#flashfictions

[kyfirow]

A conversation about power.

"Power has always existed in the world, it just had never been, for lack of a better term, fair.

You didn't grow into power, or attain it with the sweat off your back, you didn't luck into it.

Because true power, power that matters isn't in one person, it's an institution, it's generational, it's an organism.

And so for the longest time the top stayed on top, but when Powers arose, entering the world of fact straight out of comic book pages. Well, that, that shook things up, alright.

Now, power was, if not meritocratic, at least random.

And all around this cruel, beaten world we exist in, there were lots of people just needing the power to evict the change they thought the world needs.

And that caused the most insane level of social unrest you can ever think, sometimes I wonder how a society even still exists... that sure was a decade to live through.

But if there's one group you'll never see me complaining about; it's The Red Guillotines.

You know those mega corporations, with those untouchable people on top, doing fucked up shit just cause they can? And you think to yourself sheesh it sure would be nice if someone just killed all those motherfuckers. Well, turns out some of the people that thought like that also lucked into getting some powers.

And I'd say there's a selection bias on all the Red Guillotine members having the most broken powers you ever heard about, cause those billionaires got the money to hire some heavy security and powered mercenaries, so yeah.

I just think it's nice that now they have to step lightly and follow the goddamn rules if they want to keep their fucking heads."

"Come on, Old Dan, stop monologuing to the younglings, You'll bore them to death."

"It's actually pretty interesting to hear, about it, I mean, and to think that you all grew up in a world where powers were just fiction... that's just so crazy."

"You hear that? The kid thinks I'm interesting."

[thewrittentales]

Dive into the heartfelt 'Reach Out' by Thompson Emate. Share your poetry with Written Tales. Let your words touch lives! 🌟📚 #WrittenTales #HeartfeltPoetry https://writtentales.substack.com/p/reach-out

[arislore]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆.˚જ⁀➴ Can’t You Just Sleep?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x insomniac!Reader

Summary: You had a dream that gave you anxiety and Spencer wants to comfort you by talking it out.

Warnings: Reader is kind of rude at one point (just sleepy w no tone control, i prommy), Reader’s mom also sucks.

Tags: this one’s actually a story y’all 🤞🏻, Reader has hair that goes past her ears. also this is incredibly self-indulgent because i literally had these dreams last night.

Word Count: 500

You wake up sweaty, feeling like you can’t quite catch your breath. Next to you, Spencer stirs, his arm draping around your waist.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep.

“Yeah,” you say softly, scooting closer to him. “Just had a really weird dream.”

He hummed, his fingers dancing along your spine. “Tell me about it?”

You smile wistfully, moving your head so that you’re looking at his face. “No thanks. It’s too silly.”

He grinned, pulling you by your hips so that you’re flush against him. “I love silly things.”

You sigh, looking down until your forehead connects with his chest. “You were just, like, really mad at me. And, like, I clearly fucked up, you know? Like, big time. But I don’t actually know what I did wrong.”

He kissed the top of your head, moving his hand up towards your shoulder, then back down in slow, rubbing movements. “I think I know why.”

You pout. “You only get to tell me if you’re not profiling me.”

“I’m not, I promise.”

“Fine.”

“You were talking to your mom yesterday.” He said.

“Yeah, and?” You took a deep breath, letting yourself calm down as he talks.

He pushed your hair behind your ear, his thumb tapping on your cheek. “Well, I know she makes you feel that way, and often.”

“You are profiling me.” You roll your eyes. “I knew it.”

“No, I’m not. I’m just saying that the way you were feeling when you went to sleep may have influenced your dreams.”

“Yeah, well, if you know so much, why did I dream about a merman getting stuck under a shipping container, then?” You snap, pulling away.

He chuckled. “A shipping container?”

You realize how pathetic you sound, but you continue anyway.

“Yeah. It fell off a cargo ship,” you say, as if it were obvious.

“I see.” He paused, grabbing your hand. “Were you a merman in this scenario?”

“I was a mermaid. You know, for someone who’s supposedly a genius, you know very little about the sexual dimorphism of faeries,” you joke, intertwining your fingers with him.

