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He had been the one to first approach the idea of making her stay in Australia a permanent one. He’d woken from a late nap brought on by the prescribed pain meds, and she’d been in the kitchen, sipping at a glass of pink lemonade while repeatedly opening and closing the cupboards and the fridge as she contemplated what to make for dinner. He’d joined her, clad in only a pair of sweats worn dangerously low on his hips. Body still bearing the evidence of the nightmare in Dhaka; bone-deep bruises that were in the last stages of healing, newly acquired scars that were still red and swollen and angry. Yet he’d been nothing short of adorable; this mountain of a man with all his muscles and broad shoulders, looking grumpy with his hair mussed from sleep and his hands rubbing at his glossy eyes. And he’d stepped behind her and greeted her with a pat on the bum before draping his arm across her collarbone and pressing a kiss to her temple.
“You don’t have to go back if you don’t want to.”
It had been so unexpected. So out of the blue. And she’d wondered just how long he’d been contemplating exactly what to say; not wanting to seem too needy and vulnerable by coming right out and admitting he didn’t want her to leave. But she’d challenged him on it; asking if that was his way of telling her he wanted her to stay. That he liked having her around; enjoying her company and the companionship she provided him with and the life that they were creating together.
It was the first time she’d ever seen him blush. Her gentle pushing of the subject causing the most beautiful shade of pink to appear in his cheeks and then slowly spread right to the tips of his ears. It was a lovely sight; a man who’d just walked through hell -with the souvenirs to show for it- blushing like a shy and awkward school boy.
“Yeah…” He’d drawled and drawn his bottom lip between his teeth, refusing to make eye contact with her. “...I want you to stay.”
The Anatomy of a Delirium: An Original / FF 7 Crossover Fic
Summary: While hiding in a safehouse near Nibelheim, a sleep-deprived Sephiroth struggles to hold back Jenova’s influence as Bianca’s curdled celestial aura inadvertently drains his remaining strength.
Possible Trigger Warnings: blood, body horror, breeding mandates (referenced), dead dove: do not eat, death (referenced), depersonalization, derealization, exhaustion, hallucinations, internal warfare, intrusive thoughts, medical trauma (referenced), mental breakdown, needles (referenced), pregnancy, psychological horror, sleep deprivation, torture (referenced)
Possible Tropes: accidental harm, angst, dark, doomed romance, established relationship, falling apart, forced proximity, hurt/comfort (no comfort), lingering trauma, losing touch with reality, magic-induced sickness, madness, mental instability, paranoia, protective sephiroth, slow burn (emotional rot), sane!sephiroth (struggling), tragic soulmates
Author’s Note: This piece takes place within the Redemption!AU and was specifically written for @may-lancholy as part of the Day 4 prompt: Sleep Deprivation
Please ensure you review the full list of trigger warnings above before proceeding, as this work explores deep-seated psychological and physical trauma
The air in the cramped, derelict safehouse on the outskirts of the town was not merely cold. It was stagnant, thick with the scent of wet iron and the slow, rhythmic rot of abandoned wood.
Outside, the world was a jagged landscape of uncertainty, a trail of half-forgotten whispers leading back to a Nibelheim that still stood: physically intact but spiritually eviscerated.
Sephiroth sat in the far corner of the single room, his back pressed against the splintering lath and plaster. The Masamune lay horizontally across his knees, its seven-foot length a silver bar of judgment in the gloom.
His frame which was usually a pillar of effortless, lethal grace was now a jagged collection of sharp angles and trembling muscles. His long silver hair fell like a frayed curtain around a face that had become a death mask. It was unwashed and tangled with the grit of the road.
His cyan eyes were fixed on the heavy oak door, glowing with a sickly, radioactive intensity. He did not blink. He could not afford to blink.
Every time his eyelids fluttered, the walls of the room didn't just darken. They dissolved. Behind the thin veil of his consciousness, the Mother was scratching. Jenova was no longer a distant whisper or a muffled echo in the deep chambers of his mind.
Without Bianca’s active, filtering light to act as a barrier, the alien consciousness was a physical pressure against his skull like a frantic, multi-limbed thing trying to force its way through a narrowing aperture.
Beside him, on a moth-eaten pallet, Bianca Moore lay in a sleep that looked more like a staged death.
She was early in her term. Her body was already beginning to thicken with the life they had wrought in the shadow of Hojo’s breeding mandates. But she was not radiant, as a mother expecting should have been.
The aura that once acted as a pristine shield for his mind had curdled into something toxic: a byproduct of the sheer exhaustion of her dual-natured soul. It spilled from her in heavy, invisible waves like a shadow-infused miasma that tasted of copper and ash.
Sephiroth could feel it feeding. The aura was now a passive, life-draining leech and subtly unmaking the room. It disrupted the natural flow of energy, turning the very shadows into grasping fingers that pulled at the edges of his vitality.
He felt a pervasive sense of decay, as if his own skin were becoming parchment-thin. His muscles turned to gray slush. The aura amplified the despair that already threatened to drown him, turning the silence into a cacophony of his own failures.
He had been awake for ninety-six hours. Maybe more. Time had ceased to be a linear progression and had become a series of static, overlapping hallucinations.
The shadows in the corners were no longer just the absence of light. They were blooming into the shapes of the lab that both of them had escaped from long ago. He saw the glint of Hojo’s bone-saws in the dust motes. He heard the wet, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a heart being dissected, only to realize it was the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears.
A sharp, phantom pain suddenly erupted in his shoulder: the memory of a needle that had never existed or perhaps one that had been lost in the fog of his childhood. He gasped. His fingers tightened on the hilt of the Masamune until his knuckles turned white and the leather wrap bit into his palms.
"Sephiroth."
The voice was a jagged shard of glass in the quiet. He didn't look up, but his head snapped toward the sound with the speed of a cornered predator.
Zack Fair stood a few feet away. His arms outstretched in a placating gesture. Behind him, the trooper Cloud stood like a ghost. His face was a mask of youthful terror, while Genesis Rhapsodos leaned against the far wall. His crimson coat looked like a fresh wound against the gray shadows. Genesis watched him with eyes that were too knowing and too weary.
"Go away," Sephiroth rasped. The words were a dry rattle, as if his vocal cords had been coated in shattered glass.
"Man, you're shaking," Zack said, his voice dropping an octave, and was thick with a worry that Sephiroth found offensive. "You haven't closed your eyes since we crossed the bridge. Let us take the watch. Just an hour. Bianca’s stable. The aura is just making everyone a little crazy. You need to lie down."
"If I lie down," Sephiroth said, and his own voice sounded like it belonged to a stranger, "she gets in." He tapped the side of his temple with his left hand. "She is right there, Zack. Behind my eyes. She is peeling back the layers of my brain like Hojo used to peel back the skin on the specimens. She is waiting for the gap."
He saw the way Zack flinched at the mention of the labs. The room flickered again. For a split second, Zack wasn't wearing his SOLDIER uniform. He was strapped to a table. His chest cavity opened. The ribcage spread like the wings Bianca could no longer use. Sephiroth blinked, and the image vanished and was replaced by the crushing weight of the present.
"You’re seeing things that aren't there, my friend," Genesis murmured. "The sleep deprivation is a slow poison. It rots the judgment before it kills the body. You are becoming a liability to the woman you claim to protect."
