#And the whole hope prevails over despair

[charulein]

I still really, really liked Endwalker, but gods if it wasn't a roller-coaster between utter elation and utter 'i hate this' xd

[cheddarchandelure]

Zenith Martlet might be my favorite video game boss but the fight is still absolutely devastating! Let me explain.

Throughout the pacifist route of Undertale Yellow (and neutral) Clover and Martlet form a very special bond, a bond with some maternal undertones. Hell, undertones is a stretch because at one point Martlet calls Clover her kiddo. So yeah, these bitches are found family and its great, I love them :). And while they may become separated at the end of the game, Martlet still cares very deeply for Clover.

Part of what makes their relationship bittersweet is how Clover is implied to have an unhappy homelife at best, and an abusive one at worst. Even before Flowey puts Clover on the alternative path, Clover wants to stay with Toriel. Its clear that Clover greatly desires a mother figure in their life, even before meeting Martlet. But once they do meet Martlet, she gets to act as their mother figure (and maybe also Ceroba but this ain't about her and even then the mother-child bond is stronger with Martlet and Clover) Even if for only a little bit, Clover finally gets a mother figure in their life.

And then we get to the genocide route. The once sweet Clover becomes corrupted by their twisted sense of """justice""" and seeks to eliminate all in their path. Not even Martlet can see the good in Clover. Her character arc about learning to trust and love a human despite Chujin's advice has gone the complete opposite direction. Now her arc is about Chujin's advice being Validated and seeking to stop the human threat. Clover has become so far gone that they are willing to pull a gun on Martlet, and Martlet's desire for humanity to be good has all but faded, and now she must put aside part of her good-natured self to stop Clover.

And thats whats so devastating, these two people who should have loved eachother, and been what the other needed, now want eachother dead. And to me, that is fucking heartbreaking.

Oh you thought I was done? Nope! I have one more thing about the Zenith fight I wanna point out, because from a story perspective, Martlet should have won.

Think about it, up to this point, the genocide route has been a story about evil prevailing. Clover has gone on an absolutel rampage, murdering innocent monsters left and right. But in the darkest hour the hero of the story, Martlet, gains incredible power to defeat the villian once and for all, to have good triumph over evil! A classic trope.

But thats not what happens, because this isn't a story about good triumphing over evil. The whole point of the genocide route is having Clover finally break free from fate but at the cost of literally everyone else and canon itself. The genocide route is a story of evil triumphing over good and plunging monsterkind into despair. So to have Martlet undergo a heroic transformation, to become the zenith of monsterkind, and still lose after everything all because this is isn't a story about heroes winning fucking devastates me.

I'm not sure if I managed to get my thoughts out in a intelligible manner but I hope you enjoyed my ramblings nonetheless, and who knows, maybe I helped you appreciate Zenith Martlet (and Martlet in general) some more!

[mariacallous]

(JTA) — This past week we entered the Hebrew month of Kislev, the month here in the Northern Hemisphere when we often experience the longest, darkest nights of the year. As the light contracts each day, I experience a tightening in my gut, an anxious fluttering of the heart. Time feels compressed, as if there aren’t enough hours in a day to do everything that needs doing. When the light fades at the end of these foreshortened days, I draw the blinds and turn on the lamps, wanting to make my home into an island of warmth and light in the face of the encroaching darkness.

My trepidation at the onset of night echoes the primal fear of the dark ascribed to the first mythic humans, Adam and Eve. A talmudic tale, found in Avodah Zarah 8a, imagines the two of them becoming frantic as darkness falls at the close of the first day of their lives. They’ve disobeyed God by eating from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and now they’re terror stricken. “Woe is me,” Adam wails, “that because I’ve sinned, the world is darkening around me! The world will return to chaos and emptiness; this is heaven’s death sentence upon me!”

In this midrash, Adam experiences the arrival of darkness as punishment. His words conjure up the kind of existential shudder that can overtake a person in the dark, as the familiar shapes and colors of the daytime world dissolve into the trackless night. No wonder that darkness is often a metaphor for the scariest of times, times like the present, when awash in grief, fear and anger, we bear witness to the atrocities of war, to hatred unleashed and suffering magnified, to shattered dreams and dampened hopes. “These are dark times,” we tell one another.

Perhaps it’s only natural that humans try to beat back the dark with our hearths, campfires and brilliant winter light displays. We Jews do this beginning on the 25th of Kislev, when we kindle Hanukkah candles in remembrance of the Hasmoneans’ military victory over the Seleucid Greeks and the rededication of the Jerusalem Temple. But on a more primal level, we do this to remind ourselves that even a tiny flame instantly dispels the deepest dark, offering hope, a light at the end of the tunnel.

And yet it strikes me that many of our tradition’s most transformational and transcendent moments unfold in the dark, in a dream space rich with spiritual potency. In Toldot, this week’s Torah portion, for instance, we meet Jacob, whose journey toward self-realization is bookended by two stirring night episodes. Fleeing from his wrathful brother, he has a prophetic dream in which angels ascend and descend a ladder stretching between heaven and earth while God looms over him, promising protection. Returning home some 20 years later, he engages in an all-night wrestling match with a mysterious being, perhaps his own shadow self, who ultimately blesses him as the dawn breaks, renaming him Israel, the one who strives with God and prevails.

Despite the anguish that darkness evokes, the dark times offer unique opportunities. They slow us down, inviting us to rest in the moment. Sometimes they force us to face painful truths. They challenge us to deepen our prayer life, strengthen our faith and resolve, and discover inner resources and possibilities for transformation we might not know we possess.

Years ago, I practiced walking in the woods at night without a flashlight and discovered that when I could breathe deeply and relax into the darkness, over time my eyes would adjust and I could see much more than I thought possible. Not just my eyes, but my whole body began to see in the dark in ways that I couldn’t in the light of day. I could find my way.