He smiled. “You got me there.”

“I also had a dream that I was a bridesmaid and it was really hot, and I had to walk up a hill. And I was already in my dress and makeup and had my hair done. It was so sweaty.” You smile, moving flush against him again.

“Who’s wedding was it?” He asked, bringing a hand to your hip.

“I don’t know. I just know that another bridesmaid was trying to get courted.”

“Courted?”

“Yeah, she used that exact word. I was like, ‘You can worry about getting courted tomorrow, lady. Today is her wedding.’ but I don’t know who I was defending.” Your eyes begin to feel heavy, so you close them, nuzzling his chest.

“Getting tired?” He asked, wrapping his arm around your waist.

“So tired.”

“Sleep,” he said softly, kissing the top of your head.

[bardic-tales]

Introduction, a FF 7 / FWC AU fic

Summary: Bianca reunites with Sephiroth at the edge of annihilation, and together, they vow to remake existence in their divine image.

Pairing: Bianca Moore (f!OC) / Sephiroth

Other Characters: Jenova (mentioned), Planetary Defenders

Possible Trigger Warnings: Abuse, blood, body horror, canon-typical violence, cult-like devotion, delusions of godhood, grief, madness, mental instability, obsessive love, past medical experimentation, psychological trauma, religious imagery, self-harm (implied), torture (referenced), violence

The Planet did not whisper their names. It screamed them.

Night bent around the crater’s jagged rim, clutching at the wind as it screamed across a dead expanse of shattered stone. A storm of mako-tinged mist curled at Bianca’s ankles like restless phantoms, yet it wasn’t the ghosts of the Planet she listened for. It was him.

And she felt him before she saw him. Of course she did.

The red thread of fate burned against her wrist. It was alive, writhing, and thrumming with divine resonance. Then he was there. He emerged from the mist like a god descending from myth. Masamune gleamed in his hand. Its edge already stained with the blood of a world that dared to forget him.

"Bianca," Sephiroth said, low and reverent. His voice cut through the night like prophecy fulfilled.

She turned. Her wings rustled behind her. Ebony feathers glinted with purple, twitching slightly with the residual tension that never quite left her body. The black leather of her coat flared behind her as she moved, as her boots crushed the snow and dirt beneath. Her indigo, feline-like eyes locked onto his Mako-blazing gaze, and for a moment, the world narrowed to only them.

“You’re late,” she said, fangs peeking as she smiled like a predator. “I was beginning to think Meteor beat you here.”

A ghost of a smirk tugged at his mouth. It was just enough to crack the austere perfection of his expression.

“I was attending to your welcome,” Sephiroth murmured. His gaze trailing over her like a ritual blade.

Bianca stepped toward him without hesitation, and the air thickened between them, heavy with power, memory, blood. Her hand rose, fingers brushing the silver-lined spaulder on his shoulder. The metal was cold. Like him. Like her.

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t come back to me,” she admitted, not soft, not pleading. Just honest. A crack in the thunderclouds of her psyche. “I thought that maybe the Planet had you, like it had the others.”

"Oh, Bianca." His gloved hand rose, cupping her jaw with an intimacy only he could wield like a weapon. “The Lifestream? A prison. My will is stronger." His thumb traced her lower lip, a motion laced with reverence and possession.

Her throat tightened.

She wanted to cry, and she never cried. Not since Hojo. Not since Diana and the cold table and the skin she had to regrow like a phoenix with ash still burning in her lungs that very first time. But here Sephiroth was, speaking her name like gospel, and she remembered why she had followed him into the end of all things.

Because he remembered her when no one else did. Because he saw her before the fall. Because he had once said, “You are not broken, Bianca. You are divine. We and Mother are. Pain and fury are the only way forward.”

The aching, bright red thread shimmered again, wrapping itself around their wrists in a heart-shaped glow that pulsed like a shared heartbeat. She could feel his pain like it was her own—raw, buried, and utterly untouchable by mortals—and she welcomed it. She let it sear her veins, because his agony was sacred. It was the language of gods, the only language that she now understood.

