecta came over, and found a different world with a ludicrously oxygen-rich atmosphere and some extremely energy-dense plants. They were able to develop, in the intervening years between then and the time of the story (think 1910s on earth) into the dominant life forms in this new world, many becoming quite large and developing complex societies and technology of their own.

The mountain reappears. This time, some of our insect characters (Nettle Rove [Staphylinidae] among them, though he is much younger than Patches and arrived at the tail-end of the time window) cross the mountain again, either by accident or on purpose, and find earth there, and human society. There's not enough oxygen there to fly or do much physical activity but they can still survive there and participate in a type of cultural exchange. So we have a First Contact type situation, but that's not what everyone really cares about. See, the humans have climbed the mountain and found at its peak, hidden in the clouds, a city. Completely devoid of life (even microbial), but obviously made by somebody. So the actual premise of the story is the exploration and mystery of this place.

Patches is 18 when the mountain shows up. He has just had a fulfilling caterpillar-hood of territorially murdering everyone he meets (kind of a solitary species! some members of Sphingidae will literally fight to the death if they meet as caterpillars) and, he is naturally extremely curious about the world outside His Tree. he meets his mate/bestie, Rosy Wing and while they do spend a lot of time terrorising everyone they meet, eventually they get interested in what's on the other side of that giant mountain. after meeting up with some humans trying to map the place, a camera-maker has a bright idea to send up Patches, who can hover very still in place, to photograph the strange lifeless city from the air (the humans are in full steampunk swing so obviously they have airships but atmospheric mixing between the different worlds makes it too dangerous to fly them, given that a stray breeze from the insect world might make a combustion engine blow the fuck up). the mixing is also sufficient to allow the insects to fly on the mountain but not for very long, meaning that most exploration of the city is on foot. The development of this aerial photography technique reveals that, from the air, the city appears disproportionately huge, and seems to stretch on for infinity. Because of this, and Patches' part in it all, an entire industry strings up for city exploration, and by Nettle Rove's time twenty years later, it has descended into bitter and violent rivalries between wealthy patrons funding expeditioneer teams. Murder is legal there (it's legal in insect world too. have u met insects? they love murder)

As for Patches himself, he is a barely-socialised semi feral freak with an incredibly upbeat and curious personality who is so so so devoted to Rosy Wing (who is.. similar, but more into people instead of cameras). Until their habit of harassing and thieving from randos goes poorly on a city expedition, and their entire team gets caught in a shootout. There were no recorded survivors. Our guy survived by playing dead but Rosy Wing was not so lucky. With Patches' hindwing in tatters, his only hope of being able to fly again and get of there was to use Rosy Wing's own hindwing as donor material. And that's how he got his name (he didn't have one before) :3

Rosy Wing was similar to an eyed hawk moth in appearance

(source)

In Nettle Rove's time, there is a persistent rumour of some weird old hermit in the city. These claims are dismissed, but something's out there drinking the blood of random expeditioneers, and that thing might know more about what lies at the heart of the city than anyone else...

okay thank you for reading love u

[fandomtrumpshate]

Listed fandom fun

A bit of random data before we jump into the rankings for listed fandoms …

Since the numbers post yesterday we've had signups for nearly 60 new auctions, bringing the current total to 779. That beats the number of signups for 2016/7, 2018, 2019, 2020, and 2021, and puts us withing spitting distance of our record last year of 819. Can we do it? Will we do it? Signal boost FTH posts and encourage others to participate. More money raised for good causes, more fanworks in the world — it's a win/win!

We posted yesterday about the state of our unlisted write-in fandoms (we've had nine new ones since then!). Time to check in with the rankings for the listed fandoms.

At the top of the pack we have:

87 K-Pop * 66 Good Omens 50 Sherlock Holmes * 44 Harry Potter * 37 Marvel * 32 DC * 31 Mo Dao Zu Shi / The Untamed 27 Red, White, & Royal Blue 25 Star Wars * 23 Scum Villain's Self-Saving System

Our first tie is for 11th place -

22 Avatar The Last Airbender 22 Teen Wolf

And after that, nearly every other place is a tie. And which ones are ties for which places can be shifted slightly with just one signup. Or completely upended with two. Where will your fandom land?

Remember that if your fandom isn't here (or in the rest of the list below the cut), you can write it in. Signups are OPEN through Monday!

19 Supernatural 18 9-1-1 and 9-1-1 Lone Star 18 Locked Tomb Trilogy 18 Stranger Things 17 All for the Game 16 Our Flag Means Death 16 Tolkien * 16 The Witcher 15 Boku no Hiro Akademia (My Hero Academia) 15 Original Work 15 Percy Jackson and the Olympians 14 Baldur's Gate 3 14 Hockey RPF 12 The Old Guard 12 Tian Guan Ci Fu (Heaven Official's Blessing) 11 The Magnus Archives 11 Star Trek * 10 Check Please! 10 Dungeons & Dragons 10 Haikyuu!!! 10 Hazbin Hotel 10 Jujutsu Kaisen 9 A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon 9 One PIece 8 Doctor Who * 8 Hades (video game) 8 Heartstopper 8 James Bond 8 Kingsman 8 Merlin 8 Naruto 8 Suits 7 Dragon Age * 7 Justified 7 Raven Cycle 7 Rusty Quill Gaming Podcast 7 The Sandman 7 Shadowhunters 7 SK8 the Infinity 6 Captive Prince 6 Critical Role 6 Final Fantasy * 6 Fullmetal Alchemist 6 Hannibal 6 Kinnporsche 6 The Maze Runner 6 Queen's Thief 6 Stargate 6 Steven Universe 6 Top Gun Movies 6 Yuri!!! On Ice 5 Alex Rider 5 Grishaverse 5 Interview With The Vampire 5 Malevolent (Podcast) 5 The Murderbot Diaries 5 Nirvana in Fire 5 The Owl House 5 RWBY 4 Erha He Ta De Bai Mao Shizun (The Husky & His White Cat Shizun) 4 Genshin Impact 4 Les Misérables 4 The Magicians 4 Pokemon 4 Witch Hat Atelier 3 Arcane 3 Disney's Descendants 3 Elder Scrolls 3 Hetalia 3 Hunger Games 3 Legend of Zelda 3 Spy x Family 3 Tian Ya Ke / Word of Honor 3 Trigun 3 Welcome to Night Vale 3 Wheel of Time 3 Young Royals 2 Benoit Blanc Mysteries (Knives Out, Glass Onion) 2 Disco Elysium 2 Encanto 2 Gundam Wing 2 The Last of Us 2 Leverage 2 Miraculous Ladybug 2 Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries 2 Mysterious Lotus Casebook 2 Schitt's Creek 2 Super Mario Bros. 1 Assassin's Creed 1 Attack on Titan 1 Diamond no Ace 1 Fire Emblem Three Houses 1 Homestuck 1 Stellar Firma 1 Wednesday / The Addams Family

[clearancecreedwatersurvival]

The spectrum of sports anime runs from Near Realism to Firmly Removed From Reality.