Adam and Eve, so the story goes, sat across from one another on that first traumatic night, fasting and weeping. When the dawn finally broke, they realized that the freshly created world was not coming to an end and that the alternation of light and dark, day and night, was simply the way of the world. Had they not felt so guilty and terrified they might have been able to look around with curiosity as the light waned, noticing how their eyes were primed to pick up many subtle shades of gray, the palette of darkness. Their vision might have gradually adjusted to the dark and, in the subtle glow of starlight, they might have been able to pick out the familiar, reassuring features of the other’s face and been calmed and comforted, even in the midst of their distress.

Could it be that in our yearning for the resurgence of the light, we fail to recognize and fully receive the gifts of darkness? That in drawing my blinds against the terrors of the night, I also shut out the vastness of the cosmos, the glimmering pinpoints of distant stars, the radiant winter moon, and the intimate, enveloping quiet of the dark?

[thenewfuture]

Well hey, at least you have some semblance of fail safe if y’all are stuck stuck.

I guess... Kinda weird Monokuma or whoever the heck's in charge trapped us and made a killing game, but also a way to get out of here. Doesn't real line up with the whole..."despair vibe"...

Yeah, that's true. I'm not entirely sure what the goal is here...

But we can worry about that after we get out of here, with everyone.

Even with the likes of Kyosuke and Juzo...? They seemed pretty dead set on killing us from what these two told us.

Absolutely. Look, the Foundation Branch Leaders may not always seem eye to eye a lot of the time, but we all want the same thing: to bring the world back to peace.

So I'm positive we can all work together in the end! Every one of us can overcome this game and strife towards hope! We won't despair, not again!

Makoto....

'Makoto....'

Heh heh heh... You're definitely worthy to be called the Ultimate Hope.

As I watched the killing game with everyone else. Your optimism and devotion to hope in the bleakest pits of despair stuck with many of the Foundation Leaders.

So I will follow your example. The Great Gozu will not give up and prevail over this bastard's game!

Hell yeah! I'm getting majorly psyched up too now!

Come on guys... You're gonna make me blush...

'Makoto keeps finding ways to stay positive and humble despite the circumstances. It's infectious...and admirable...'

[theluckywizard]

WIP Whenever

Thank you for the tag @rowanisawriter! <3

While my longfic is still eating up most of my writing time, I have started working on my Nightmare!AU where Rose Trevelyan and Dorian never return from 9:43 at the end of In Hushed Whispers, Leliana having shattered the amulet with an arrow when she put one in Alexius in a rage. The fic alternates between Rose's POV and Hawke's POV, who, in spite of the prevailing belief that Rose died a year ago, believes she'll return and has been hanging near her last known location waiting. Everyone think he's fuckin nuts. This is my third chapterlet in Hawke's POV.

Hawke draws nearer to Redcliffe Castle, near enough to see the bend of the veil around the keep, to hear the shriek of the terrors and despair demons, to feel the change in the air— liquid thick, the cloy of red lyrium heavy for the middle of the lake. Prickles skitter up and down him and he curses softly. He’s almost never uneasy, even in this blazing nightmare. Nudging aside the trepidation like a minor annoyance, he remembers what he can of the dream and he rows. A prisoner inside an impossible deep, Hawke sat unshackled but unmoving, beyond despair because despair would be something. The emptiness stretched infinitely in every direction inward and outward. He belonged to it and it belonged to him. A flicker of green captures his attention above him, a glimmer of light that filters through the depths casting a shadow as a figure approaches. Curiosity occupies the void first followed by radiance, like the whole of his insides is becoming a star. Hawke nearly stands in the dinghy when he looks over his shoulder and sees it, the craft wobbling so wildly halfway to his feet that he sits again before tipping into the water. A flicker of green strikes the tips of the waves accompanied by some distant splashing, a shadow of a half scuttled craft somewhere beyond. He can’t call out as Calenhad tended to amplify and multiply even the smallest sounds. Utterly gripped by the prospect, a neglected oar slides into the water. Fuck. He reaches a long arm into the water and fishes it back out, slipping it back into the oarlock and recenters his mind. It has to be her. So he rows, his hope pulsing along to the rhythm of his heart, calling him on. He could never restrain it even if he had a mind to, feeling it hurtle to the fore like a starved beast. The castle. The Elder One. The dream. The spark of green like a marked hand. The marked hand Varric had told him all about in his letters, each of them thick with adulation and hope. All the pieces are there, he just needs to ignore the fire in his upper back muscles and row. He’s drifting in off his last powerful pull, desperate bleats for help coming from two bedraggled men who don’t seem to understand how to stay afloat properly. Without hesitating, as if that marked hand promised safety, Hawke extends an oar to them, noting the staff one clings to. He feels his heart knocking against his ribs even as he sets to work assisting. The bearer of the mark passes one of the men closer to the oar, an apparently competent swimmer though she’s breathless from her exertions. Hawke lifts the men in, the dinghy listing sharply as he hauls them over the edge and they tumble into a sopping heap before reorganizing themselves, thanking the Maker, cursing in old Tevene, shivering and quaking some warmth back into their bones. She clings to the side of the boat catching her breath and then countered by the weight of the three men, heaves herself into a similar sprawl across the benches and coiled line. Slumped back against the bench opposite him she regards him tiredly, swiping away the wet strands of hair that cling to her face. “Maker you’re a beautiful sight,” she gasps and he suspects she’s only just now allowing herself to be exhausted. Likewise, he thinks, disbelief knocking away nearly all of his wits and every last one of his words as he sits before the Herald of Andraste, long presumed dead. Of course he’s always believed he was right, but being proven so is something else entirely. “Not to be rude, but could you perhaps get us out of here?” And he can’t help the radiance that swells in his chest.