Sephiroth’s head whipped around. A snarl curled his lip to reveal teeth that felt too sharp in his mouth. "I am the only thing holding the door shut! Her aura is failing! It’s draining me, Genesis! Can’t you feel it? It’s eating the air! It’s eating the hope!"
He looked down at Bianca. Her porcelain skin was translucent. The veins beneath the surface looked like a map of a dying world. The Red Thread of Fate, which usually hummed with a warm, shared resilience, was now a cold, vibrating wire of agony.
Through it, he felt the internal warfare of her body: the celestial blood and the demonic essence grinding against each other like tectonic plates, as her blood tried to suppress his own overwhelming cells pumping from her heart. Evidence of humanity tempering with the divine.
He felt a phantom sensation of his own flesh being opened. The memory of the way Hojo used to 'prune' the biological excess of Sephrioth to fuel Bianca's torture. He felt the flesh: the wet, sliding sensation of organs being shifted to make room for new, invasive machinery.
No, he thought. Not my experiments. Hers.
His vision blurred. The floorboards turned into a sea of dark, shimmering blood. He saw his own reflection in the pool: not the man he was but a hollowed-out shell. His silver hair turned to jagged shards of glass. His eyes leaked black mako.
"Stay back!" he roared at Zack, who had taken a half-step forward. He didn't lift the Masamune, but the intent was a physical shockwave in the small room. "I will not let her in! I will not be the vessel here!"
He was weeping, though he didn't realize it. The tears were hot, stinging tracks on his cold face.
The exhaustion was a heavy, physical weight. It was a leaden cloak that pulled at his shoulders. His thoughts were no longer words. They were a series of disjointed, graphic images.
He saw Bianca’s womb. The child inside was not a miracle, but a burgeoning horror of tentacles. He saw the Nibelheim flames licking at the hem of her dress, as he stared coldly at her while the fire raged around them.
Not real. Not real. Not real.
He bit the inside of his cheek hard, until he tasted the hot, copper rush of blood. The pain was a brief, sharp anchor, pulling him back from the precipice of corruption.
"I am fine," he whispered, though his entire body was racked with a rhythmic, violent tremor.
He looked at the door again. He imagined the Shinra soldiers on the other side: not as men but as faceless, armored insects.
Dullards, he thought. Take back the Planet for Mother and Bianca.
He shook his head and saw Hojo standing in the middle of the room. His white coat stained with the gold and red blood of the Fallen Angel, holding a clipboard and a stopwatch, waiting for Sephiroth to finally fail, so he could retrieve the baby for Shinra: a child of divine lineage and the alien cells festering within. The perfect weapon. The perfect monster.
The life-draining aura from Bianca continued to seep into him: a dark, velvet tongue licking at his resolve. It made his bones feel like they were made of damp salt. It made the air feel like it was being pumped through a filter of grave dirt.
But he remained.
He sat in the corner. He was a ghost guarding a graveyard. He stared at the door. The Masamune was a cold weight of reality against his knees.
He would not sleep. He would not dream. He would stay in this half-lit purgatory until the sun rose and Bianca stirred or until the Mother finally found the crack in the door and pulled him back into the flames of another world.
In the silence, the only sound was the rhythmic, labored breathing of the woman who was accidentally killing him with her presence, and the distant, mocking laughter of the monster trapped in the corner of his mind.
Fantasy Worlds Taglist: (+ / -) please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the list by a DM or an ask.
The Architecture of Flight: An Original / FF 7 Crossover Fic
Summary: While watching Sephiroth and Genesis teach their children the mechanics of flight in the peaceful valley of Rinnos, Bianca Moore is pulled into a visceral, agonizing flashback of the childhood vivisection where Professor Hojo systematically shattered her wing structure to ensure she remained a ground-based subject for Project N.
Pairing: Bianca Moore (f!OC)/Sephiroth
Other Characters: Aurora, Genesis Rhapsodos, Professor Hojo, Lucien, Angeal Hewley
Possible Trigger Warnings: Amputation (wings), blood and gore, bone snapping, child abuse (flashback), corporal punishment (implied via medical torture), dead dove: do not eat, medical trauma, memories of trauma, phantom limb pain, post-traumatic stress disorder, psychological trauma, vivid descriptions of surgery without anesthesia.
Possible Tropes: Angst with a happy ending, biological family, comfort/hurt, canon divergent, domestic bliss (interrupted), emotional hurt/comfort, family bonding, flashback, fluff and angst, found family, trauma recovery, winged humanoids, Protective Sephiroth, Soft Sephiroth, Sane!Sephiroth
Author’s Note: This piece takes place within the Redemption!AU and was specifically written for @may-lancholy as part of the Alt 2 prompt: Winged Whump.
Please ensure you review the full list of trigger warnings above before proceeding, as this work explores deep-seated psychological and physical trauma. My work always features Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
Bring tissues since this one made me cry writing it.
The mountain air in Rinnos was a cruel, thin silk that teased the nerve endings Bianca Moore had spent a lifetime trying to cauterize.
Bianca stood on the weathered cedar porch of their home. Her fingers gripped the railing until the wood groaned and splinters bit into her palms. The scent of pine and woodsmoke was a lie. To her, the atmosphere was thick with the phantom smell of a laboratory and the metallic, cold tang of a bone-saw.
Below her, in the golden valley where the wildflowers bowed under a gentle alpine breeze, the impossible was happening.
Sephiroth moved with a grace that was no longer military, but paternal. His silver hair a shimmering river that cascaded down the back of his black leather trench coat. His massive, single black wing was unfurled: a jagged, majestic sail of shadow that drank the sunlight.
Beside him, Genesis Rhapsodos was a flash of crimson. His own single wing—opposite side of Sephiroth's—beat a steady, rhythmic pulse against the air.
They were holding the children.
Aurora, a pale ghost of her father with her light gray hair and wide, indigo eyes, was clutched against Sephiroth’s chest. Her pearl and cream-colored wings—tiny, Downy things that looked like spun sugar—vibrated with a frantic, joyful energy.
Lucien, a darker reflection with his curly black hair and charcoal-colored wings, was tucked into the crook of Genesis’s arm. His small face split in a toothy grin as he batted at the air like a contented kitten.
"Higher, Daddy! Higher!" Aurora’s voice carried up the slope, dinging like a silver bell ringing in a graveyard.
Sephiroth didn't just fly. He hovered. His feet inches from the grass, as his boots barely touched the blades. His expression was a rare, soft mask of devotion as he lifted the little girl toward the clouds.
Genesis and Sephiroth were teaching them the physics of the sky and the way the wind should feel against the primary feathers. He was giving them a heritage Bianca’s body had forgotten how to claim.
Bianca watched, and the world began to bleed.
The green valley flickered, replaced by the stuttering strobe of a fluorescent bulb overhead. The porch railing became a cold, iron restraint. The mountain breeze turned into the recycled, sterile breath of a ventilation shaft.
She was four years old: the same age as her twins were now. She was Subject N01 of Project N, a branch of the Jenova Project.