“I missed the way you say my name,” she whispered.

“And I missed the way you bled for it,” he answered.

Their kiss wasn’t tender. It was violent. Teeth. Fangs. Tongue. Her blood-red nails dug into the back of his neck beneath his hair which shone like quicksilver. His grip was bruising with his hand fisted in her black waves, tugging at the white ribbon that fluttered like a surrender flag. She tasted mako and ozone and madness, but most importantly, him. The him she gave up sanity to follow.

They broke apart only because the air between them threatened combustion.

Behind him, the mist parted, cracking open by the silent arrival of a dark star hanging above the crater, as the world descended into orange light.

Meteor, she thought. Still far, still small, but closer now than ever. And oh, how beautiful destruction looked when framed behind his silhouette.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, voice dropping to a low hum as he stared into the cosmos with eyes resembling cold, ancient fire.

“I do,” she murmured, moving to his side, Noctemaris materializing in her hand with a high-pitched shriek of splitting dimensions. The blade pulsed in her palm: hungry and restless.

“Soon, Bia, the Planet will scream its last breath,” Sephiroth said, his tone as calm as falling snow. “And we will ride its husk across the void until the Promised Land bends to us. This is not annihilation. It is rebirth.”

Bianca's gaze locked on his profile. Every edge of him was sharp, glorious, and godhood incarnate.

“You always did have a way with poetry since your resurrection,” she muttered, cracking her neck. “But don’t forget. You’re not doing this alone anymore.”

His head tilted. “You are the other half of my soul. The mother of divine corruption,” he intoned. “Together, we shall tear open the womb of existence and plant a new star within its corpse.”

Bianca shivered, not from fear, but from the certainty that this was exactly where she belonged.

Far above and beyond mortal comprehension, A crack split the sky, and the stars shuddered. Something was coming. Something other. Another world colliding.

She looked at Sephiroth. He already knew.

"Other dimensions are collapsing into ours,” she said, her wings twitching with tension. “Something's bleeding through. Different worlds will soon converge into this one before they split apart once again.”

“And they will try to stop us,” he said with a smirk.

Bianca turned her head slightly, catching his smirk and matching it with one of her own. “They’ll fail. Like they always do.”

“No, Bianca,” Sephiroth corrected, gently, his hand once again finding her jaw, lifting her face to meet his. “They will kneel.”

She grinned. Jenova whispered chaotic hymns in an ancient tongue in her veins, and Noctemaris hummed like a thing alive.

In that moment, wrapped in his presence, in his 'Chosen One' prophecy, Bianca remembered exactly why she had clawed her way through space and time and death itself: not for salvation. Not for revenge. But to introduce the multiverse to the only love that had ever made sense: Him.

@themaradwrites @shepardstales @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon @projecthypocrisy @serenofroses

[the-werewithal]

There was something Revan once told her that Meetra never forgot. No matter how much time separated them. 

“Did you know the greater Firaxan octopod dies when it lays its eggs?” he said, with all the enthusiasm of a twelve year old who liked gross things. “The hundreds of tiny hatchlings feed on the body until they’re big enough to hunt for themselves. 

Malak, tender hearted child that he was, frowned and said it was sad. 

Meetra, who could admit she used to be a bit much, said, “It’s a perfect example of the Unifying Force. There is no death, there is the Force.”  

“That’s very wise,” Revan replied, straight faced. “Which Master will you eat?” 

The conversation devolved into outraged laughter and name calling. 

It was a silly fun fact. One idle moment in what would become long and storied lives. Yet she remembered it at the most bizarre moments. 

Revan asked her to disobey the council and join the war.

Did you know the Firaxan octopod dies when it lays its eggs?

Dxunn burned. 

Its children feed off of the body. 

Malak slaughtered an entire Mandalorian tribe. 

The Firaxan octopod dies when it lays its eggs. 

She blew up a planet and ended a war. 

The children eat their mother’s corpse. 

She stood before a council of the men and women who raised her, stripped her of her rank, her lightsaber, and the Force. 