On one end of this spectrum we have Haikyuu!! which wins over every other sports anime in terms of actually being about the sport. Every part of Haikyuu!! is either playing a match or preparing for a match and almost all of their abilities and plays are firmly rooted in reality. Is it perhaps slightly unrealistic that this one short guy can jump That High??? Maybe, but he IS a shounen battle protagonist (haikyuu follows the shounen battle format perfectly Do Not At Me about this I am Right. The battles are matches. Obviously.) and therefore Hinata being Just That Good and Kageyama being Just That Good is necessary for genre reasons.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is something like Birdie Wing, the lesbian golf mafia anime, which I have not seen yet (yet!!! It is on the docket!) but I did watch this video essay about it and I think Geoff Mother’s Basement Thew would agree with my assessment. Which is to say that it’s absolutely batshit off the wall wild and has very little in common with the actual sport of golf. Which is great for me personally, because fuck golf.

Somewhere in between these two extremes lies Sk8 the Infinity which at first seems to maybe have some solid grounding in actual skateboarding and snowboarding technique and jumps even if it is unrealistic that they manage to be mostly fine after high speed crashes with no protective gear, and then fucking Adam shows up and drags the genre towards absurdity until it culminates in a psychic skateboarding battle to the death.

In our universe entering a flow state is something that anyone who is really comfortable with an activity can do, where you are basically embodying the mindfulness principle of One Mind, perfectly aware of everything related to your task and able to act without thinking about it first, in what’s basically a moving meditative state.

In the sk8 universe entering a flow state means getting mentally sucked through a prismatic vortex into a hypnotic paralysis which can be induced by one crazed matador roleplayer pulling you into basically a vampire thrall and can only be broken with the power of love friendship.

[its-freaking-jordan]

Hii can you make hantengu x reader?

For sure! I’ll do him and his clones!

Hantengu x Gn Demon reader

Out on your mission you came across another Demon, he seemed scared and rather weak in your eyes, until you underestimate him. You both grew fond of eachother, you also meet his clones?

A Biwa string played and you were now at in Infinity Castle. It’s been decades since you were last here. You looked up to see Nakime sitting down, you liked her very much and she grew fond of you too. “Hey! Nakime! Why did you summon me here?! Did Lord Muzan request me to be here?!” You shouted from where you were, hoping she would answer you back. She turned her head ever so slightly, towards you. “Muzan-sama has indeed requested for you to be here…. Therefore..” The Biwa was played again and now your kneeling in front of Muzan himself. He told you, that you would be accompanying another Demon for a mission, you had your own plans. You tried to protest but he already left.

You made your way to the Village Muzan told you to meet the Demon at. You were quite excited to see which Demon you would be accompanying. Once you arrived at the Villege, you did see a demon. He looked tiny to you, you made you way over there, and tapped the demon’s shoulder which caused him to shriek. You were taken aback, you truly did not intend on scaring him. “Um..Hi. I was order to accompany a demon on this mission..Are you perhaps the demon Lord Muzan was talking about?” His hands were trembling when you said Muzan name, he nodded without saying a word, which caused you to smile. You looked at his eyes and saw “Upper rank 4” in them. You were exited because you didn’t go on a mission with another Uppermoon before, besides Akaza.

Hantengu head was cut clean off by demon slayers, it honestly surprised you from how easily an Uppermoon was decapitated. Which caused you to have doubts about him, questioning his strength. “Hantengu are you really about to die on me? Especially by low ranking slayers?” You shouted. You heard him shrieking when slowly turned into a groan. You felt 2 unfamiliar presence behind you. You stopped whatever you was doing with the slayer’s broken arm to just look at the 2 people. One had a emerald like eyes and the other had Ruby like eyes. You were going to speak but green eyes beat you to it. “I should’ve guessed this would happen, no surprises eh? Say, why don’t we just go off and have fun, that doesn’t sound bad at all right Sekido?” He cackled to himself looking at the angry demon besides him. The anger expressed demon just rolled his eyes. “We still have a mission to do, if you probably forgotten Karaku.” Karaku groaned as a response, getting up properly to stretch out for a second.

Karaku caught a glimpse of you, causing his smirk to grow more. He pointed over at you which caused Sekido to look at you as well with a brow raised. Karaku was the first to approach you and examine your features. You just stared at Karaku, then spoke up. “What the hell happened to Hantengu? Who even are you two?” Before Karaku can even answer Sekido beat him to it, approaching you both. “Did you not get our names when me and him were just talking not to long ago?” He just stared at you with an annoyed expression on his face from your stupidity. “Don’t ignore my question!! What happened to Hantengu!!” He just stared at you while Karaku was laughing “You talk to much. Why are you even accompanying the four of us here.” He sighed, pinching his nose. Karaku was the one to explain what happened to you and his two brothers Aizetsu and Urogi. You had a dumbfounded look on your face. You looked around but it was only Sekido and Karaku there. Before you got the chance to speak the door opened with two other demons there. One with blue eyes and the other with yellow/golden eyes and..wings? “We killed the slayers..But no luck on what we came here to find. Aizetsu opening the door revealing himself along with Urogi.

The mission was done, not really a success on finding the flower Muzan wanted badly. You groaned now walking with the four brothers to wherever they was going to let you stay at until night fall come again. “I must say..You are a cute one if I do say so myself.” Urogi said to break the silence. Karaku nodded in agreement “See? I’m not the only one who thought that!” Aizetsu looked at them both from the corner of his eye, just side eyeing them. Sekido sucked his teeth and kept looking forward. You felt your cheeks getting red, from the random compliment from the two. While those two were blabbering in the back, you caught up to Aizetsu and Sekido.