She was face down on a stainless-steel table that felt like a sheet of ice against her ribs. Her small, indigo and charcoal-colored wings—already corrupted by the infusions she received daily since she was only two—were pinned flat by Hojo’s heavy, green, rubber-gloved hands. Then, her wings were only downy buds of celestial potential labeled as a protentional flight risk. She could hear the wet, rhythmic click of the surgical instruments being laid out on a tray.
"The flight capacity of Subject N is an unnecessary variable," Hojo’s voice was a dry, academic rasp. "We require a ground-based anchor for Project N. Mobility encourages escape. Escape leads to data loss."
Bianca tried to cry out, but the pain had turned her tongue into a heavy, numb slug. She could only watch through a haze of tears as Hojo picked up the heavy-duty shears.
They weren't scalpels. They were gardening loppers: cold and rusted at the hinge.
Crunch.
The sound was the worst part. It wasn't a clean slice. It was the sound of a dry branch being snapped in half, followed by the wet, sickening grind of bone against bone. Bianca felt the white-hot lightning of the central nerve being severed.
"Note the color of the marrow," Hojo muttered. His face leaned so close she could smell the sour coffee on his breath and her blood spackled face reflected within his glasses. "Golden-tinged. High celestial concentration. Fighting the S-cell injections and infusions. Fascinating."
He didn't stop at the feathers. He reached for the humerus of the wing, the delicate, hollow bone that was meant to carry her above the clouds.
Hojo didn't cut. He crushed. He applied pressure until the bone shattered into a thousand jagged needles. The splinters drove outward through the soft, velvet skin.
Thick, dark, blood, shimmering with a golden, celestial luminescence, poured over the table, pooling in the drainage grooves to be collected later. It ran like a river of wasted divinity, dripping onto the floor with a rhythmic, heavy plip-plip-plip.
"Again," Hojo commanded.
The second wing was clipped lower, at the joint. Bianca felt her consciousness fragmenting. Every time the shears closed, she felt a part of her soul being lopped off and tossed into a biohazard bin. The pain was a living thing: a jagged beast that lived in the space between her shoulder blades, gnawing on the ruined stumps that remained.
She remembered the way the blood felt as it cooled. It was tacky, like half-dried glue, binding her to the table. She remembered the way Hojo had sewn the skin shut, the needle dragging through the raw meat, stitching her down to the earth forever: an angel of Shinra who could not feel the sky brushing within her feathers.
"Mama! Look! I'm a bird!" The high, sweet shout of Lucien shattered the memory.
Bianca gasped. Her lungs burnt as if she had been submerged in mako.
She was back in Rinnos. Her hands shook so violently she had to tuck them into the sleeves of her oversized cream sweater. She turned her head and looked at her back, feeling the heavy, cumbersome weight of her indigo and black wings.
The wings were full-grown now, nearly ten feet of brooding majesty, but they were a lie. The internal architecture — the bones Hojo had shattered and the nerves he had cauterized — had never knit correctly. They really were decorative sails, leaden weights that tethered her to the ground. She was a bird with lead in her veins, and she chirped softly, as she looked up at her son and daughter.
The phantom pain flared: a cold, grinding sensation in her scapula that made her want to reach back and tear the wings out by the roots. She could still feel the shears. She could still feel the cold metal closing over the bone.
Sephiroth landed. He didn't drop. He descended like a falling leaf, his boots silent on the grass. After he set Aurora down, his gaze immediately snapped to the porch. Through the Red Thread of Fate, he didn't just see her. He felt the resonance of the bone-saw. He felt the cold, sticky memory of the laboratory floor.
Usually a fortress of Vanguard leadership, his face softened into a look of profound, aching sorrow.
He turned to the kids. "Aurora, Lucien. Go inside and help Uncle Angeal and Zack with the tea. Your mother and I will be there in a moment."
Sensing the shift in the air, the children didn't argue. They scampered past Bianca, their small wings fluttering like nervous moths. Their indigo eyes were bright with the innocent thrill of the sky.
Sephiroth walked up the stairs. He didn't stop until he was inches from her. His presence was a physical barrier against the ghosts of the Shinra Building. He didn't touch her yet. He knew the skin on her back was likely screaming with the memory of the loppers.
"I can still hear the shears, Seph," she whispered. Her voice was a ragged, broken thing. "Every time they flap their wings. . .I feel the bone snapping all over again. I look at them and I’m terrified he’s going to walk out of the trees with those scissors."
She turned her back to him. Her shoulders hunched. The stumps where the wings joined her spine were ridged with thick, knotted scar tissue: remnants of a vivisection that had lasted for weeks. He had held her then, holding her insides within her body as she healed after.
Sephiroth reached out. His long fingers hovered just above the Indigo and dark feathers. He moved with a heartbreaking gentleness. His thumb traced the line of her shoulder blade where the most damage had been done. Through the Thread, he began to pull the phantom pain into himself. His own wing twitched in a sympathetic throb.
"They will fly for you," Sephiroth said. It wasn't a platitude. Sephiroth never said platitudes. The words were a vow. "I will teach them to reach the heights Hojo tried to steal from us. And when they are in the air, they will be your strength. Not your shame."
Bianca leaned back against him. Her head rested against the silver pauldrons of his coat. The cool metal grounded her.
The smell of cedar and the cold mountain air finally began to drown out the scent of formaldehyde. But as she looked out at the valley, the sun dipping below the peaks, she could still see the dark, shimmering stains of the blood on the laboratory table, a permanent shadow cast over the beauty of the world.
She was the former Angel of Shinra, the former Saint of SOLDIER, the heart of the Vanguard, but as Sephiroth held her in the encroaching twilight, she was just a four-year-old girl, still waiting for the shears to stop clicking in the dark.
Fantasy Worlds Taglist: (+ / -) please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the list by a DM or an ask.
The Architecture of Rot: An Original / FF 7 Crossover Fic
Summary: Within the clinical isolation of the Shinra Building, a young Sephiroth and Bianca navigate the harrowing biological consequences of their shared bond and Hojo's cruel experiments after a mission gone wrong.
Pairing: Bianca Moore (f!OC)/Sephiroth
Other Characters: Angeal Hewley, Genesis Rhapsodos, Professor Hojo
Possible Trigger Warnings: Body horror, fever, medical neglect, medical trauma, necrosis, psychological horror, sympathetic pain, wounds, child abuse, child soldiers
Possible Tropes: Biopunk, canon divergence, childhood friends to lovers, forced proximity, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, red string of fate, soulbond, young Sephiroth (miniroth), Sane!Sephiroth, whump
Author’s Note: This piece takes place within the Redemption!AU and was specifically written for @may-lancholy as part of the Day 2 prompt: Hidden Injury.
Please ensure you review the full list of trigger warnings above before proceeding, as this work explores deep-seated psychological and physical trauma.
The Shinra Building sat at the center of Midgar like a great, iron cancer.
Its thick walls wept cold mako condensation. Outside, the Sector 0 highway bridges groaned under the weight of armored transports, but inside Sephiroth’s apartment, the silence was worse. It was a thick, clinical silence that tasted of ozone and old blood.
Sephiroth stood by the window. His younger, sharp-angled face was already burdened by a terrifying symmetry. He turned toward the sickly green glow of the sun lamps.