And she wondered. Did the greater Firaxan octopod hate its children, for what they demanded of it? Would it choose death in old age and extinction, if it could?

[joshuamrl]

Who I am keeps me from becoming who I want to be, and who I want to be keeps me from accepting who I am. Oh God, will I ever find peace?

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Can you forgive me?

John feels nauseous when Sherlock gets his will. They’re allowed to open the grave to prove the great detective’s theory. Sherlock wants John to come, though he really should’ve known better, according to John. It’s their second crime scene together since Sherlock came back from his faked death, and things are strained between them. Their co-habitation is tense and awkward, which makes John itchy and half-mad with anger and sorrow equally measured.

John’s told everyone that he went to visit Sherlock’s grave twice a month, but the truth is that he’s only been there once. He couldn’t bear to see the black gravestone with Sherlock’s name on it. It doesn’t help much that the grave that’s about to be opened, is only a few metres away from Sherlock’s fake grave. John hasn’t dared to look in the direction out of fear that he’ll do something terribly stupid, like falling apart in front of half of the Yard.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock murmurs beside him, having taken a break from pestering the men with the shovels.

“If you have to ask, the answer should be obvious,” John mutters under his breath.

His hands are balled into fists in his jacket pockets, his body stiff and alert. Sherlock draws a breath and is about to speak, when Lestrade calls him over. The grave is open.

“Empty, like you said,” Lestrade tells Sherlock. “How on earth did you know?”

Sherlock speaks rapidly, leading the yarders in the direction of the man who’s faked his death, and Lestrade takes his leave.

“Aren’t we going with them?” John asks hoarsely when Sherlock stands beside him again, gazing over at where his gravestone once was.

“No, they don’t need us anymore today. I’m taking you home, and then we’ll talk, and I’ll tell you why…”

Sherlock’s voice breaks and John looks shocked at him.

“Alright?” John asks and places a hand on Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s body shakes and John acts on instinct, forgetting all about his anger. He pulls Sherlock in for a tight embrace, relishing the sudden proximity of this madman.

“Can you forgive me, John?” Sherlock whispers with a trembling voice.

“I don’t know,” John says honestly. “But, by the state of you now, I guess it was much more to your absence than a crazy and exhilarating adventure. Tell me.”

John leads them to a secluded bench close to where John stood and begged a dead man not to be dead, two years ago. When John had told Sherlock about it, his reply had been – “I know. I heard you.”

His voice had been soft, even affectionate, but at the time, it’d just irked John. He wanted to scream and shake Sherlock and ask him why he hadn’t told John. Why he wasn’t allowed to come with him. Why he’d let him grieve like a widower. He hadn’t but it had taken all his willpower to act calm and just nod, pretending everything was business as usual. Which it wasn’t.

It should feel strange to hold Sherlock like this. Soothing him, stroking his back, whispering “shh”, and “I’ve got you”, and “I’m so glad you’re back”, and “I’ve missed you.” But the truth is, it feels utterly natural, a thing John’s longed to do for ages. Even before the Fall.

Sherlock’s head rests comfortably on John’s right shoulder, and his breathing eases, grows steadier. Time to confess.

When Sherlock’s finished telling John about the snipers, Moriarty’s unexpected suicide, his quest to hunt down and destroy the dead man’s network, ending it all by telling John about his last days away, in Serbia, captured and tortured; it’s John’s turn to break down. He weeps in Sherlock’s arms, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, letting Sherlock stroke his hair, rocking him, whispering “I had no other choice”, and “I would’ve taken you with me if I could”, and “you were always on my mind”, and “I missed you every second I was away from you.”

When they walk past the empty grave, John shudders. He turns around to locate Sherlock’s gravestone, but it’s no longer there. 

“Mycroft had it removed last week,” Sherlock says. That’s why I needed you to come along today, so that you could see it with your own eyes.”

John nods and turns to face Sherlock. He grips the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, pulls him closer, looking him square in the eyes.