“Soo..You four are quadruplets or something?” You realized that they all stopped walking and, Ugori and Karaku even stopped talking. You turned around to face them all, only to see Sekido Ugori and Aiztesu giving you the “what the fuck” look on their faces meanwhile Karaku looks surprised then burst out laughing. “What the fuck? Is it not obvious enough.” Sekido is just shaking his head. You gotten your answer, in a way you didn’t imagine. “Say.. Y/N what rank are you exactly?” Aizetsu opened the door to their hideout, his question did catch the attention of the other three, what rank are you? You’re stronger than a lower moon, yet you’re not an upper moon. That caused Sekido to be skeptical of you now, just what the hell are you then.

“Yeah..How come you’re not even apart of the twelve kizuki..But then again Daki and her brother are still here along with Gyokko. So you must be something special then hmm?~” Sekido rolled his eyes and slapped Karaku for no reason, he was just annoying him. They all sat down together by you. You felt a little uneasy from this all but chose to keep it to yourself. Ugori was interested in you so he decided to ask questions on how you became a demon and your Blood Demon Art, which you gladly answered with no problem. Aizetsu was listening in also, he grew fond of you in such a short notice which wasn’t like him. You told them how you attended the Uppermoon meetings and, how you first saw Hantengu. You didn’t want to approach him because he was scared of almost anything in your eyes, that was 150 years ago. You never noticed him that much before but now you do because of this mission.

You noticed Sekido was glaring at you, examining you from where he’s sitting at, it sent chills down you spine. You tried to brush it off but it was like lasers are burning you. He ends up interrupting your conversation, which caught you by surprise.

“Just what the hell does Hantengu see in you…”

I kinda ran out of ideas but I’ll for sure post a part two when I get the chance! Thank you for requesting this btw! <3

[pen-and-umbra]

Compilation spoilers below.

As the party delves deeper into the Temple of the Ancients, a vision of Sephiroth delivers a cryptic speech:

(“My fragmented mother, these errant worlds… All shall be one again.”)

“My fragmented mother” is a very deliberate choice of words. While the OG story touched on Jenova's fragmentation while dealing with the subject of Reunion, the plotbeats focused on Sephiroth and his failed copies rather than the creature itself. As the story unfolds, Cloud kills or severely injures Sephiroth during the Nibelheim mission, leading him to utilize clones and Jenova's remains after emerging at the Northern Crater in order to repair his maimed body. The same Ultimania Omega relayed that developers once thought about a scene where Sephiroth was revealed to have a Jenovaesque lower half. (The concept was eventually scrapped, but it would have added an even more grotesque element to Sephiroth's already terrifying being.)

(“It shall encompass worlds unbound by fate and histories unwritten. <...> My dominion shall reach into infinity”)

However, the Remake implies that the Reunion serves a different purpose. Or, more accurately, Sephiroth refers to a distinct event—the merging of worlds—as Reunion. According to Sephiroth's cryptic message, this is yet another foray into “godhood”. Not too unlike Ultimecia’s time compression, Sephiroth allegedly plans to join all the timelines into one to achieve “infinity/forever”. And yet, what does it have to do with “his fragmented mother”?

(“All made whole.”)

What if the true purpose of Remake's Reunion is not about “infinity” per se but about the “whole” part?

From the perspective of the OG, we are led to believe that the gathering of failed copies is the result of Sephiroth's will. However, Cetra's hologram delivers an interesting warning as the party traverses through the Temple of Ancients.

(“Heed well to our warning of that which is to come…<...> The reunion. When our adversary's scattered malignancy shall converge to plague the Planet once more.”)

The Cetra allegedly referred to Jenova's own inherent ability to reassemble its pieces (“Reunion”), whether conscious or unconscious. Unless the message was purely prophetic in nature, the statement presupposes that Jenova's body was already dispersed during the era of the Cetra, predating ShinRA's R&D department's experiments with alien cell injections. The Temple of Ancients narrates a gripping tale of Cetra's battle against the calamity-from-the-skies, with significant casualties suggesting a lasting conflict rather than a singular encounter.

Thus, it is possible that Jenova sustained injuries and lost some of its biologics before Cetra managed to seal it. Alternatively, fearing Jenova's reunification, the Cetran people may have “scattered” the creature in some way in order to hamper its resurrection. Whatever the case, at the end of the day, Jenova at the Nibelheim reactor appears incomplete or misshapen, missing a wing, and apparently suspended midway between morphing into a humanoid.

If the message is interpreted as a prophecy about the future, it demonstrates Cetran's extraordinary augury ability. However, assuming their knowledge of the future is precise, they never mention a different agent (Sephiroth), instead referring to their “celestial adversary” as the enemy who will plague the planet once more.

Anyway, spool forward, and in the age of ShinRA, the likes of Hollander and Hojo kept experimenting with Jenova's organic material, further disseminating alien cells. Several of its hosts have died. That includes both humans (Angeal or Gillian, for example) and monstrosities infused with J-cells that our party encounters (both organic and mechanical). While it is hard to estimate how many test subjects died during the course of the Jenova/SOLDIER Project, we can suppose that quite a number. It is currently unclear what happens to Jenova cells after the host dies; several instances appear to be convoluted (Angeal's mother allegedly dies alongside alien material, but Lucrecia claims that Jenova cells keep her alive). Let's assume that J-cells usually die with the host. As a result, an uncertain amount of organic material is missing from Jenova's body and will not make it to Reunion.

When combined with the Ancients' reference to “scattered” essence, Sephiroth's words about his fragmented mother make a lot more sense in the context of worlds merging. What if the primary aim of unchaining timelines was to acquire unattainable fragments of Jenova from hosts that are deceased within the primary timeline? Destiny's Crossroads, as a singularity of some kind, appears to be linked to all points in time and space. As a result of destroying Harbinger, our party is likely to have had an impact on PAST events (Zack's Last Stand). As a consequence, Zack lived. What if Jenovaroth's true goal is to alter branching timelines so that as many J-cell hosts as possible survive to converge at Northern Crater? Bringing scattered Jenova fragments across time and space to resurrect the entire entity and restore its power? The consequences of such a plan could indeed be disastrous.