His hair was shorter. The silver strands barely brushing his collar and styled with a precision that felt less like fashion and more like a SOLDIER’s requirement. He wore his black training shirt beneath a shortened version of his signature coat. The leather was stiff and smelt of the supply depot.
He didn't move. He didn't even seem to breathe. But inside, his mind was a charnel house.
The Red Thread of Fate — a pulsating, translucent artery of psychic energy anchored to his wrist — was screaming. It didn't hum. It throbbed with a rhythmic, wet heat. It felt like a toothache in his soul, a dull, grinding agony that told him exactly what was happening across the hall.
Bianca was dying. Or, if not dying, she was rotting from the inside out.
The door chimes signaled her entry. She moved with a calculated grace that would have fooled a Turk, but to Sephiroth, the hitch in her step was as loud as a gunshot.
Bianca walked into the room. Her porcelain skin looked like damp parchment in the mako-light. Her indigo eyes were glassy. The feline pupils dilated until only a thin rim of indigo remained, and the golden constellations always circling her irises dimmed.
"The check-up went well," she said. Her voice was thin like a dry rattle of dead leaves. "Hojo just gave me the scheduled boosters."
Boosters, he thought. The word felt like a needle under Sephiroth’s fingernail. Since she was toddler, she had been injected with these vaccines. These boosters.
He was seventeen, she was fifteen, and for thirteen years, Hojo had been pumping her full of viscous fluids that left her shaking and feverish. Hojo called them Stabilizers.
Sephiroth’s mind drifted for a sickening second to Genesis and Angeal: how they would sit in the VR room, whispering about the Science Department’s secrets. They would find the truth. They would peel back Hojo’s lies like skin from a carcass. But for now, the secret was a stone in his stomach, as his mind filtered through what Hojo could have been injecting within Bianca.
"Sit down, Bianca," Sephiroth said. His voice was a flat, much like the Shinogi-j of Masamune. It betrayed nothing of the psychological horror unfolding behind his eyes.
Inside his head, he could see the wound. He had felt it open three days ago on the outskirts of some forgotten grotto. A fiend—a jagged abomination of teeth, tumors, and alien dna—had raked its claws across her flank.
Sephiroth had heard the sound of her flight suit tearing, the wet shlick of meat being divided. She had hidden it, thinking it would heal on its own. She had tucked her pain into a dark corner: the way she tucked her mismatched socks into her boots.
Bianca sat on the edge of the black leather sofa, her hand hovering instinctively near her right side. "I'm fine, Seph. Just tired from the boosters."
Sephiroth turned. His cyan eyes lit by the internal fire of mako and fixed on the spot where her hand rested. He could feel the infection through the Thread. It felt like a hot, oily sludge. He imagined the flesh beneath her shirt: a jagged crater of purple-black meat, the edges curling back like burnt paper, as the yellow flesh circled the wound. He imaginedher angelic grace reacting with the fiend’s filth, creating a stagnant pool of biological war, as the wound refused to heal.
Healing materia does not work on you, Sephiroth thought, and now you are too brave to admit you need help.
"You're lying," he said. He didn't move toward her. "The fiend in the ruins. It didn't miss."
"It grazed me—"
"It tore you," he interrupted. The horror in his mind was graphic now. He saw the wound weeping a thick, yellow-white ichor that smelled of fermented sugar and the tang of copper. He saw the red streaks of lymphangitis climbing toward her heart: thin as spider silk but heavy with death. Sephiroth saw her cells—whatever they truly were—struggling to knit the split flesh together, only to be choked by the rot.
He felt a sudden, visceral urge to scream, to reach into his own chest, and tear out the Thread that bound them, so he wouldn't have to feel the rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum of her inflammation.
"Hojo saw you today," Sephiroth said. He wanted to clench his hands into fists at his sides, but in the end, he did no such thing. "And he did nothing. He gave you a 'booster' and sent you back to your quarters."
"He said the labs are controlled environments, Seph. He said I’m fine."
"I am a First Class SOLDIER," Sephiroth declared. The words dropped like iron weights, as he exercises his privilege for the first time. "Starting tonight, I am invoking my rank’s privilege. All data regarding you will be routed to my terminal."
Bianca flinched. The movement caused the wound to shift. Sephiroth felt a spike of blinding, white-hot pain through the bond. It was the feeling of a scab being ripped off before the skin was ready, the wet suction of a bandage adhering to a raw nerve.
"Show me, Bia," he commanded.
Bianca hesitated, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. Slowly, she reached for the hem of her red turtleneck. As she lifted the fabric, the smell hit the room: a cloying, sweet stench of necrosis masked by clinical soap.
The wound was a nightmare, and Hojo had done NOTHING about it.
It was six inches of jagged, uneven trauma. The skin at the edges was a bruised, necrotic plum color, swollen so tight it looked ready to burst. In the center, the flesh was a raw, angry red, glistening with a film of infected serum.
It wasn't healing. It was festering. The boosters had done nothing to stop the invasion of the fiend’s bacteria. If anything, they seemed to be fueling a chaotic, cellular frenzy. Small, bead-like, crimson granulomas had formed along the rim of the gash, looking like tiny, translucent pearls of gore.
Sephiroth stared at it.
Outwardly, he was a boulder: calm. Inwardly, he was being flayed alive. He imagined taking a scalpel and cutting out the rot, feeling the resistance of the tough, infected tissue. He imagined the way the pus would spill out like curdled milk.
He felt a sickening synchronization: his own side began to throb with a phantom heat, a sympathetic mimicry of her suffering.
"It looks. . .worse than I thought," Bianca whispered. Her face was ashen now, as the wounds stench filled the room.
"It is a biohazard," Sephiroth said. He felt a cold, sharp clarity wash over the horror. He couldn't trust Hojo. He couldn't trust the Science Department. He couldn't trust doctors. He could only trust the weight of the Masamune leaning against the wall and the heavy, black med-kit under the sink.
He walked toward the kitchen area. His boots clicked rhythmically on the metal floor. Every step was a struggle against the tide of psychological gore that threatened to drown his reason. He could see her organs through the Thread if he closed his eyes: the way her liver was struggling with the toxins and the way her heart was racing to keep up with the fever.
He reached under the sink and retrieved the heavy, metallic med-kit. It was filled with high-grade SOLDIER disinfectants: liquids that burned like holy water and salves that felt like liquid lead.
He returned to her. His face was a mask of professional indifference that hid a soul screaming in a dark room. He knelt before her.
"Stay still," he said, as he opened the kit. The rasp of the metal latch sounded like a guillotine blade.
He took out a bottle of antiseptic and a stack of sterile gauze. He knew what was coming. He knew the sensation of the liquid hitting the raw flesh would be like a lightning strike through the Red Thread. He would feel every second of her agony as his own.
He soaked the gauze until it was dripping. The scent of wintergreen and alcohol filled the small space, sharp and clinical, but his movements remained fluid and incredibly gentle. He didn't look at her cold indifference, but with the pained, steady gaze of a boy who had shared a cage with her since the beginning.
He knelt before her, and for a fleeting second, the hero mask slipped. His expression was soft, shadowed by a profound, quiet worry that only those in his inner circle were ever permitted to see.
"I have you, Bianca," he murmured. His voice was low and steady, designed to be an anchor for her. "I know it’s been a long day. I know Hojo’s boosters make the world feel heavy. But I need you to focus on my voice and not the sting."