Tagging @plisuu, @breninarthur, @skyeventide, @barbex, @nirikeehan, @monsterthalia, @monocytogenes, @warpedlegacywrites, @about2dance to share their stuff if they so desire!

[subhanki-blog]

In the labyrinthine aisles of my girlhood, darkness danced with the ghosts of trauma, intertwining a tapestry of grief that left an indelible mark upon my soul. From tender years when innocence should have reigned, I bore witness to the haunting ugliness of mental and physical abuse inflicted upon those I held dear, each blow echoing through the compartments of my heart like a thunderous drumbeat. The spectre of financial adversity loomed gigantic, casting a cloud of uncertainty over our household, breeding discord and despair amidst the struggle to make ends meet. Amidst the chaos, a menacing figure stalked the periphery of my existence – a violent man whose presence was a harbinger of terror, his rage a tempest that threatened to engulf us all. Yet amidst the turmoil, I found myself grappling not only with outward threats but also with the uproar of my mind. Mental health issues gnawed at the rims of my consciousness, a silent adversary that threatened to consume me whole. In the crucible of adversity, I forged a fragile resilience, clinging to the flickering flame of hope that burned within me. Each day was a warfare, each moment a test of perseverance, yet somehow, through sheer force of will, I prevailed. And though the scars of my past may never fully fade, they serve as a testament to the strength and resilience that lie within the human spirit, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is light to be found.

[tobiasdrake]

Kinda obsessed about Junko Enoshima lately.

Junko is the kind of villain that is uncomfortable even to win against, because it's hard to come away from a Danganronpa feeling like any victory has been had. Even in the big cathartic final showdown, there's nothing triumphant about defeating Junko.

She's not a villain that really can be defeated. She can only be survived. And less than 2/3 of the characters introduced at the start of the game will survive her.

That's the real horror of Junko Enoshima as a character. Who she is and what she's about robs the story of its catharsis the moment you take the time to think about what's really transpired here. She'd already won by the time the doors closed. Everything that happens in the Killing Game is simply deliberating the extent of her victory.

Like. This is kind of a thing with killers, specifically, as villains. Yeah, we get to have the big Triumph of Hope over Despair finale and that's very nice for the five or six people who are alive to see it. But everyone else died a horrible, gruesome death and you can't take that back by defeating the latest incarnation of Junko.

Like. Beating Junko doesn't unkill Sayaka. Sayaka witnessed what was probably the corpses of the people she held more dearly than her life and was so traumatized by it that she tried to murder Leon and frame Makoto for it, in an act that went so horribly wrong that she wound up stabbed to death in Makoto's bathroom.

Sayaka bled out against a cold concrete wall, her last thoughts probably terror and despair for never truly knowing what happened to her idol group. She died in desperation and terror, and nothing will ever change that. You can't unkill people by thwarting the mastermind. These lives, ended in despair, belong to Junko now.

Makoto's story may end in unmasking Junko and bringing an end to the first Killing Game. But Sayaka's story ended right there in that bathroom. Sakura's story ends in a bottle of suicide. Kiyotaka and Mondo, best bros for life, end their stories in blunt force trauma and a spinning wheel of doom, respectively - After Mondo ends Chihiro's story in a fit of jealous rage. But we're all very happy that Makoto got to live, I'm sure.

This is kinda what the whole twist in V3 was about: You can't really win the Killing Game because its very existence is a net loss for human life. The players in the game aren't Junko's opponents. They're her victims.

It's a very different dynamic to a lot of other types of media. It's why I find myself going back to Light Yagami a lot. Junko plays for keeps, and you can't really thwart that. You can only bring an end to the carnage so that no one else will have to suffer. There is no victory to be had over her; Only a cessation of the pain she's causing. You can't bring back the people who didn't deserve to die.

And that. Hurts. It's hard not to come away with a deep nugget of remorse for the harm that couldn't be prevented. It hurts so much that the creators of the DG3 anime took advantage of the fact that DG2 happens in a simulation to go back and unkill everybody, even though DG2 explicitly said that its deaths count for real. That's how bad the realization that Junko won messes with people.

Because.

Well.

She did.

All she wanted to do was to cause harm. Her sole motive is that she's an emotional sadomasochist who gets off on inflicting and experiencing trauma. And over the course of every Killing Game, she gets to inflict an awful lot of trauma. Every time someone dies in despair, Junko wins. Every time someone breaks from the grief, Junko wins. And she wins a lot more than she loses.

And that's why she stays with us. According to the Guiness Book of World Records, Junko Enoshima holds the record for most cosplayed video game character. Because even if she's unmasked in the end, we can never truly forget the pain she made us feel along the way.

Hope may prevail in the final moments, but Despair has a real good time getting there.

[valleyfthdolls]

if you had to change the 3 masterminds of the danganronpa games (no more junko izuku or tsumugi) who would they be and why? :)

BNHA TYPO

Ok teasing out of the way this is cool! I’ll go through this one by one

Danganronpa 1/Trigger Happy Havoc: There are lots of mastermind AUs for this game especially, because I think that this one was very open, and shaped the narrative for at least the second game. Full disclosure, I actually think that Junko’s reveal was ridiculously stupid. And it’s funny, because I know the idea is to kind of deconstruct and further explore a lot of tropes with the first game, but there isn’t much that can be done to make “you all thought I was dead but I faked my death and it was my twin sister disguised as me”… not as stupid as it kind of inherently is. The game isn’t fully self serious, obviously, but it’s comical how stupid that whole thing is conceptually.

At the same time, I laugh about its stupidity, but I also don’t think anything but an over the top reveal like that could work. And this is one of my biggest gripes with V3- its mastermind reveal is so, SO underwhelming to me. So I also look for a character who could play it way up like Junko.