Examining the issue from this perspective raises the question of who is truly in control and what kind of being will emerge after Reunion has run its course. It also raises the question of whether there are other ancient “deposits” of Jenova's organic material left from the Cetran War, if the warning in the Temple of Ancients was NOT a prophecy about ShinRA era.

👋 @pen-and-umbra

[sleepimali]

Hello hello, I am returning with some more lore from my comic universe :)

If you want to get these as an A5 print and sticker set, you can grab them from my Patreon (Professional Napper or Big Sleepy tier) until the end of February, CET :) But also, as always feel free to just read the lore <3

Dawn Dreamers lore:

A dawn dreamer is a silly looking being that appears in spirit form and has features of both angels and demons, while having the grace of neither. Such is the life of a blobby being.

Other traits of their forms are that they use their ears as wings to fly, and that they give off a strange glimmer as they float through the sky. They can be small as a golf ball or large as a horse, and they also never open their eyes as they seem to be perpetually asleep.

Reportedly, they make a bunch of cute noises as they dream too.

There is actually very little known about these beings. They appear only at dawn and only in front of people who have been going through a difficult time, but whose fortunes are now taking a turn for the better, as though to signal a new beginning.

Due to this, as well as the fact that they cannot be photographed, people have had a very different image of what they look like in their minds. Given the symbolism they have in folk tales, the general consensus is that they probably have a poetic appearance; in fact drawings and paintings of them have been widely disregarded as people simply wouldn’t believe such a silly-looking being could have such a profound meaning for them.

But when you see them, you understand. The feeling they give off when you see them is that of the first laughter after a long period of not smiling – suddenly you remember there is joy in this world and it makes your burdens seem to not be quite as heavy anymore. They're just silly little things, and life doesn't have to be that serious. Things aren’t fixed yet, but you’re on the right track. And you feel more resilient and hopeful.

The little knowledge we do have on the dawn dreamers unfortunately come from the most fickle and unreliable source of them all; gods. Gods are the only being with the power to cross the boundaries of different worlds, but they are also unfortunately known to rarely interact a whole lot with people in the mortal realm, and a fair few of them are known for making up tales for the fun of it since they’re perpetually bored. So how much of that information is to be trusted isn’t entirely sure.

However, it has been said that our realm actually is the place where dawn dreamers go when they have a good dream – hence why they appear in spirit form only. It has also been said that they have their own society and lives in their own world, not all that different from ours.

As a final anecdote, according to rumours, there once was a person who pursued and attained godhood for the sole reason of gaining the ability to traverse the boundaries of worlds just so they could cuddle a dawn dreamer. Which honestly is quite the feat when you realise attaining godhood is a tremendously difficult task, and yet the effort you’d have to put in pales in comparison to that of finding the right world among an infinity of them. It wouldn’t be all that strange if they were still searching even after centuries passed.

[ruuhkaaika]

update: i have read this fic a total of three times.. and now i’m reading a fic by the same author.. SEND HELP

i finished yesterday night around 2.30 am the first time he kissed a boy and i feel unwell /pos

it was so good i just know i’ll be rereading it

it took me almost 3 days to finish it it was so so worth it

[angellurgy2]

Continuum

my sister was there, the day they lined us against the rails

miles and miles of angel, fallen and risen alike

come together with a single goal,

brought together to a single death.

we only wanted to help.

had an infinity of anything to give, could’ve fixed their society in whole.

no more money, no more starving, no more pollutive tolls.

we came to give them energy

and they showed us the second sin

taken in their hands, live wire sparking

wings folded and wrapped in twine

subsumed in inky ichor

cords clipped umbilic.

the lord works in mysterious ways, or so it goes.

supplanted graves in our place, in tune with human goals

betrayal of his children, to keep his work afloat.

built on the backs of infinite dead angels

fed to the line.

[ch4singchase]

The Ballad of Moths | LUKE CASTELLAN

Summary: Eurydice Gaumont receives gifts from her father and one of these proves invaluable as her journey intersects with fellow demigods.

Word count: 4.9K

Warnings: Mentions of blood and Injury, violence, grief, ophidiophobia (since the monster in this chapter is a giant snake), mentions of death, mild language

chapter one, chapter two | series masterlist

chapter 02: I Defend A Bunch Of Kids From A Giant Snake

The rhythmic tap of rain against my bus window played a lullaby, coaxing me into a swift slumber.

Abruptly, I was no longer confined to the bus; the rain had transformed into the hushed serenity of a forest. This was no typical ominous woods of a horror story; its allure lay in a distinct kind of beauty.

Drawing near a tree, my fingers traced the rough texture of its trunk, relishing the tactile sensation. The leaves gracefully danced, swaying in a tranquil wind, as if encouraging a shared nap. Smiling up at them, I entertained the whimsical idea that the tree and its surroundings comprehended my thoughts.

A soft flap of wings echoed behind me, and there it was—the moth that helped me understand where I should go earlier.

This was the same moth, its wings a rich black with subtle brown accents, patiently awaiting my presence in a circular dance.

"Hello, buddy," I greeted cautiously, extending my hand to see its reaction, "How's it going?"

Predictably, the moth remained silent. It alighted on my fingertip and then took flight, leading me along a specific path among the trees, unveiling a concealed trail through the forest. Glancing at the shadows that enveloped the moth's chosen route, a fleeting doubt crossed my mind—was it truly wise to follow?

Without dwelling on the question, I pursued the enigmatic guide, allowing instinct to override rational contemplation.

As I ventured deeper into the forest, the canopy above formed a protective shield against the sporadic drizzle that started. The moth continued its dance ahead, weaving through the foliage with an innate knowledge of the path, as if the trees themselves whispered directions to their winged companion.

Moss-covered rocks and the scent of damp earth under foot marked my journey. The woods seemed to respond to my presence, embracing me in a mysterious symphony of rustling leaves and distant calls of unseen creatures. Nature itself had become my guide, and the moth, my silent escort through this living tapestry.

The path curved, revealing a hidden glade bathed in ethereal moonlight. In the center stood a peculiar tree, its silver bark shimmering in the celestial glow. The moth settled on a branch, and as if on cue, the air became charged with an otherworldly energy.