He didn't just press the gauze down. He hovered his hand for a moment, waiting for her to find her breath. His thumb traced a small, comforting arc over the uninjured skin. He was a brother-in-arms, a partner who didn't know what he was doing, and a protector reclaiming her from the rot.
"I’m going to clean it now," he said. His eyes met hers with a warmth that was both a promise and a shield. "We share the Thread. I’ll carry the weight of it with you."
As the antiseptic touched the raw, split skin, Sephiroth didn't flinch away. He leaned in. His presence was a physical barrier against the darkness of the room, holding her steady not with force, but with the silent, unbreakable, unspoken strength of a love that had survived every horror Shinra had thrown at them.
Fantasy Worlds Taglist: (+ / -) please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the list by a DM or an ask.
The Anatomy of a Celestial: An Original / FF 7 Crossover Fic
Summary: A traumatic nightmare of Shinra’s brutal laboratory experiments forces Bianca to confront her past violations while seeking sanctuary in the protective, shared agony of Sephiroth’s embrace within the safety of Rinnos.
Pairing: Bianca Moore (f!OC) / Sephiroth
Other Characters: Hojo, Aurora (mentioned), Lucien (mentioned)
Possible Trigger Warnings: blood, body horror, child abuse (alluded to), drowning sensation, experimentation, medical trauma, nightmares, non-consensual medical procedures, physical restraint, psychological trauma, PTSD, torture, violation, dead dove: do not eat.
Possible Tropes: bonded pair, comfort through trauma, dark fantasy, dream sequences, established relationship, flash-backs, gods and monsters, hurt/comfort, mutual pining (past), nightmare recovery, protective partner, sane!Sephiroth, shared trauma, soul bond, telepathic bond, canon divergent
Author’s Note: This piece takes place within the Redemption!AU and was specifically written for @may-lancholy as part of the first prompt: Dreams and Nightmares.
Please ensure you review the full list of trigger warnings below before proceeding, as this work explores deep-seated psychological and physical trauma.
The fluorescent lights of the Shinra laboratory did not hum. They screamed.
The noise was a high-frequency dental drill of a sound that bored through the ethmoid bone and nestled deep in the soft tissue of the brain. Bianca was strapped to the cold, slanted geometry of an examination table. The leather restraints were old, slicked with the salt of her own dried sweat and the copper-heavy residue of those who had occupied this slab before her.
Hojo moved within her peripheral vision like a disjointed insect. His shadow, elongated by the harsh overhead glare, stretched across her distended abdomen where the surgical site was a weeping, unknit maw of raw meat.
He didn't speak to her. He never spoke to her. He spoke to the clipboards, to the ticking chronometers, to the sterile, and uncaring air.
Then came the smell. It was the scent of a slaughterhouse floor at high noon: hot iron, scorched hair, and the chemical bite of formaldehyde.
The scalpel in Hojo’s hand was a sliver of concentrated malice. He didn’t use anesthesia, as he claimed it muddied the bio-data of the Nephilim, of her. He wanted to see how the celestial nerves spasmed when they were introduced to the alien rot.
Bianca watched. Her eyes were wide and fixed, as he drove the blade into the soft, unprotected curve of her side. The skin didn't just part. It shrieked. It felt like a hot wire being pulled through a silk ribbon. She cried out.
"Look at the resilience," Hojo’s voice was akin to the dry rattle of dead leaves. "Even as we siphon the S-cells, the celestial marrow attempts to rewrite the host’s injuries. Fascinating."
He reached into the opening. She felt his cold, rubbery, and invasive gloved fingers brushing against her liver. He was searching for the junction where the S-cells from Sephiroth’s blood had begun to graft onto her own organs.
It was a violation that transcended the physical. It was a rape of the soul. The pain was a white-hot pillar that pinned her to the table. She tried to scream, but her throat was filled with a thick, viscous fluid that tasted like pennies. She was drowning in her own biology.
Behind him, in a distance that seemed miles away yet uncomfortably close, she could see Sephiroth. He was a boy then. His silver hair shone beneath the fluorescent lighting overhead, and his eyes were hollow pits of glowing mako-blue. He was watching her, as part of one of Hojo's trials of pain: planned experiments that were met to harden the young boy's heart and create a perfect monster.
Through the Red Thread of Fate, his agony was a rhythmic throb in her own chest. Every time Hojo cut her, Sephiroth’s body jerked in sympathetic vibration. They were two halves of a split pomegranate, bleeding the same dark juice.
"More," Hojo whispered, and he began to peel back a layer of her muscle as if it were the rind of an orange. The sound was like wet velcro being torn apart. Bianca felt her consciousness begin to fray. The edges of the world turning the bruised purple of a dying storm.
Bianca bolted upright in the darkness of the Rinnos bedroom, a strangled gasp tearing from her lungs.
The silence of the village was heavy, reminding Bianca of a suffocating blanket of wool and mountain air.
For a heartbeat, she still felt the rubbery pressure of Hojo’s fingers inside her ribs. She clawed at her stomach. Her long, blood-red stiletto nails dug into the marred skin of her abdomen, searching for the open wound. There was only the puckered, twisting silk of the old surgical scar. It was closed. It had been closed for years.
But in the dark, the ghost of the blade still vibrated in her nerves.
The room smelled of cedar, lavender, and the faint, cold scent of mountain snow, yet the phantom stench of formaldehyde lingered in the back of her throat. She felt like she was going to throw up.
Beside her, the bed shifted. Sephiroth was awake. He didn't startle. He never did, as a man like him, forged in the same hell-fires of Nibelheim and the labs, didn't move with the clumsy jerks of the mundane. He flowed.
He sat up.
In the dim, filtered light of the moon through the heavy curtains, his skin was the color of bleached bone. He slept in the nude, a defiance of the layers of armor and regulation leather he had been forced into for two decades.
His body was a map of Shinra’s ambition: a sculpted, muscular landscape of perfection. Across his chest, the leather SOLDIER suspenders of the day were gone, and the faint, pulsing glow of the Red Thread pulsed around his wrist, mirroring the one around hers.
Against the far wall, his terry cloth robe hung on a hook, a dark, slumped shape that looked like a hanging man in the gloom. He ignored it. He reached out and pressed it flat against the center of her back. His hand was large and cool,
"You were back there," he said. His voice wasn't a comfort. It was a low, vibrating chord that matched the frequency of her own terror. He didn't offer platitudes because he knew they were lies. He knew the labs never truly let go.
Bianca turned to him. Her breathing came in jagged, uneven hitches. Her black hair was a tangled veil around her face, her feline pupils blown so wide that the purple of her irises was almost entirely eclipsed by the void.
"He-he-he was touching my liver, Seph," Bianca gasped. "He was looking for you inside me. He was trying to see where we connected."
She leaned into him, her forehead resting against his collarbone. She could feel the steady, slow thud of his heart: a heart that beat with a cold, alien efficiency. She reached out, her fingers trembling as she traced the line of his jaw.
Her fangs ached: a dull, throbbing pressure in her gums that made her want to bite, to tear, to taste the salt of something real to drown out the memory of the sterile metal.