My first thought is Sayaka Maizono. Sayaka is not the irredeemable monster a lot of fans see her as, but she isn’t a good person. Her relationship with Makoto is dripping with codependency and manipulation. It’s understandable that she’s scared for her life and desperate for all her work to not have been for nothing, but we see firsthand how she is willing to use and hurt everyone around her because of how much her fame matters to her.

In a situation where instead of Junko almost singlehandedly destroying humanity, it would be more accurate to say humanity destroys itself, Sayaka is afraid for both the destruction being caused, but more importantly for the nihilism of it all- nothing she has done up until this point matters at all. With the world being destroyed, she stands in the dust, and she needs to rise above it so she can hold onto that fame that she’s given up her whole life for. She needs to do something drastic to ensure she is not forgotten here.

Looks over at my DR OC Virgil and his failed murder attempt for the exact same reason that got two innocent girls killed and which he gained absolutely zip from

Anyways, Sayaka could also fake her own death- probably more akin to Mukuro’s than her actual murder bc I see no reason to take Leon’s actions off his shoulders- so that the others would kind of see her as a martyr, someone who had hope, wanted them to carry on, all of these good things she wasn’t. Ensuring that she will be missed and adored- up until her reveal, which ensures that she will be remembered.

In this way, Sayaka becomes a different kind of antithesis to Makoto. One not as direct as Junko. Sayaka is world famous, Makoto just your average joe off the street. Sayaka is willing to end lives for her own. Makoto lets the others sacrifice him and forgives them. Sayaka has seen the destruction and believes that is all there is except her. Makoto sees these people and wants to help them, wants everyone to be happy and believes firmly that everyone is good. That the world Sayaka has had to learn to play like a game is good.

So my choice for Danganronpa 1/Trigger Happy Havoc is Sayaka Maizono, in an AU in which the mastermind is not the cause of the tragedy.

Super Danganronpa 2/Goodbye Despair: This one is difficult, because the whole narrative hinges on the remnants of despair, and thus, it’s difficult to swap masterminds. I have a few ideas, in order of quality.

#1: Nagito Komaeda. I’ve heard, though I don’t know about its canonicity, that Nagito was never actually brainwashed- he was simply in it to see the ultimate despair and ultimate hope act as one, and always believed that hope would prevail in the end. I don’t know if that’s canon or if it was just a headcanon I saw, but this makes Nagito an interesting candidate. If he knows or finds out about Makoto’s intention to rehabilitate them, he may instead want to see a true battle between hope and despair for them to win.

#2: All of them. Hear me out: forcing the remnants to be responsible for their own actions by offering them the opportunity to be saved and having them consciously refuse and try to turn it sour so they don’t have to fix what they’ve done, they can keep being evil and destructive and violent. It gives them responsibility for the things they did, and it raises moral ambiguity: would it have been right to kill them? They didn’t want to be rehabilitated. They didn’t want to be saved. Makoto did it against their will, and was that truly correct? Any more so than executing them? Who really is right here?

#3: The Future Foundation.

HEAR ME OUT.

The foundation discovers what Makoto is doing, and of course is going to try him for treason, but they also want to test him, and test the remnants. See if they truly can be saved, or if the best path forward is to disconnect the simulation, execute all of them, and then try Makoto for treason.

So they compose a test. They have what remains of the original Monokuma AI after it has been crushed with Junko. (My condolences to the guy who had to fish through THAT to find it.) If the survivors of Junko’s game found the will to make a change in the world and joined them, then the remnants who can make it out of this game may be worth sparing. If this game kills all of them who die in the simulation, so be it- it’s for the greater good.

Of my three suggestions, though, I think my personal choice for Super Danganronpa 2/Goodbye Despair is the entire fucking cast.

Danganronpa V3/Killing Harmony: The Tsumugi reveal was so stupid it makes me unbelievably angry and I don’t know why. It felt underwhelming, I guess. Building up to a massive reveal, but it seemed to not really live up to itself. Y’know?

I think honestly that the whole… big plot twist of V3 doesn’t make much sense, but I’m going to bypass that for now because I’m not here to rewrite the whole story.

Working within the constraints of said plot twist (this is a reality show, probably inspired by Junko’s killing game, that actually kills its contestants and permanently alters their brains so they believe this is the real world), I’d say my choice would be Rantaro- not for the whole show, just for the 53rd season.

Unfortunately I don’t have much that’s interesting to say about this idea- V3 is a game I just don’t really get in its entirety. I just really don’t.

For Danganronpa V3/Killing Harmony, my choice is Rantaro Amami, though I don’t have any follow up to that.

Someday I’ll thoroughly rewrite V3’s plot I think, if you’re curious to hear about that!

[toomuchfrogsummer]

K2Roxas

Quotes and excerpts from various Kingdom Hearts Games.

I've been having these weird thoughts lately. Like is any of this real or not? [Sora and Kairi finding themselves while they have the comfort of each other]

{Back then, taking the leap}

Thinking of you wherever you are. We pray for our sorrows to end and hope that our hearts will blend. Now I will step forward to realize this wish. Who knows, starting a new journey may not be so hard or maybe it's already begun. There are many worlds but they share the same sky. One sky, one destiny. Light, the door to light. We'll go together. [Sora exploring other worlds, coming back to the shore of Kairi]

Sora: 'We're Back.'

Kairi: 'You're Home.'

{Back then, finding their truth}

The fear and despair... Taken the forbidden path... Be ready to make the the ultimate sacrifice. Everyone always told me to just follow my heart, but follow my heart? Hearts are all connected. Trace the connection. It's so pretty. I've been having weird thoughts lately, like is any of this real or not?

{The fall, leaning into the truth}

It's finally over. No... My whole journey began the day I lost her and every time I find her she slips away again. I thought we'd finally be together but she's out there, alone. The power of waking isn't to go chasing hearts around.

[Kairi sitting on the ocean's edge crying as Sora fades away.]

As foretold, darkness prevailed and light expired... It's not over.