I looked around, confused. The wind gently brazed my cheeks, guiding some leaves with it and revealing what was hiding in the glade until now.

Moths. A bunch of moths. All joining the one guiding me into a beautiful dance.

Perhaps, when I was younger, I would be frightened, but instead, I was just stunned by it. They were gracious and in an infinity of colors, painting the air like a vivid rainbow in the middle of the night. Even some fireflies had heard their excitement and joined the party, lightning the night in a blink of an eye.

“She’s here, she’s here, she’s finally going home!” They all seemed to whisper, even if I couldn’t understand what they meant by it.

Where was here? Were they following me? Were they the ones who sent the moth to help me?

There were too many questions and no answers.

“No, no,” they all repeated to what sounded like a response, “Our friend did.”

“Yeah yeah,” others agreed, circling around me as they did so, “Your father.”

For the first time since I had seen the moth from before, I ventured to speak up.

“My father?” It was just me repeating what they had just said but, still, it had taken me some type of courage to say so, “He’s dead, how is that possible?”

“Dead?” most of them laughed, as if I had told them a joke, “That’s not possible; he is a god.”

What?

“You heard us,” it seemed like I hadn’t only questioned it in my head, “You’re the daughter of a god.”

I stood frozen for a couple of seconds. A god…?

I recalled what the Cyclops had called me, a Half-Blood. Cyclopes, chimeras, half-blood, all of them were characters that my mother had once told me were tales. Stories in Ancient Greece, myths. Nothing more but stories.

But stories don’t simply come to life. They have to have always been there.

If they were talking about gods, they could only be the Greek ones, right? The Olympian ones and so on.

“How...” I tried to ask... Anything, honestly. But I didn’t even know where I could start; in the end, I was talking to moths, what was crazier than that?

“We can’t tell you everything,” some of the moths mumbled.

“Yeah yeah, he had told us just to help you find your way but we couldn’t stop ourselves,” others complained.

“Once we heard you were still alive, we were so excited,” the moths giggled, holding back screams of joy.

“Yeah, even if one of us ended up saying something about the titan, we wanted to risk a chance,” one in a million of their siblings said, and if almost every one of them were speaking at the same time, I heard it.

Every single one, but one brought my curiosity, “Titan?”

It was all I needed to ask before they went into a deep silence.

The moths hushed as my question lingered in the night air. Their whispering dance seemed to still, and the anticipation was palpable. Then, one moth separated itself from the swirling mass and approached me.

It wasn’t the same one I was already familiar with compared to the others, but its wings fluttered with a measured elegance.

“We should not say anything about it,” the moth said, “It’s just a rumor, a cruel one”

“But the prophecy?” one of the others questioned, daring the one that was speaking for them, “The prophecy says…”

Most of them hushed the little one, giving voice to the same one of before, “As I said, it’s just a rumor. Some things are better left unknown, life must unfold naturally..”

“You said about a prophecy,” I tried to reason with it, approaching the moth, “What prophecy?”

The moth shook its little head, “You must go now, Eurydice Gaumont”

“No” I persisted, stomping my feet into the ground.

But it didn’t matter what I wanted, slowly the scenario around me started to go blurry and slowly the sound of rain tapping returned.

I protested, but the scene blurred, and before waking, I heard the words, "In shadows deep, a reaper's kid must tread..."

Then, I was back on the bus again. Alone.

I looked around, trying to look for something. But despite the sleepy sleepers who snored near me, there was nothing new after the dream. It was still dark, the first sign of sun daring to peek out of their hidden spot.

Sighing, I looked at the sky, searching for an answer. At that point, I wouldn’t be surprised if the answer came in the form of a god of the sun trying to mime what I should do next. Or sing—I didn’t know much about Greek gods at that time, but I was almost sure that the god of the sun in the stories also sang.

What was that I had heard? A reaper’s kid, right?

Now, what did that mean?

Sighing once more at the dawn of that day, every time it looked like things were making sense, my life would get twisted.

A sound of wings caught my attention when I looked at the empty seat by my side. The moth from the convenience store and my dream was my company once more. If it had a face, it would look like regret or shame.

It flapped its wings, as if to call my attention again.

“I’m seeing you, stupid,” It flapped its wings one more time, perhaps it didn’t like being called stupid, “You didn’t talk like your siblings at that forest right, I don’t remember hearing you”

And I truly didn't. For some reason, I could recognize each moth that had talked in that clearing, but none of them was the one that had been with me since Springfield.

This time, the moth flapped its wings twice.

"Alright," I scoffed, contemplating the sanity of conversing with a moth. "Enough beating around the bush; what do you want to tell me?"

Rather than flapping, the moth took flight, turning beneath my seat. I didn’t know how to curse, but what I thought was similar to a ‘what the fuck?’

Leaning forward, I peered beneath my seat, expecting to find the bags from the convenience store—snacks, sweets, water, a flashlight, and some change. Yet, unlike what I remembered, there was also a backpack.

Which, by chance, was not mine.

It reminded me of the backpacks I had seen at the store or some of the other people on that bus wearing, but I didn't have enough money to buy even a fanny pack.

Puzzled, I picked up the backpack and examined it. It seemed lost, probably belonging to another passenger. To my surprise, my name was on a sticker affixed to it.

Was it truly mine?

I opened the backpack, looking for what could be inside.

If my expectations were set on receiving a cellphone, all-star shoes, additional snacks, clothing, or perhaps a map, I would find myself in a perpetual state of hope until the arrival of the non-existent date of February 31st. Alas, none of those anticipated items were to be found.

What I found was, in fact, a leather wristband with a snap button closure, adorned with small stones. Accompanying it were a couple of coins, featuring a peculiar carving that deviated from any standard penny. Doubtingly, I reached in, confirming the wristband, coins… Plus a map.

At least that.

Exhaling deeply, I hoped my godly father, wherever he was, could hear me. Was this his gift? A questionable assistance from a man presumed dead.

Truthfully, I anticipated something more beneficial for survival, perhaps a letter explaining his whereabouts and the ongoing events. It was the least he could offer after all these years.

My mother had portrayed him as a soldier with a calm heart, unwilling to return to duty but aware of their need for a reminder of peace. How every end no matter how it began, would meet peace. She would always remind me that he would be the one to go down in a nonviolent way, with his hand laying on his chest, above his heart.