Sephiroth wrapped his arms around her, pulling her small, trembling frame against the expanse of his chest. His skin was always a few degrees cooler than a normal human’s: a remnant of the Jenova cells that hummed in his marrow.
But to Bianca, his skin was the only temperature that felt safe. It was the temperature of the void.
"He can't reach us here," Sephiroth murmured, though his eyes remained fixed on the door, watching the shadows for a movement that never came. "Rinnos is hidden. The Vanguard stands between us and the white rooms."
Bianca shuddered. A long, rhythmic tremor started in her tailbone and radiated outward to her indigo-tipped wings. She felt the weight of them against her back, heavy and cumbersome; the black and indigo feathers rustled like dry parchment.
"The children," she whispered, the thought of Aurora and Lucien a sharp, localized pain in her heart. "What if he wants them? What if he wants to see if the Nephilim and the SOLDIER made something even better to cut into?"
Sephiroth’s grip tightened. It was almost painful: the pressure of his fingers against her ribs a reminder of his staggering, inhuman strength.
"I will not allow him to touch them," he promised.
He leaned down. His long silver hair fell forward like a curtain of silk, shielding them from the rest of the room. He pressed his lips to the surgical scar on her belly: a slow, deliberate act of reclamation, as he always did when the dreams were too loud.
Bianca let out a broken sound, half-sob and half-chirp, as she felt the Red Thread between them flare a brilliant, violent crimson.
The shared emotion was a tidal wave of bitterness and protective rage. She felt his memories of the windowless rooms: the cold Mako baths, the way they used to whisper when the scientists were asleep. She felt the phantom itch of the needles in his own arms. They were two broken instruments playing the same discordant song.
"Stay with me," she pleaded. Her voice was such a thin, ragged thing.
"I am here," he responded. He pulled the heavy velvet duvet up around them, cocooning them in a darkness that was their only sanctuary from the memories surging between them.
In the quiet, as the mountain wind howled outside the thick stone walls of Rinnos, Bianca closed her eyes. But even in the safety of his arms, she could still hear the faint, rhythmic dripping of blood hitting a linoleum floor, and the distant, satisfied scratch of a pen against a clipboard.
The nightmare wasn't a memory. It was a permanent layer of her skin, and Sephiroth was the only one who knew how to touch the raw, split flesh without making it scream.
Fantasy Worlds Taglist: (+ / -) please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the list by a DM or an ask.
Theme Song: FWC Character: Bianca Moore Playlist: Update
I’ve been deep-diving into the Fantasy Worlds Collide (FWC) lore again, and it finally clicked. Outcast by Shinedown isn't just a song. It’s the audible blueprint for Bianca’s descent and eventual ascension.
While we often focus on her role as the Dark Queen or the Matriarch of Rebirth, this track taps into the raw, gritty energy of her transition during the FFVII and Kilonova arcs.
“And I've been thinkin' 'bout the past I can't ignore / Nothin' less, nothin' more, it's all the same as before / I'm just feeding my appetite”
In the FFVII arc, Bianca is haunted by the trauma of Project N and Hojo’s vivisections, as well as being broken by Jenova and Sephiroth during the dreamscape sequence. She can’t ignore the past because it’s etched into her very cells. The appetite here isn't just physical. It’s the Jenova-driven hunger for relevance, for power, and for the destruction of the world and Creation that allowed her to be flayed, forced insemenated, and experimented. She’s no longer playing by the rules of the "Good" girl from the Pandemonix arc. She’s feeding the cosmic horror within.
“Don't you know I broke the mold? / Like a hammer to a landmine”
This line is Bianca in a nutshell. She was supposed to be a tool for Shinra, a vessel for Hojo, or a sacrificial lamb for Asmodeus' ascension. Instead, she became a hammer to a landmine. She shattered every expectation of what a Nephilim or a Consort should be. By merging her celestial/infernal blood with Sephiroth’s S-cells, she didn't just fit into a new mold. She destroyed the concept of molds entirely to become a unique Sovereign entity.
“I'm comin' back, I'm comin' back / I'm comin' back to outlast every outcast”
This is the most chillingly accurate part of the song for the transition into the Kilonova arc. Think about the infinite reflections. Think about her soul being scattered and Sephiroth having to reconstitute her. Every time the universe tries to delete her, she comes back.
She outlasts the Turks, she outlasts the Remnants, she outlasts Cloud Strife, and eventually, she outlasts the outcasts of the old world (like Lucrecia and Genesis). While everyone else is a casualty of the timeline, Bianca and Sephiroth are the one who remains to see the Kilonova through.
“You better stick to what you know / 'Cause I ain't playin' just to rewind”
This is Bianca’s message to anyone hoping for a redemption or a return to her human roots. She isn't interested in rewinding to her days in Seattle or her time as a nomad. She is looking forward to the Singularity. The old creation is "bona fide misery," and she’s done being a casualty of it.
Outcast represents the moment Bianca stops being the victim and starts being the Goddess and Dark Queen that both Jenova and Sephiroth built in the dreamscape during the Project N days. It’s the sound of her preening her indigo-tipped wings while watching the Planet burn, knowing she and Sephiroth are the only one with the stamina to reach the end of time.
Fantasy Worlds Taglist: (+ / -) please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the list by a DM or an ask. Tagging because as with the others, a lot changed in the update to Krista.
7 Minutes in the Void: A Multiversal Closet Crisis
I have been working on something from the inspiration I got from a Tumblr post yesterday. It's crack. It's not much, but it is something.
FWC Sephiroth (Sephiroth-Prime): The 6'7" "Dad" version. He’s seen the 1997 original, the movie, the prequels, the sequals and lived through two billion years of silence.
Rebirth Sephiroth (The Past Version): Also 6'7". He’s fresh out of the Remake timeline, full of cryptic "Seven Seconds" nonsense, and looking for a Cloud to poke with his own seven-foot Masamune.
Bianca: 5 feet tall, currently sporting a 9.92-foot wingspan of velvety black indigo-tipped feathers that are absolutely not meant for enclosed spaces.
The closet in the Ethereal Nexus didn’t smell like mothballs; it smelled like expensive leather, ancient paper, and the looming threat of a multi-dimensional collapse.
Sephiroth-Prime—the Sovereign who had seen every timeline and decided most of them were clutter—stood with his back to the door. His six blue-tipped wings were tucked as tightly as cosmic appendages would allow, but the cloud-like base of his lower body still took up significant real estate. Beside him, Rebirth Sephiroth leaned against the far wall with an enigmatic smirk that suggested he was already planning to gaslight everyone in the room, including his future self.
And then there was Bianca.
She stood between the two 6'7" silver-haired titans, looking like a very fashionable, very dangerous goth by comparison. Her nine-foot wingspan was currently mantled over Sephiroth-Prime’s left side, while she casually sipped a pumpkin spice latte.
"Seven minutes," Bianca mused, her indigo eyes shimmering with constellations. "Aurora is grounded for a century after this, but I have to admit. . .having two of you is quite the bonus."
"He is a glitch in the narrative, Bianca," Sephiroth-Prime said, his voice a deep, vibrating baritone that shook the coat hangers. He looked down at his "Past-Self" with furrowed brows. "A fragment of a memory I already discarded."