'That's not fair. I know I had you.'

'Yes you nearly did. A game is no fun if you know where it's going. There's more to life than meets the eye. Some light comes from the past.'

Sora: 'Where am I?'

'To become your old self again and return to the real world, you'll have to piece yourself back together in this world first.'

Sora: 'Why am I in pieces?'

'You're conceptually in pieces.'

Namine (fruit, kindness) from Kairi's heart, ejected by a powerful darkness, 'I'm so glad that you managed to hold on to who you are. Kairi is fighting with all her strength to keep you from fading away. She's holding you together. Once she is safe again, I will return to her.'

{The now, trying to find our new normal, alone}

If this isn't the ending you desired, if it brings you despair, then leave this world for another. Your options are endless. The heart resides within the soul, which in turn is guided by fate to its rightful place. The choice is yours once more. You've been asleep since you arrived...

This is Quadratum. It's a world full of life. For you and I, It's similar to an afterworld. If you do leave this world behind, don't expect to return to the one from which you came.

My Own Closing Notes:

For the record, I never hated you. I tried to support you the best I could without abandoning myself. I was drowning too. No one was there to save me. I had to let go to save myself. You are doing great, you were great. You got this. Don't stop believing in yourself, I never did even through the hurt. People say I'm a fool. Maybe I am. I saw you, see you and chose not to let that part of you go. You will always be that person that stood next to me through it all. You were there for me when I asked you to. That is my problem, I don't ask enough for what I need. There are two sides to everything, it wasn't all on you. I am happy for you. I miss you as a friend, the person I could talk to about anything, who knew me and I knew you. I'm in a world where connecting is hard. I'm trying to figure it out. I am glad I didn't listen to the outside influences. I never wanted to go to war with you. I did have to stand my ground for what I needed and deserved, at a minimum. I never wanted to break or hurt you. I know you do that internally to yourself enough. I hope you have learned to let go of the shame, guilt and pressure you put yourself under. I hope you are happy and thriving and honest with yourself about what you want out of life. I will figure myself out. For now, the world is scary and disappointing. There are glimpses of hope that there could be more to my life. Either that or delusions. Ha. Anyway, I love you and wanted to say it was really fun. I enjoyed it. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Thank you for holding my hand while I found myself, really saw the world and the beautiful people in it.

[bobfuckinseger]

Bob Seger's Chaotic Rampage Stuns Port Huron: Rock Legend's Outburst Ends in Violence

PORT HURON, MI — In a bizarre and shocking series of events, rock legend Bob Seger descended upon the decaying and depressed town of Port Huron yesterday afternoon, leaving a trail of chaos and bewilderment in his wake.

Seger, riding a Harley Davidson with a warm case of Stroh's beer in his backpack, arrived in town seemingly agitated. Witnesses first saw him at the Blue Water Bridge, where he launched into an inexplicable tirade. “What’s the big deal with bridges anyway? They’re just fancy roads that go over water! Waste of metal if you ask me!” he shouted, waving his arms wildly and drawing the attention of confused onlookers.

Seger’s wrath then turned toward the Huron Lightship Museum. “Lighthouses! Who even needs these things anymore? We’ve got GPS and all sorts of tech now! This whole town is stuck in the past!” His voice echoed across the marina, startling wildlife and locals alike.

The situation escalated further when Seger barged into a local diner, disrupting the peaceful afternoon crowd. “And don’t get me started on the food here!” he bellowed. “I’ve been to places with real cuisine, and let me tell you, this town doesn’t know the first thing about a good meal! It’s all just greasy spoon garbage!” Diners looked on in shock, their meals forgotten.

During his erratic march through the streets, Seger paused to recount a particularly wild experience. “You people think this is crazy? I once had an acid trip on Mackinac Island that makes this look like a church picnic! I was seeing colors you wouldn't believe, talking to the horses, and ended up in the lake! That's real adventure, not this boring excuse for a town!” He then added with a chilling laugh, “And you know what? I should have killed Kid Rock when I had the chance!”

As Seger continued, he berated everything from historic buildings to local parks, loudly declaring, “You call this a town? I’ve seen better places on the back of cereal boxes!” He didn't spare the local music scene either, calling all the local cover bands “jag bags and clown dicks,” further deepening the shock among the townspeople.

The climax of Seger’s rampage came near the local police station. In a fit of frustration, he pulled out his guitar and hurled it through the window of a parked police car, shattering the glass and drawing immediate attention from law enforcement.

Initially, the responding officers, recognizing the rock star, were prepared to let him off with a stern warning. However, Seger’s anger only intensified. “You hillbillies don’t understand what rock ‘n’ roll means!” he screamed. “You’re all just small-town nobodies who can’t appreciate real music or real freedom!”

As tensions rose, the officers, now feeling threatened, reached for their guns. In a shocking display of agility, Seger executed a spin kick, disarming both officers in one fluid motion. Their guns clattered to the ground, leaving the officers stunned and the gathered crowd in silent awe.

Breathing heavily, Seger stood for a moment before turning away. He got back on his Harley and rode off, the strains of “Turn the Page” drifting faintly as he disappeared into the distance.

In the aftermath, many citizens found themselves reluctantly agreeing with Seger’s harsh assessment. “This town is depressed and losing population,” one resident admitted. “Maybe we needed someone like him to shake things up and make us face reality.” With a high unemployment rate, a proliferation of low-wage jobs, and a devastating opiate problem, Port Huron has been struggling for years.

The once-vibrant community now faces a grim reality, further highlighted by Seger’s chaotic visit. While some hoped for change, the prevailing sentiment was one of despair. Bob Seger’s unexpected rampage has left an indelible mark on Port Huron, serving as a harsh reminder of the town’s ongoing struggles and uncertain future.