“I forgive you,” John says softly and leans in to kiss Sherlock’s lips.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @phoenix27884 @a-victorian-girl @safedistancefrombeingsmart @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @helloliriels @gregorovitchworld

[shukkou-da]

Echoes of the Seven Sisters - Part 1 (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1531375613-echoes-of-the-seven-sisters-part-1?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=LeslieCook937 🌌 When the stars call, will humanity answer-or destroy itself trying? Dr. Elara Voss, a brilliant but broken astronomer, stumbles upon a signal buried in the Atacama Desert-one that doesn't belong to Earth. It leads her to a crystalline artifact humming with alien resonance, and to them: the Pleiadians, ancient cosmic guides who once walked among us. But their return isn't a salvation. It's a test. As governments weaponize the artifact and shadowy agencies hunt her, Elara uncovers a truth that could heal humanity... or fracture it forever. The Pleiadians' message is clear: Harmony, not control. Yet with her grief over her daughter's death clawing at her soul and a sarcastic tech-genius ally, Javier, risking his life beside her, Elara must confront a choice. Will she reignite humanity's connection to the stars, or let fear drown the cosmos' song? ★★★★★ Perfect for fans of... - The cosmic wonder of Arrival meets the raw emotion of Station Eleven. - The high-stakes tension of The X-Files blended with the philosophical depth of Contact. - Stories where the stars weep, flowers bloom from tears, and first contact begins within. ✨ Why You'll Love It: - A shattered scientist grappling with loss, and a wisecracking hacker hiding his terror in memes. - Ancient alien cities buried beneath deserts, bioluminescent flora that maps the future, and a sentient artifact that mirrors humanity's light and darkness. - Twists that crack like thunder: Betrayals, sentient stardust, and a love letter to Earth's fragile beauty. 🔥 Start Reading Now If... - You've ever felt the Pleiades whisper your name. - You crave stories where science and soul collide. - You believe the universe is not just out there-it's in us. The stars are singing. Are you ready to listen? --- Tags: #SciFi #FirstContact #Aliens #EmotionalJourney #CosmicMystery #FoundFamily #ClimateHope #PhilosophicalFiction #WattpadMustRead

[robertjw4688]

The Clique That Time Forgot

We were the clique that time forgot. We rode big wheels that entangled with concussions under a bruised sun. We laughed and asked for forgiveness from a 16-bit god. When night fell, we slept with wash rags over our foreheads as the aluminum horizon slipped into nihilism.

Robert J. W.

[worthymartyrconstruct]

The woman in the mirror isn’t me anymore.

I live alone. I’ve always kept my bathroom light on at night—habit from childhood, nothing more. But last week, something changed.

I got up at 3:12 AM (I remember because my phone lit up), walked past the bathroom, and saw myself in the mirror... already standing there. I hadn’t even stepped in yet.

She smiled. I didn’t.

I froze. It mimicked every move I made—but a second too slow. Like it was watching and deciding how to be me.

I’ve tried covering the mirror. It doesn’t help. Every night since, I’ve woken up at the same time.

She’s always there. Closer.

Last night, she didn’t copy me. She waved.

I didn’t.

[plotandelegy]

Crafting Spells with Incantations: A Primer for Fantasy Writers

1. The Roots of Language & Power: Think about languages. Why is Latin so captivating to many? Elvish words from Tolkien's Middle Earth gives us a sense of nostalgia. Incantations borrow from the weight and mystery of forgotten or invented tongues to create allure in our fictional works. Authors might want to consider phonetic aesthetics and rhyming words. Cadence can distinguish between magic that stays with the reader or falls short.

2. The Binding Element - Intention: Fancy words can enchant, but intention carries power. Consider the caster's emotions, desires, and the cost of wielding the magic. A simple spell to light a candle may be whispered, while summoning a storm might require a shout. Emotional resonance adds depth to your magical system. Depth can make it more relatable and memorable. 

3. The Harmony of Gesture: Incantations are often paired with gestures. The flow between word and motion can amplify potency. Perhaps the caster must trace a key through the air to open a door. Visual clues help readers see spell casting in their minds. 

4. The Complexity of Consequence: Let spells have consequences. Mispronouncing an incantation could come with disastrous or unexpected outcomes. Spells can backfire if cast with doubt. Create checks and balances that challenge your characters. 