Rebirth Sephiroth tilted his head, his mako-green eyes glowing in the cramped dark. "And yet, here I am. Collecting our wife’s soul-shards while you play house with tiny horrors. Tell me, do you miss the simplicity of just wanting to drop Meteor on a planet?"
"I am a father now," Prime replied coldly, the sun symbol on his halo pulsing with an irritated light. "I have responsibilities that transcend your petty timeline manipulation."
Bianca shifted, the weight of her wings causing her to bump into Rebirth Sephiroth’s chest. She didn't move away. Instead, she looked up at him, her feline pupils dilating.
"You’re much more high-maintenance than he used to be," she said, poking Rebirth’s silver pauldrons with a blood-red stiletto nail. "And much more obsessed with a blonde boy and reuniting with your mother."
"There is always room for the Reunion, Bianca," Rebirth murmured, his voice like silk over gravel. He looked at her, recognizing the resonance of the soul-shards he’d been gathering across the Remake-verse. "In my time, you are scattered. Here, you are formidable. Perhaps I should keep you."
Sephiroth-Prime’s dark red wing-arm twitched. The Masamune—the seven-foot version—materialized in his hand, the tip pressing firmly against the closet floor. "Touch her, and I will erase the Seven Seconds you’re so fond of."
Bianca took a long, thoughtful sip of her latte. "You know, if I’m in charge of the Omniverse now, I really should look into getting a full set. A Sephiroth for every season. I could get the SOLDIER version for when I want to discuss strategy and pumpkin soup, and I'll keep Prime for the Sovereign stuff."
Rebirth Sephiroth chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth. "An ambitious endeavor. But can you handle the ego of a dozen gods in one place?"
"I’ve handled Hojo," Bianca replied with a dangerous smile, her prehensile tongue flicking briefly over her lip. "I think I can handle a few versions of my husband."
"We are not discussing making a harem here," Sephiroth-Prime stated, his wings ruffling. "The structural integrity of this pocket dimension cannot support more than two versions of myself."
"He’s so protective," Bianca murmured. She leaned her head against Prime’s shoulder while keeping an eye on Rebirth lurking in the corner. "Seven minutes is nowhere near enough time to organize a harem, anyway."
Exactly at the seven-minute mark, the door creaked open. Aurora stood there, looking hopeful and clutching a tray so Bianca could make her pumpkin muffins.
"Is Other-Dad helping?" she asked, her violet eyes wide.
Sephiroth-Prime stepped out of the closet, his presence expanding until he filled the entire hallway. He didn't look at the muffins. He didn't look at Rebirth Sephiroth, who followed behind him with a mocking bow. He looked directly at his daughter.
"Aurora," Sephiroth-Prime said, his voice echoing with authority. "You are grounded. No reality-warping, and certainly no pumpkin muffins for the next fifty years. Go to your room."
"Better luck next time, little star." Bianca ruffles Aurora’s hair as she walks past, her black feathers shedding softly. "Maybe pick a version of your father that doesn't have a God Complex next time. Oh wait, that's all of them. I'm wondering if I'm attracted to bad boys."
Rebirth Sephiroth stands in the hallway, holding a used latte cup, watching the family walk away.
"Seven seconds till the end," he mutters to himself, reflecting on his future, past, and present. "I'm going back to the dimension where the only thing I worry about is being stabbed by the Buster Sword."
Fantasy Worlds Taglist: (+ / -) please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the list by a DM or an ask.
Introduction: This week’s theme is Kinship: open to writers, artists, readers, fic authors, indie authors, and everyone in between. Bring fanwork or originals. Explore the bonds that transcend biology: found family, the loyalty between companions-in-arms, and the deep, often complicated connection between those who share a common goal or trauma.
Participation is low-pressure and flexible: write, sketch, share a headcanon, or create analysis.
❓ Question(s):
Fandom Canon Character Reflection: Who is the "non-biological" sibling or parent figure this character would die for, and how did that bond form in the heat of the canon plot?
OC Reflection: Who does your character consider their "true" kin, regardless of blood? What is the specific memory or shared struggle that cemented that bond forever?
Story Reflection: Is kinship in your story a source of healing and safety, or is it a source of conflict when loyalties are tested by external forces?
What If: What if your protagonist's "found family" were actually the ones working against them? How would they react to a betrayal from the kinship they value most?
🎭 Prompts
Visual Prompt: Intertwined Hands
Writing Prompt: Chosen Blood
📝 How to Participate Post your contribution anytime during the week. Submissions for this prompt are accepted until the following Monday at Midnight. Any submitted work for this theme submitted after, we will tag it as cc event: archive. If the pressure is too great, please skip it. We are a group who care about spoons. Participation can be a sketch, a headcanon, a short write-up, or a full WIP scene.
Low-barrier engagement is welcome! Tag @creators-club in the reply of your post so we can reblog and share it.
✨ Remember: This is about building community and celebrating creativity at all levels. Jump in however you can!
To join our event tag list or become a @creators-club member, please like, respond to, or reblog the following post: Current Members and Tag List.
Written Musing: The Architecture of Sanctuary: My Journey Through Trauma-Informed Writing and Final Fantasy 7
Writing through the lens of my trauma is not merely an act of documentation, but a radical reconstruction of a world that once shattered without my consent. For me, having navigated the labyrinth of organized abuse, neglect, and systemic invalidation, the blank page serves as the only territory where I can establish absolute sovereignty.
This trauma-informed approach to my work allows me to take the jagged shards of a stolen childhood and forge them into a cohesive armor. By externalizing my internal fractures into the arcs of FWC, I transition from a passive witness of my own pain to the deliberate architect of my recovery, transforming a history of helplessness into a legacy of creative agency.
The universe of Fantasy Worlds Collide and its various AU shards represent a specialized form of restorative justice where my Self is finally allowed to exist in safety. In these worlds, the presence of Sephiroth—reimagined as a service dom whose vast, terrifying power is channeled exclusively into the reverent protection and the eventual reformation of Bianca—acts as a psychological counterweight to a reality where protection was absent for me for most of my childhood and teenage years.
This specific dynamic creates a safe harbor where I can explore themes of intimacy and touch without the threat of betrayal. My mandate for his exclusivity and gentleness is not a mere preference. It is a narrative requirement based on how he caressed Jenova's containment tank after using brute force to rip her effigy away that ensures my fictional environment remains a clean room, free from the atmospheric pollutants of my past.
Across every AU, maintaining certain fixed points—like Sephiroth’s virginity and Bianca’s evolution into a Goddess of Reality—serves to stabilize my internal landscape. When my life has been historically unpredictable and cruel, the reliability of this fictional bond becomes a vital grounding mechanism. This is why the Red String of Fate is such a potent symbol for me; it represents a connection that cannot be severed by time, distance, or the malice of others. It ensures that Bianca is never truly alone or unheard, providing a metaphysical guarantee of empathy that was often denied to me by caregivers and peers.
These AUs allow me to achieve a mastery over my trauma, providing the agency to take the clinical coldness of the medical neglect and physical violations I actually endured and rewrite them into a source of cosmic ascension. By transmuting the memory of being discarded and invalidated into a narrative of becoming essential and sovereign, I am reclaiming the power that was taken from me.