[battlestarraven]

🌟 23 Glorious Years of the Battlestar Galactica Fanclub! 🌟

Dear Battlestar Galactica fans around the world,

Today marks a truly special occasion as we gather to commemorate the 23rd anniversary of the Battlestar Galactica Fan Club. It is a momentous milestone that reminds us of the incredible journey we embarked upon, exploring the vast expanse of space and the depths of our own humanity.

Battlestar Galactica has captivated our imaginations, transporting us to a universe where hope and despair, love and loss, and courage and sacrifice intertwine in a mesmerizing tapestry of storytelling. The groundbreaking series of both the TOS and Re-imagined, with its visionary creators, talented cast, and dedicated crew, has left an indelible mark on the landscape of science fiction and television as a whole.

As fans, we've laughed, cried, and cheered alongside our beloved characters, sharing in their triumphs and tribulations. We've marveled at the intricate complexities of the Cylons, pondered the nature of artificial intelligence, and contemplated the eternal struggle between good and evil. Battlestar Galactica has not only entertained us but also challenged our perceptions, prompting us to reflect upon the human condition and the choices we make in the face of adversity.

Through its thought-provoking narratives, Battlestar Galactica has fostered a vibrant and passionate community that spans the globe. It has brought together people from all walks of life, transcending borders, cultures, and backgrounds. We have connected over our shared love for this awe-inspiring universe, forging friendships and fostering a sense of belonging that is truly extraordinary.

Let us take a moment to express our heartfelt gratitude to the brilliant minds behind Battlestar Galactica starting with —Glen A. Larson, Ronald D. Moore and all the writers, directors, actors, and crew members who poured their hearts and souls into creating this masterpiece. Their dedication and creativity have turned a science fiction series into a work of art, leaving an enduring legacy that continues to resonate with us to this day.

As we celebrate this momentous anniversary, let us remember the lessons we have learned from Battlestar Galactica. It has taught us that even in the face of insurmountable odds, hope can prevail. It has shown us that our differences can be our greatest strengths, and that unity and cooperation can overcome any obstacle. It has reminded us of the power of compassion and the significance of preserving our humanity in the darkest of times.

So, let us raise our glasses in a toast to Battlestar Galactica—a testament to the boundless power of storytelling and the strength of the human spirit. May its legacy continue to inspire us, ignite our imaginations, and bring us together as a global community united by our love for this extraordinary series.

KEEPING THE FAITH ALIVE!!! - SO SAY WE ALL!

V/R

DragonLady

BFC President

NOTE: This wonderful and beautiful poster was designed by my adoptive brother and BFC Admiral - Mike A. Rivera

[aintashes]

daryl’s body feels like it’s falling apart as he pushes his way toward the river; like his limbs are disconnecting and like his skin is boiling off in the fire rick set. wave after wave of agony rolls through him, a lightning strike spreading through his every nerve ending and burning them all to dust. daryl's normal confidence and skills go out the window as his feet tramp with reckless abandon through the underbrush, leaving a trail behind him that an experienced tracker like himself might even call a walker's tracks based on the nearly drunken way his shoes plod through the mud.

this isn't like when merle died. brother by way of womb, tethered by name and by flesh, merle's death was a mercy: to him, to daryl, and to the world at large. merle dixon was incapable of true change. he was a song that played on repeat for eternity. one that hoped every time that you'll forget how it began and ended so it could go around just one more time. his brother's influence shaped the way he lived and breathed until death came for him— one of the first in daryl's long line of losses. absent once and for all; it was the very last time merle could ever leave him.

rick spoke of mercy. of humanity prevailing over anger, and how to walk the thin line of righteousness. of forgiveness, and goodness, and lawful leniency. where is the mercy in this? daryl can't find it: it's not in the trees that bruise his shoulders as his clumsy footsteps lead him to collide with coarse trunks; it's not in the tears that cloud his vision and wet his face; it's not in the blood that begins to bead up from his broken skin.

the only mercy will be finding him before it's too late. with the way daryl knows how to track people down, he feels he may be the only one who can.

traversing down to the shoreline, daryl makes his way to where he knows the rushing rapids at the bridge let out into slightly calmer waters. if he's going to find rick anywhere this soon after his fall, it should be here. he tosses his bow onto the ground and immediately steps into the river.

‘ rick? ’     daryl looks around frantically, eyes tearing apart every crevice where rick's body could possibly be caught up or floating. he’s not here. he’s got to be farther down. daryl has got to get farther down the shore.

slogging through the river, daryl follows its flow, watching as walkers and pieces of debris float along from where the bridge was blown upstream. his breath comes ragged from his lungs, mouth hanging open as he peers through the water and across the opposite shoreline.     ‘ rick! ’     he calls out again, but he doesn’t see anything. he doesn’t see anything.

it doesn’t take long for his body to succumb to the exhaustion that such a deep loss inflicts.     ‘ rick! ’     daryl shouts, his voice breaking.     ‘ ... rick... ’     his legs finally give out beneath him and he collapses in the shallow edge of the water, swallowed by grief and absolutely soaked. his whole body shakes as he suffers a shattered cry. it’s agonizing. it feels like he’s dying.

his hands move to clutch helplessly at the sand beneath him as despair rips apart his throat with sobs. slowly he sinks down until he’s laying on his side, unable to hold himself up anymore.

           if honest is what he's being forced to be, peter is sincerely quite surprised that daryl doesn't react to his attempt to intercept him more harshly. while he likes to think that the archer would never purposefully hurt him at this point, daryl isn't known for his ability to keep a hold of his temper— and grief? why, it drives people to do the worst things imaginable.

           why else would the majority of violent crime— before the world crumbled and became what it is now anyway— be within the 'crimes of passion' category?