5. Soundscapes of Sorcery: When performed correctly, what sounds accompany the spell? What sounds come when the magic is incorrect? Spells that summon forth storms release echoing booms in the distance. Offer readers a multi-sensory experience where they can 'hear' the magic too

-Indigo

If you’d like more check out my article on unique and classical sources of magic.

[thewrittentales]

Cynthia Barchers intertwines emotions in 'Emotionally Bound'—a free verse that captures the essence of heartstrings finely tuned. 🎶 Submissions open at Written Tales. Follow & subscribe for verses that resonate with emotional harmony! https://writtentales.substack.com/p/emotionally-bound

[arislore]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆.˚જ⁀➴ Wedding Planning

Pairing: Wealthy!Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: This is what Steve daydreams about when he’s with you, even though he hasn’t even proposed.

Warnings: none

Tags: this is my first time doing a flashfic! i really hope you all like it lol. i know it’s more headcanon-y than story-like, but i thought it would be fun to do.

Word Count: 500

Steve is the biggest softie. You could be the biggest lovergirl on Earth, and Steve would still beat you in terms of how much he loves planning your wedding.

For the wedding colors, he’d really want a mix of baby and navy blue. He’d probably want the bridesmaids to have the baby blue dresses and navy blue accessories and the groomsmen to have navy blue suits and baby blue ties and handkerchiefs.

Going off of that, he’d want the flowers along the aisle and all the decorations to be blue and white. He’d want stuff like baby’s breath, irises, and forget me nots.

He doesn’t go dress shopping with you, because he knows you’ll be drop dead gorgeous in anything you choose, but God, he wants to see the dress. Every few days or so, he’ll ask you questions about it, trying to envision it in his head.

“Is there lace? What about beads?” he’d ask.

“You know I’m not gonna tell you, Stevie,” you giggle back.

He’d want to wear a white suit, with a navy blue handkerchief. He’d wear white leather shoes and navy blue socks. He’d also make sure his face is clean shaven and his hair is perfect so that he looks good–for you and the photographers.

He’d want the ceremony to take place in nature, preferably in the venue with a small, rocky waterfall. He’d want the reception to take place in an old castle about a half an hour away, just for the character. He’d even pay for everyone to sleep there, if he had to.

For the cocktail hour, he’d probably choose a large charcuterie board. We’re talking about the whole table, covered in meats, cheeses, and fruits. He’d also do free drinks for everyone, with themed drinks about your relationship, including how you met, your first date, and how he proposed.

For the food, he’d want it to be simple but elegant. He’d want a pasta dish, a beef dish, and a chicken dish. He’d also include a vegetarian dish for Robin, since she’s not a fan of meat. For the pasta dish, he’d probably want cavatappi and pesto with chicken. For the beef dish, he’d probably want ribeye with a sweetish glaze, like blackberry or honey. For the chicken dish, he’d probably want coq au vin. For the vegetarian dish, he’d probably want vegetable lasagne.

He’d taste every cake the bakery would make, but ultimately choose lemon with raspberry icing. The bakers would get so annoyed after the third or fourth appointment, because they know it’s just him being indecisive.

He wants to hire a DJ for the reception so you can choose your own music. He wants songs like “Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore” by R.E.O. Speedwagon or “I Want to Know What Love Is” by Foreigner. You know, real sappy songs. He’d want your first dance song to be “Somebody to Love” by Queen.

As an extra, he’d want to hire a wedding painter for the ceremony.

[bardic-tales]

The Song That Withers Flowers - a FF 7 / FWC fic

Summary: Bianca Moore confronts the spirits of Zack and Aerith in the Lifestream, rejecting redemption and choosing Sephiroth once again.

Pairing: Bianca Moore (f!OC) / Sephiroth

Other Characters: Zack Fair, Aerith Gainsborough

Possible Trigger Warnings: Abandonment, body horror (implied through spiritual effects), death, emotional manipulation, existential dread, gaslighting, genocide (referenced), mind control themes, obsession, psychological trauma, religious imagery, self-destruction, spiritual violence, threats of violence, toxic relationships, war crimes (implied), weaponized grief

The light here was wrong.