Healing through my writing occurs when I move beyond what happened and begin to answer who I am now. As someone living with C-PTSD and AVPD, the act of world-building is my ultimate exercise in boundary-setting.
By creating the Dark Dyad, I define a space where only Bianca and Sephiroth truly matter, effectively silencing the noise of a judgmental society. The Godling Arc, in particular, allows me to process generational trauma. By making Bianca a Matriarch who breaks the cycle of abuse to protect her children, I am effectively re-parenting myself. It is my declaration that while my past was defined by the roles of victim and servant, my future is defined by the roles of Queen and Architect: the one who is in control of my destiny.
I think these stories are the music of my survival: a complex symphony of shadow and light that validates my need for a perfect safety that reality often failed to provide. FWC is the physical manifestation of my psychic fortress, where the ghosts of my past are categorized and contained, and where the Womb That Devours can finally give birth to a new, untainted existence. Every paragraph I write is a stitch in the Filum Aeternum, binding me to a version of myself that is powerful, cherished, and fundamentally safe.
Through the intentional gentleness of my silver-haired god and the unyielding sovereignty of his consort, my writing becomes the ultimate ritual of reclamation, proving that even from the ashes of my own Nibelheim, I can rise to rule the silence.
Q: via @creators-club; Does your world have a "veil" between different realms—such as the mundane and the magical, or the living and the dead—and how easy is it to cross?
A: I have not talked about the late 19th century British Isles in a hot second, so I have to verify that they are shaking in fear at themselves again.
If Dorian was not such a sniveling coward none of this would have happened (or at least, not in the way it does happen) but likewise important to note (tear them apart apparition of Sibyl Vane) that Lord Henry Wotton and Basil Hallward are at least a good part complicit here as well, on account of structural power (namely class and gender in this case) and everyone's collective dishonesty and... if you didn't know the story one could say they love to suffer and whine so very much.
Something New Chapter 5 - May I Have This Dance? (Last Chapter!)
And the final chapter is up!
Summary: Ziva should have expected that a case would ruin her one brief glimpse at normal life - being a bridesmaid for a new friend. What she didn't expect was just how hard Tony would work to make it happen after all. Season 6: post-Jenny, pre-Somalia. Tiva friendship, but flirty if you squint.
“Oh come on,” Tony snorted a few bars in. “You’re kidding me.”
Ziva shook her head, listening. “I don’t know it, but it sounds nice enough.”
“Sure, if you only listen to the first couple of lines,” Tony said. “The rest of the song is basically a guy saying he’s done everything there is to do, and still feels unfulfilled. I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. That’s really the statement you want to start your marriage with?”
Introduction: This week’s theme is Veils: open to writers, artists, readers, fic authors, indie authors, and everyone in between. Bring fanwork or originals. Explore what is hidden and what is revealed: the masks characters wear to survive, the thin line between reality and illusion, and the moment the "veil" finally drops to show the truth.
Participation is low-pressure and flexible: write, sketch, share a headcanon, or create analysis.
❓ Question(s):
Fandom Canon Character Reflection: Which character in this canon wears the thickest "veil" (a persona or secret), and what would it take for them to finally show their true face to their allies?
OC Reflection: What part of their true self does your character hide behind a "veil" when meeting others? What are they afraid would happen if that veil was accidentally lifted?
Story Reflection: Does your world have a "veil" between different realms—such as the mundane and the magical, or the living and the dead—and how easy is it to cross?
What If: What if the veil was permanently removed? If everyone in your story could suddenly see everyone else's secrets and true forms, would society collapse or find peace?
🎭 Prompts
Visual Prompt: Sheer Fabric
Writing Prompt: Hidden Truths
📝 How to Participate Post your contribution anytime during the week. Submissions for this prompt are accepted until the following Monday at Midnight. Any submitted work for this theme submitted after, we will tag it as cc event: archive. If the pressure is too great, please skip it. We are a group who care about spoons. Participation can be a sketch, a headcanon, a short write-up, or a full WIP scene. Low-barrier engagement is welcome!
Tag @creators-club in the reply of your post so we can reblog and share it.
✨ Remember: This is about building community and celebrating creativity at all levels. Jump in however you can!
To join our event tag list or become a @creators-club member, please like, respond to, or reblog the following post: Current Members and Tag List.
Introduction: This week’s theme is Catalyst: open to writers, artists, readers, fic authors, indie authors, and everyone in between. Bring fanwork or originals. Explore the spark that starts the fire: the single choice, the chance meeting, or the sudden revelation that makes it impossible to ever go back to the way things were.
Participation is low-pressure and flexible: write, sketch, share a headcanon, or create analysis.
❓ Question(s):
Fandom Canon Character Reflection: What was the "point of no return" for this character in canon—the specific event that served as the catalyst for their entire character arc?
OC Reflection: If your character’s life is a chemical reaction, what was the one specific ingredient (an event or person) that changed them into who they are now? Why do they consider that moment their true beginning?
Story Reflection: Is the main conflict of your story a "slow burn" that builds over time, or was there one explosive catalyst that forced the plot into motion?
What If: What if the catalyst never happened? If that one spark was extinguished, would your characters have found a different way to grow, or would they have remained stagnant forever?
🎭 Prompts
Visual Prompt: Falling Dominoes
Writing Prompt: First Spark
📝 How to Participate Post your contribution anytime during the week. Submissions for this prompt are accepted until the following Monday at Midnight. Any submitted work for this theme submitted after, we will tag it as cc event: archive. If the pressure is too great, please skip it. We are a group who care about spoons. Participation can be a sketch, a headcanon, a short write-up, or a full WIP scene.
Low-barrier engagement is welcome! Tag @creators-club in the reply of your post so we can reblog and share it.
✨ Remember: This is about building community and celebrating creativity at all levels. Jump in however you can!
To join our event tag list or become a @creators-club member, please like, respond to, or reblog the following post: Current Members and Tag List.
New Article on Dreamwidth: The Metaphysics of the Dyad
I have just posted a deep dive into the Filum Aeternum: the Celestial soul-bond that anchors Bianca and Sephiroth across universes. This piece explores the visceral reality of their connection, moving beyond theory into the sensory grit of what it actually feels like to share a body with a SOLDIER or a Celestial.
Inside the Filum Aeternum
The article breaks down the physical and psychological toll of a bond that tethers two lives together through a visible Red Thread of Fate. It covers:
How Sephiroth’s Mako-saturated blood and the phantom weight of the Masamune disrupt Bianca’s life in Tuscany.
How Bianca’s nomadic survival and the agony of her flailing at age twenty manifested as invasive sensory noise for Sephiroth on Gaia.
Why they failed to recognize each other physically despite years of intimate meetings in the dreamscape.
Why their soul was originally divided and how the Kilonova Splitting Event eventually rendered that divine interference futile.
A Connection Beyond Worlds
From the metallic taste of SOLDIER rations overriding the flavors of Italy to the psychic anchor of a shared identity crisis, this post examines how their intertwined development forced a total cosmological reset.
The bond was never just a spiritual or romantic concept. It was the foundation for a new existence: or, as Sephiroth says, a godless parasite.
You can read the full breakdown over on my Dreamwidth.
[Link to Dreamwidth]
Fantasy Worlds Taglist: (+ / -) please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the list by a DM or an ask.