Would. She never said he was. Because he was a god, a greek god.

Knowing I was aware of his divine status, he chose to bestow upon me strange money, a wristband, and a map. Well, the map, at least, seemed somewhat helpful.

I stowed away the bags containing my purchases from Springfield into the backpack, arranging the snacks and supplies meticulously to avoid any mishaps during my travels—whether it involved catching the next bus or evading a new monster.

The coins and map found their place inside the backpack as well. However, before I could tuck away the wristband, curiosity got the better of me. It was a finely crafted leather piece, elegant and delicate.

Examining it closely, I wondered if my father had crafted it himself. The mere thought tightened my heartstrings.

Looking at the inside of the wristband, I frowned when I found something carved into the leather. Something was written into another language.

I turned the wristband and looked at it closely, words were always hard to me so if I wanted to understand what it meant, I would have to take my time.  If I intended to understand its meaning, patience would be crucial. Or so I thought.

As the letters began to weave into each other, a surprising clarity emerged. Instead of becoming a confusing jumble, they started to make sense.

Tenebris.

While it wasn't an exact match to what was written, it was undeniably the meaning it conveyed.

Latin, perhaps?

Gazing at the wristband once more, I opted not to return it to the backpack. Instead, I made the choice to wear it.

Perhaps my father had indeed crafted it. Wearing it became my silent expression of appreciation, a subtle invitation for him to emerge from his hidden shell.

Ultimately, it proved to be a beautiful wristband.

When I looked out the window again, the sun was already rising. We seemed to have arrived in New Haven, recognizable to me from a previous visit. It appeared we were near State St, very close to Yale.

There was a time when I thought I might study there, a distant dream from my younger self. Back then, despite never attending a real school, I held onto the possibility.

Revisiting the city at fourteen, a few years later, doubt crept in.

Knowing what I now knew, it wasn't hard to recognize that the odds were always against me. I never had the chance, not before, and certainly not now.

As soon as the bus stopped and the other passengers started to get off, I did the same. I picked up my backpack and put it on, following the others to the street, deciding to be the last one to get down.

For a moment, I waited a bit before finally getting off, looking inside the bus and waiting for the moth from earlier to appear and follow it. But, it didn't happen.

So, I went my way. If I remembered correctly, there shouldn't be another bus stop so far away, I could eat something on the way while I looked and hope my change would be enough for the next ticket. Or, hope they would accept my dad's weird coins.

As I strolled down the street, I seized the opportunity to approach strangers, concocting a flimsy tale about a new school on Long Island and my ailing parents unable to assist with transportation. However, as they began to provide directions, a sinking feeling crept in.

Clearly, I lacked the funds for the entire journey.

Faced with limited options, I considered potential avenues. One option involved seeking employment on the streets, donning a somber expression and appealing to tourists for financial assistance. Ironically, the more morally questionable choice proved to be the swifter means of acquiring funds.

Anyway, I tried to risk it, at least make it to the bus stop that supposedly was the cheapest one to my journey. Maybe, the driver could take some pity on me and take me to Pennsylvania. If not, I would have start to figure how to gain money for the whole trip, I wouldn’t dare to walk all the way to that fucking camp.

I walked, walked, walked and walked down State St. As I traversed the street, covering only a fraction of the distance, I encountered a Thai Restaurant. The sight of it made my stomach protest loudly; I hadn't eaten in a while, and the prolonged walking intensified my hunger.

However, there was no way I would eat in the middle of the street, under the scrutinizing gaze of strangers. That was out of the question.

Despite mustering all the courage, I hesitated to knock on the closed restaurant's door. Even if a waiter were to appear, what excuse could I possibly give for not wanting to dine outside?

So, I found an alternative. In less than a minute, I seated myself in an alley, extracting a snack from my backpack and indulging in it.

In fact, that was within question.

Ignoring the curious glances of passersby, I continued my impromptu meal. Candies followed, accompanied by sips of water. This brief moment of rest was crucial before resuming my walk under the scorching sun.

I just needed two minutes, or maybe ten… Honestly, a whole thirty minutes were enough for me to restore my energy.

As I rested, I took another look at the wristband I was wearing. The more attention I paid to it, the more I noticed a strange energy emanating from it. It was difficult to explain and even less tangible—an unknown aura surrounding something hidden inside the leather, beyond the engraved letters.

When I opened my mouth to express the feeling, the only thing that came to mind was the night of a day or two ago.

My mother was held in the air by the monster's hand, the only one watching her intensely and impatiently, while all she did instead of fighting was ask me to run. And run was what I did.

Until I heard her scream—a stunning, heart-wrenching scream that froze my feet in place, forcing me to witness her body flying to my side, blood overflowing from her mouth. Her torso seemed broken or twisted enough to inflict severe internal injuries.

Still, she had the strength to ask me to keep running. How could I? How could I run and leave her behind?

I couldn't do that. Instead, I stood beside her, ignoring the disturbing footsteps of the Cyclops approaching.

I held my mother's hands, hoping to somehow absorb her strength. Perhaps I did, for even though I didn't follow her request, it seemed to matter little to her. As if, in the end, she felt no pain.

Tears and sobs dampened my face, but I could swear she thanked me. Ridiculous, considering I should be thanking her for being an incredible mother, sacrificing everything for my safety. If only I had known sooner...

After that, everything was a blur, difficult to understand. Holding her hands, a strange sensation tingled down my spine, adrenaline coursing through my entire body. When I saw my mother attempting to say something but succumbing to exhaustion...

The Cyclops was already beside me, reaching to grab me.

Anything between that moment and the hospital was a haze. Fragments of memories. I recalled his hands trying to lift me off the ground, my palms facing his monstrously large fingers. Almost facing a 5-meter drop but feeling no pain.

When the ambulance arrived and I reached the hospital, attempting to explain what I had understood about the situation at the time, they were most surprised that I hadn't broken my legs or at least sprained an ankle. But I think my exhaustion and grief were enough for them to believe me.

I tightened my lips, holding back tears at the memory. What did my mother's death have to do with my father's gift?

Tenebris—was that really the only clue I had?

Gradually, a shift occurred in the air, and it didn't escape my notice.