It filtered through the sky like dust through a cracked shell-shaped building's ceiling: weightless and heavy all at once, a haze that draped over everything with oppressive softness.

Bianca Moore stood on cracked, overgrown stone, seeing the spiritual pulse of the Lifestream beneath her boots but not within her. It hummed like a lullaby she could never fall asleep to: constant, beautiful, and cold.

This was the Forgotten Capital, or something wearing its shape. Spiraling ruins lifted like fingers clawing at the heavens, swathed in bioluminescent vines and ghostly green motes that drifted lazily through the air like ash from a sacred pyre. The water in the ruined pools shimmered not with reflection, but memory: faces, laughter, screams. Echoes. Cloud. Aerith. Blood. Sephiroth.

“I hate this place,” Bianca muttered, grinding her boot into the vine-choked marble. “Smells like hope and rotting forgiveness.”

The Lifestream swirled nearby, thick and alive. Green tendrils of spirit energy floated through the cracked earth. It did not touch her. Could not. She wasn’t born of the Planet. She was something else. Something the Planet could not claim. Something that the Planet did not want to claim.

Not that she wanted its grubby little tendrils in her head, she thought.

“Still monologuing, huh?” came a familiar voice. Upbeat. Too upbeat.

Bianca rolled her eyes without turning around. “Great. The golden retriever’s here.”

Zack Fair materialized from the shimmer of spirit-light like a dream given shape. He stood tall in his old SOLDIER First Class attire: black turtleneck and armor, spiky ebony hair, and that absurdly massive Buster Sword slung across his back. His mako-blue eyes sparkled with that trademark infuriating optimism. “You’re just mad I have better hair.”

She scoffed. “You look like a cosplay reject. I’ve seen chocobos with better posture.”

Zack laughed, easy and unbothered. That was always the most annoying thing about him. He didn’t seem to take her seriously, even when he should. Even when he was dead.

“Bianca,” came the second voice: softer, melodic, but laced with a strength like steel. Aerith Gainsborough stepped lightly across a crumbling stone path cutting through the water, as if gravity itself bent to her whim.

Aerith's pink dress fluttered around her ankles, her staff held gently at her side like a shepherd’s crook. Her smile was bright, and her green eyes held the weight of someone who knew exactly how dark the world could be. In another time, Bianca and she might have been friends.

Even so, she greeted Bianca with a warmth that made Bianca’s skin crawl.

“I was hoping you’d come," Aerith said.

“Spare me the flower girl routine,” Bianca snapped. “I’m not here for your weekly therapy circle.”

Aerith’s smile didn’t falter. “Then why are you here?”

Bianca’s gaze drifted to the swirling green water, just beyond reach. “Curiosity. Pity. Boredom. Pick one.”

Zack crossed his arms, his tone sobering. “We keep seeing you, y’know. Every time you get close to the Lifestream, you leave a wake behind. Spirits unsettled. Whispers. Screams.”

Bianca turned, slowly, like a predator sizing up prey that wouldn’t shut up. “Aww. I’m leaving an impression. Maybe I’ll sign autographs on the way out.”

Zack’s expression hardened, just a touch. “You don’t belong here.”

“Tell that to the voices calling my name, Fair.” Her lips curled into a crooked smile. Her fangs flashed behind her plump, painted lips. “They’re dying to talk to me.”

Aerith’s eyes narrowed slightly, the illusion of soft gentleness sharpening to something more defiant. “They’re not calling you out of love. They’re warning others.”

“And yet, here I am.”

Bianca’s voice held no fear, only boredom and a rising pinch of irritation beneath her skin. The longer she stood here, the more the Planet whispered, like the wind hissing through a cracked ribcage. Warnings. Accusations. Regrets. None of which applied to her. None of which she could actually hear.