           ❛ ... ❜ daryl lauds him as somebody who 'always knows what to say', and peter has always refuted that. maybe now he'll finally believe him.

           there's a sinking sensation in his chest that he's felt only a handful of times in his life; it starts roughly where his heart is, spreading outwards as if being fed to the rest of him through roots, before plunging into his stomach. its velocity is so intense that it's nauseating. from there, it smothers his body in dissociative static, rendering him blank and bare. daryl looks so helpless, so haunted and exhausted, and peter can do nothing about it.

           as daryl makes off into the woods, peter remains paralysed in place, not seeing the forest nor the trees. it's am that brings him back; a light shock to his palm jolting his body back into the land of the living.

           now is not the time to lose yourself, master. you're needed.

           though he'd argue vehemently against that at any other time, he'd heard the sound daryl had made while hunched against that tree. seen him stumbling his way through the brush as if he'd never stepped foot in the woods before. if they've hit the point in which daryl dixon looks at the wild as if it isn't familiar, even somebody like peter can be of some use in the way of bringing him back to earth.

           still, peter knows him well enough to know that he has no choice but to follow daryl for now. only when he exhausts himself will he stop. he certainly isn't physically strong enough to make even a dent in his progression, and his magic is by no means potent enough to utilise against another person effectively yet. what's he going to do, draw a sigil at his feet?

           and so he follows, with all the loyalty of a dog, in spite of his tingling limbs and his bleary eyes and his gaping hopelessness. he doesn't need to have known rick to be affected by his death. such heroism while in the final stretch of living will surely stain his subconscious for years to come— and if he's this troubled by the ex-sheriff's untimely departure, he can only imagine the roiling agony that daryl is in.

           there's a part of him that's grateful for the bite of the river as he and daryl push through its meek current. it chews through the fabric of his jeans with ease, chilling him decently quickly. it provides just enough feeling to stay on task.

           some point soon, daryl is going to break. you need to help when he does.

[silkylious]

Limbo (Bakugo Katsuki x Fem!Reader)

Pairing: bakugo katsuki x female reader warnings: heavy angst, eventual tiny bit of fluff at the end

omf this request is so nice i feel so bad that my writing is literally garbage in this, but thank you sm for requesting this!! <3 and im so sorry if i didn’t do your request justice (i legit hate my writing here :’))

To say the state of your relationship was unbearable would be the euphemism of the century.

Your thoughts often ran amuck, always hopelessly crawling back to that one despaired curiosity; wondering if he shared the same sentiment about your wishy-washy “friends” status as you did. He probably didn’t. That’s the seemingly unshakable brick wall that would inevitably dead-end your lovesick daydreams, each and every time. Though when his roughed-up hands linger on your skin a millisecond too long, when his steeled stare melts, hard rubies morphing into blazing lava pits, threatening to mar your very heart and soul with their scorching intensity –you’re not exactly certain you’d mind that– that’s when a flicker of something ignites within you. Hope, longing, doubt. Whatever it is, it terrifies you. Because you’re agonizingly aware of what that entails. He’s got you hook, line and sinker, but torturously he refuses to do anything with that. Almost like pulling someone in for a hug then abruptly and without explanation stopping midway, he keeps you at arm’s length. Not too far, not too close. And how that cycle destroyed you.

Katsuki was the type to jump into action and ask questions later. Except a lot of the times when these questions pertain to his own emotions, he didn’t even try to answer them, opting to shove them to the corners of his psyche, collecting dust, steadily accumulating until they become too much to ignore and he (sometimes quite literally) explodes. It’s a vicious loop that he could never break away from, he’d even come to find a sordid comfort in it. His coping mechanism was by no means healthy, far from it, but he’d grown familiar to the toxicity.

Katsuki couldn’t make heads nor tails of his feelings for you. Whenever he impulsively threw himself into the lion’s den that was your affection, caught in the moment, in the glimmer of genuine adoration in your eyes, he never came back the same. A piece of his heart would irreversibly split off and reside in the palm of your hand, he was scared that nothing would be left of it, that he wouldn’t be able to regain his bearings until it was too late. You so effortlessly juggled with his feelings, all with a single smile, it scared him that you had so much power over the fluttery sensation in his chest and yet, in the moment, it felt good. It felt so good to indulge in whatever fucky feeling was messing with his head, to let you hold him in the depths of obscurity with all prying eyes shut and what little words exchanged hushed. It felt so alleviating to feel skin on his own (for once not in battle), gentle, comforting but not coddling. It was unspoken between you that you were both more than friends. You knew it, he knew it. Neither of you ever mentioned it. What neither of you knew, however, was how far the other’s feelings ran.

But as high as your silent love made him feel, he crashed back down into the concrete when he was left to his own devices. Without your intoxicating scent, distracting touches fogging his rationality, Katsuki had all the time in the world to overthink. And overthink he did. His pride picked apart the delicate flowering in his heart, ripping it petal by petal until nothing was left but a garden of beautifully withered leaves, a condemnation to what he considered a weakness.

Katsuki was a taker by every sense of the word. Basking in your wispy adoration, only to brush you aside in favor of focusing on academics once he’d had his fill of your love. It was sickening.

Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t outright confessed to him, maybe that’s what soothed the overbearing guilt that crawled up his throat whenever he saw that dejected face of yours, the one you made because of him. If your feelings for him ran deep, surely you would have said something by now, at least that’s what he thought. Or more precisely, that’s the excuse his mind conjured up in hopes of easing his conscious, trying to convince himself that self that yes, he was hurting you, but at least he wasn’t hurting you that bad. He was infinitely aware that this doesn’t put him in any sort of moral high ground, nor does it justify his actions, but, again, it was a last-ditch effort to relieve his anguish if just by a little bit, even if he knew that excuse was bullshit.    