Within moments, an unsettling realization dawned – something was amiss. The streets teemed with people running in the opposite direction of my intended path once I felt ready to resume my journey. Fear and confusion etched on their faces left me puzzled about the impending threat.

Swiftly, I rose, stowing away my belongings in my backpack and hoisting it onto my back. Approaching adults warned me of an out-of-control truck menacing pedestrians, urging me to find safety. Some chose the rational path, sprinting toward the police station for genuine assistance.

However, skepticism gnawed at me. It didn't ring true. Something felt off.

My eyes caught sight of the unfolding drama a few streets away, just beyond the dog park on the opposite side of my position.

Initially, I perceived three kids, one notably smaller than the others, sprinting from an unseen threat. The girl in black wielded a makeshift spear, while her companion brandished a golf club. How could such feeble weapons aid their escape from an out-of-control truck? Why weren't they going to a store or going to the sidewalk?

Then, I understood.

At first glance, the runaway vehicle resembled a refrigerated truck, careening down the road with a desperate screech. The driver, concealed behind black-tinted windows, eluded my view from this distance.

However, as I advanced, sidestepping the frantic adults, reality emerged.

It was no truck, but a snake. A giant fucking snake. There was no other way to describe it.

All the sense I was lacking suddenly decided to take control of my actions. My brain, which had previously been unable to muster the courage to stand at the door of a closed restaurant, had now regained enough courage to force my feet to run after that atrocity.

For no logical or plausible reason, from one moment to the next, my rationality  was replaced by stupidity.

The monstrous serpent pursued the kids, including the one almost the same age I was when I met Viola. It seemed absurd to consider intervening, given the potential to continue on my way or capitalize on the disturbance to pilfer from unsuspecting pockets. Yet, I couldn't turn away.

Just as I couldn't flee when my mother's cries pierced the air or when she tried to wrench me from Viola's grasp as the Chimera's stinger pierced her chest in the past.

Perhaps it was stubbornness, authentic courage, or sheer impertinence.

It remained unclear where my resolve originated as the idea of confronting a giant snake pursuing a group of children took hold.

The snake, swift and destructive, both hindered the children and itself. Exploiting that and my familiarity with the streets and their shortcuts, I discerned an opportunity to intervene.

I ran like I had rarely ran before, until the tips of the toes hurt. My sneakers had already gone belly-up to that moment, after all the running I have being doing in the past months.

I walked around the streets, without for a second taking my eyes off the scales of that thing. Entering some alleys and following the murmurs and exclamations of the children as they tried to formulate a plan, even though they were at a disadvantage.

Swallowing hard, I took advantage of the shelter outside some buildings to avoid the fragments of asphalt, cement, poles and benches flying everywhere. Gradually but quickly managing to reach that monster.

But that didn't mean I didn’t continue to run, attempting to maintain a good and safe distance between the giant snake and the peculiar trio.

"Hey, girl!" the older girl from the trio shouted, attempting to grab my attention. "Get out of here, it's not safe!"

She wore dark clothes that complemented her short, black hair and extremely light blue eyes. In addition to the makeup on her face, which was almost gone, having been worn away by time for a long time.

It didn't take long to notice her limp, a testament to an injured foot sustained during the chase – or even before.

I just smiled, hiding behind some trash cans and away from the giant snake's senses, hoping it would continue to pay all its attention to that bunch of kids. Which, to be honest, weren't much younger than me, except for the little girl.

"No, you guys go," I shouted back, "Head into the park and blend in with the crowd there. It'll be hard for them to believe that a truck would actually enter a park."

At least, that's what I thought at the time. Nowadays, I know that mundanes would still believe in the idea of an out-of-control truck wreaking havoc, even within a park.

They didn't follow my advice; instead, they halted their escape.

“Aegis,” the girl from before exclaimed, and her bracelet transformed into an incredible shield. She shielded her friends, positioning the protective barrier in front of them, waiting to see my next move. The boy behind her appeared both confused and scared, alternating his gaze between me and his friend as if awaiting an order.

At this point, I was hoping for one too. I had no idea what to do, and I didn't even have a weapon.

However, the giant snake paid no heed. I could distinctly hear its slithering and the destruction of cars in its path. I refused to let fear or my earlier stupidity show on my face.

Instead, I glanced at my wrist, the leather band my father had given me. For a moment, I wished it were a weapon, similar to the girl's shield bracelet.

Despite having the slightest idea of how to handle a weapon, I hoped for anything that could help me assist those three.

Timing couldn't have been worse for it to resurface, but as I looked at a trash can in front of me, the usual moth landed patiently, as if awaiting something.

Perhaps it shared the girl's curiosity about what I would do.

Then, I remembered—the sound of rain yesterday morning, at the funeral, and even at night on the bus, a hostage to "what ifs" that could have transpired instead of my current reality. I remembered the blood, dark red staining my hands and clothes, and how cold it felt against my skin. I didn't care, holding my mother's hands with all my might.

Just like I tried to hold Viola that day, attempting unsuccessfully to move her body away from the Chimera's sting.

The giant snake drew closer, its slithering growing clearer by the second.

Glancing at my wristband again, the carved words caught my eye.

Out of the corner, I saw the snake's scales and its wild eyes. Emerging from my hiding place, a word escaped my mouth like a battle cry before I fully comprehended my own line of reasoning.

"Tenebris!"

A blinding light filled the air, halting the giant snake and diverting its attention towards me. I closed my eyes, feeling the wristband transform within seconds.

Suddenly, something weighed down in my hand, like the sheath of a sword. Its dark sheath matched my wristband's leather, and its slightly curved blade, made of an uncanny bronze material, felt strangely familiar. Bronze. The sword's blade was made of bronze.

As quickly as the light appeared, it dissipated, replaced by a cloud of darkness covering my ankles and part of the street and alley.

The trio gaped at the spectacle. The older girl struggled to maintain her defensive stance, her injured foot hindering her movements. The younger one's wide and curious eyes betrayed a mix of fear and fascination, while the boy among them clutched his golf club with a determined expression that hinted at a desire to help.

Without giving the serpent a chance to recover from the blinding light from before, I surged forward, the newfound sword in hand. The blade cut through the air with a metallic hum, and I slashed at the serpent's scaly underbelly.