Zack stepped forward, holding up a hand. “Bianca, whatever this is between you and Sephiroth, it’s not love. It’s obsession. It’s destruction. You don’t have to—”

“Oh, shut up.” Her eyes flared, violet and slitted. “Don’t give me the ‘you can still be saved’ pep talk. I’ve chewed through more priests than you’ve had awkward flings.”

Zack hesitated, but just long enough for Aerith to step in: calm and confident. “You don’t have to walk this path. There’s still a chance. Even now.”

Bianca laughed. It wasn’t kind. “You think this is some fairy tale? That I’m cursed and just waiting for your redemption arc to kick in? Get over yourselves. I’m not a failed Cetra. I’m not some broken little doll for your Planet to sew back together.”

Her voice dropped to a venomous hush. “I chose him.”

The air crackled. The Lifestream recoiled.

Zack clenched his fists. “You chose genocide. Madness. Him.”

Bianca bared her fangs in a grin. “I chose a god.”

The air changed. The wind stilled. The water’s surface froze into mirrored stillness. The world held its breath.

CRACK.

From the sky, he emerged, Masamune in hand. Sephiroth. No grand entrance this time. Just inevitability made flesh, stepping from the rendered sky like a god returning to his altar.

The sword gleamed in the soft green light, freshly drawn from the chasm. The very air seemed to bend around him, drawn toward him like all things eventually would be, as he floated down beside Bianca.

Bianca’s breath hitched and then exhaled in relief. “Took you long enough.”

"I have arrived precisely when I meant to." Sephiroth didn’t look at her yet. His gaze fell on Aerith and Zack, ice and judgment.

Zack immediately raised his Buster Sword. Aerith stepped in front of him without hesitation, staff braced.

“You’re not taking her,” Aerith said.

Sephiroth didn’t answer. He lifted Masamune and drove it into the ground.

SHHHHK.

The ground behind Bianca split open in a jagged, monstrous line. Stone shattered. Dust flew. From the gash, shadows spilled like ink from a wound. The world trembled.

Her black hair, interwoven with purple strands at the end, fluttered violently in the violent gale. Strands whipped across her cheeks, bridge of her nose, and lips.

The crack split wider, and from it rose Black Whispers: robed, dusty specters with no faces, no eyes. In the middle of their faceless void was single black orbs resembling the Black Materia, itself. They surged up in a silent scream, forming a barrier between Bianca and him and the spirits.

Zack charged. A whisper caught him mid-swing and flung him backward. He landed hard, skidding across a moss-covered stone.

Aerith gasped, reaching for Zack. The bracelets on her arm jangled, as a second whisper blocked her path.

“They won’t hurt you,” Bianca said sweetly, stepping toward Sephiroth. “Unless you try to stop us again.”

Zack sat up, coughing, bleeding spirit-light. “You don’t have to do this—”

“Yes,” Bianca said. She turned back one last time. Her eyes sought Zack's. “I do.”

Aerith stepped forward. “Why? Why throw everything away for him?”

Bianca tilted her head, reminiscent of a bird. Her gaze turned molten. “And who should I support? Humanity? You spread your seed across the cosmos, hoping for change when it's the same every time. Your kind burn, rape, and pillage Existence. Your kind needs to subjugate what you don't understand.

"Humanity has taught me one thing: pain." Bianca lowered her hand to Noctemaris' hilt. "Well, I'm not that scared little girl I was anymore. I am humanity and Creation's reckoning. My will will be done."

After those words, the whispers shielding both Bianca and Sephiroth shrieked. Aerith and Zack covered their ears tightly with their hands, as they watched Bianca leap up and spread her wings while Sephiroth slowly levitated off of the ground.

Slowly, they became a black and silver pinpoint against the bright kaleidoscope background until they were gone.

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[weirdchristmas]

MONDAY! Monday is the deadline! Christmas weirdness! 350 words! Prizes! Fame! Bragging rights! Proof of aesthetic and literary superiority! Disturb your friends and family!

[joshuamrl]

Torn apart by my purging, unrequited love, I’ve come to love deeply yet crave endlessly. My heart aches for your presence, though the Gods know I despise nearly everything you do. Love has turned to ruin within me—I fear I will never love again.