It hissed in pain, recoiling momentarily.

In the end, the wristband was a useful gift. I had to remind myself, one day, to thank my dad.

Seizing the opportunity, I circled the serpent, keeping it off balance, continuing to slash its scaly skin. It tried to knock me down with a movement of its body, but before that could happen, I dodged it, cutting its scales once again. But this time I made a point of sticking my sword in, hoping to hit some organ of his, then pulling the sword out.

The boy with black hair, recognizing an opening, sprinted to the serpent's other side, wielding his golf club like a hero facing a dragon from the tales. His fearless determination served as a distraction, affording me yet another chance to strike.

The girl, despite her injury, bravely stood her ground, using her shield to protect us and the little girl. While, said little girl, spurred by a sudden burst of courage, found a dagger in her pocket and joined the fray.

The serpent, now enraged, lunged at us with deadly precision. The older girl skillfully deflected its strikes with her shield, while the boy continued to harass it from the side. The younger girl and I coordinated our attacks, aiming for vulnerable spots between the scales.

As the battle raged on, I felt a surge of adrenaline, my movements becoming more fluid and instinctive. My sword seemed to respond to my will, enhancing my speed and strength. Each strike resonated with power, and the serpent's resistance weakened.

Finally, with a resounding clash, I drove the sword into the serpent's forehead, or what looked like its forehead. The creature convulsed, its massive form thrashing before collapsing to the ground. The dark cloud dissipated, leaving only the echoes of the intense battle.

Breathing heavily, I turned to face the trio, equally exhausted.

They, too, looked weary, particularly the girl nursing an injured leg. Despite their fatigue, they regarded me with awe, as if I had materialized from the pages of a fantastical tale. Given the circumstances, I couldn't blame them.

I didn't blame them, I really had appeared out of nowhere.

"I'm Thalia," the older girl introduced herself, leaning against a wall as her shield reverted to a bracelet. "That's Annabeth," she pointed to the younger dark-skinned girl, now displaying a hint of shyness.

"And I'm Luke," the boy interjected, assisting his friend to stand while keeping a watchful eye on me, still processing the surreal reality of our shared encounter with the monstrous serpent.

"I'm Eurydice," I replied, glancing at my sword and back at them. "It seems like you needed a little help."

“We did,” Luke agreed, looking at me from head to toe, but keeping his eyes on mine while talking to me, “And I think we still do”

Shifting his attention to his injured friend, he examined her leg, revealing a severe wound beneath her baggy jeans. Thalia attempted to whisper something to Luke, diverting his hands away from the injury.

Feeling lost and searching for a solution, my eyes wandered, and I spotted a parked car on a nearby sidewalk—doors open and windows relatively intact. It seemed like an abandoned vehicle amidst the chaos.

"I can drive," I offered, drawing the trio's attention. "I just need to know where we should go and someone who knows how to start a car without a key."

Luke sighed, helping Thalia walk toward me, followed by Annabeth.

"Lucky for you, I know both," the grin he flashed at me while uttering those words hinted at one unmistakable thing: trouble.

[luna-rainbow]

I liked the Russo bros until I heard an interview with them made about 4-5 years ago (just after Endgame I think) where they elaborated on why Bucky didn't get the shield.

It made me really mad how flippant they were about Bucky's "mind being damaged" and then started joking about him being crazy and dangerous. They even said at one point that he was "corrupted".

Just the amount of ableism was horrific. Mental health issues and brain damage do not arise from or make a person morally corrupt.

I get that Bucky would not have wanted the shield before the HYDRA programming was removed (which it had been by that point) but seriously? Also, why should having trauma or mental health issues disqualify someone from being Captain America?

Ah yes, the good ole ableism.

Much of the MCU is incredibly ableist. I think the modern world, despite all our efforts, still segregates disabled people from view. A lot of writers, especially if they come from comfortable upper/middle-class families and smooth-sailed through college, would never have had much interaction with a visibly disabled person as a fellow human.

Mental health is an invisible disability and still often seen as a weakness of the will. I think this is part of the disdain for Bucky and this weird push in TFATWS to write him into a Generic Dude. This is why Zemo says “there’s never been another Steve Rogers” because Bucky’s mind did break, and it broke because (the writers) see him as weak-willed and deficient, rather than because…withstanding 70 years of torture is something none of us can fathom.

I can’t find the post from a while ago (Tumblr being Tumblr) but someone wrote an essay about disabled characters in the MCU and the fact that disability is used as a narrative tool to signal a punishment for moral deficiency. And their (unnatural) regaining of their abilities as a nod to them recognising the error of their ways. The example they used was Rhodes, who was “punished” by becoming paraplegic then regaining his walking when he reconciled with the rest of the Avengers. (Civil War being what it was, I’m genuinely not sure that the writers felt Steve was the correct side, but anyhow)

But this theory is particularly true in how Bucky is written and what each generation of writers have said about him. The arm, once bearing the insignia of wings and now bearing the red star, was a visible symbol of what happens to his mind — a soldier’s failure, having his identity and loyalty ripped from him, and another new, deadlier identity transplanted against his will. But a failure nonetheless, because a real hero wouldn’t have fallen. And this is why in Civil War, the arm needed to be forcibly taken from him, because it was a mark of his identity as the Winter Soldier and of his crimes against a hero’s family. The arm is then given to him in Infinity War as an opportunity for atonement, to fight for the ��greater good” (as if fighting against Nazis wasn’t right there in his history). And he is reminded in TFATWS it can be taken away at any time if he misbehaves, that no matter how hard he works that original flaw will always hang over him and any minor mistake needs to be punished to bring him back in line (a point reinforced by Sam’s constant jibing at his time as a prisoner).

And then people wonder why Bucky fans are pissed off about the gross ableism.

[followcb]

Golden Wings

in the spirit of sunrise

I summons you to the sea

we can hold hands

nearby the fire

beside twilight skies

kaleidoscopes of magic

paint love in the pools of our eyes

sublime, cerulean infinity

emotional-spiritual unity

love's flame burns

always, forever, eternally

life is a circle is life

you and I

spiraling through time

rising higher rising

sun and moon, moon and sun

golden wings in the sunlight

going toward the one

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

©️ @followcb ☆ May 15, 2024