Surely he knew, there’s no way in hell someone as hawk-eyed as him didn’t notice the tyranny he held over the porcelain pitter-pattering of your heart, didn’t notice the fleeting, love-filled glances you sent his way. This was getting ridiculous, you were starting to believe he was taking some twisted sense of pleasure from your heartache, but he wouldn’t do that, right? He didn’t derive some sick kick out of having you indefinitely under his thumb, at his beck and call… right? A few months ago, you would have answered those uncertainties with a resounding “No!” defending his cruel behavior till the bitter end. But now…

Now you weren’t so sure.

And yet you still found yourself in his dorm, on his bed. It was supposed to be another study gathering, but one thing was glaringly missing. Y’know… the gathering. Kirishima was out training and he hadn’t bothered to invite the rest of his brain-dead, self-proclaimed squad. And that’s how you found yourself alone. With your best friend and secret crush. Just dandy.

Your hands were restless. Pulling at the seams of his blanket, cracking your own fingers, picking up your pencil for a brief moment of concentration, answering one or two questions only to drop it back on the mattress again and fidget some more. Katsuki wasn’t fucking blind, and your unease was ticking him off. Though he surprisingly hadn’t said a thing about it just yet, he was clearly nearing his wit’s end. His silence didn’t prevail for much longer, the meek sigh and not so subtle glance you chanced his way being his tipping point.

“What.” It came out as a statement, a demand rather than a question. What was he demanding? He hadn’t thought of that yet, his temperamental limbs already taking the wheel and pressing on the gas without a destination in mind, just being short fused for the sake of it. Was it even his place to be making demands in this situation? Katsuki knew the answer to this one like the back of his hand, a solid no.

“What…?” You really had no idea what Bakugo was expecting with a question like that. He still had the audacity to roll his eyes.

“The hell’s got you so jumpy?”

“It’s nothing…” It was a lot more than nothing, that’s for sure.

“Don’t lie to me, (name). What the fuck is up with you?” Ah, there it is again. That look. His words were as cut-throat as ever, and his mouth was still pulled into that seemingly permanent scowl. But his eyes conveyed something that was whole worlds asunder from his harsh tone. Golden brows furrowed as they usually were, though unusually upturned just the slightest bit. You despised that look. It ensured that you’ll forever be caught in his grasp, forever there for him when he never spared you the time of day.

Your lungs constricted by a force of gorgeously wretched agony. Katsuki wasn’t fair when he bared his soul to you like this, it filled you with such fervent euphoria that torrefied its way through your being, singeing your veins with luminous infatuation. And it hurt. Because you knew he’d cage himself right up as soon as the moment of vulnerability perished.

A crystalline sheen permeated your vision. This wasn’t going to end well.  

“I said it’s nothing,” Your voice raised. You hadn’t meant for the words to be as frosty as they came out, but it seemed like your subconscious was utterly done with the tedium of heartbreak he keeps putting you through.

“What is fucking wrong with you? I was literally just asking why you were being so goddamn obnoxious today and then you go and make a big fuckin’ deal out of nothing!”

“Well, maybe I’m just fucking tired of giving you everything I have and getting nothing in return, Katsuki!”

Your chest rose and fell with each scalding breath that entered your lungs. The blood through your veins was pumping. Never had you been confrontational, and your sudden outburst wasn’t exactly welcome to your system. You wanted to vomit. This was not how you wanted things to turn out, you absolutely needed to leave, distance yourself from the emotional strain he was inflicting on you.  

Without taking notice of the panicked glint in the cherry red of his irises, you bolted out of the suddenly claustrophobic room, leaving Katsuki to stare at his agape door before flickering his unfocused attention to your supplies still laying on his bed.

Katsuki erupted time and time again, with you being as patient as a receiving end could ever be. It’s specifically because of your godly patience that he never considered what he would do once you erupted.

With your back sliding down your dorm room door, and little friction stopping your descent, you wondered and maybe even wished he’d call after you, come banging on your door with bristling apologies on the tip of his tongue. However, the jarring reality was very clear to you. You’d decided on that day, with your head buried in your tear-stained pillow, that these were the last tears you’d ever shed on him, that you were going to put him through the same wringing hell he’d put you through.

You were going to ignore Bakugo Katsuki’s existence just like he’d periodically ignored yours.

The following week had been bleak at best and excruciatingly bitter at its worst for the both of you. It was so strange having to adjust to the absence of the other, even if your company more often than not had been a quiet one, it was company nevertheless. The most grueling part though, was your shared friend group. They’d noticed that something was obviously awry, but since neither of you said a thing about it, they decided it would be best if they didn’t either. The awkward dead silences during lunch were still purgatory to behold. But after a few more slow paced days, the sun seemed to shine bright again. For you, that is.

You didn’t realize how much of your schedule revolved around Bakugo until he was completely out of it. How much time you spent with him, dreading him, thinking about him… him, him, him. He’d consumed your thoughts from the first sparks of dawn till the hallows of dusk. You had so much free time now that he was out of the picture, it was crazy. The more time you spent on yourself, on your hobbies, getting to know other classmates outside of your immediate friend circle, the duller the ache in your chest. Until it was but a static buzz. Yet you couldn’t deny that, with time, your fury had mellowed out, leaving behind a cold loneliness you couldn’t elude whenever your aimless stare landed on him, almost like it was drawn to him by muscle memory.

He was the exact opposite.

You’d think the throbbing within him whenever you finally gazed his way then instantaneously looked in the opposite direction would knock come modicum of sense into his stubborn head. But nope. And seeing you thrive without him only cemented what he already knew. He really was no good for you. So much so that it barely took anytime for you to readjust to the lack of him in your life, and not only did you adjust, you were the best he’s ever seen you both mentally and academically. In the first week of you ditching him completely, his bruised ego kept him for reaching out to you, but now, seeing that elated grin on your face –the one that had been gradually dwindling over the past few months– he didn’t want to take your newfound happiness away, he’d figured he’d done you more than enough harm already.

Heart heavy with reluctance, Katsuki made the decision to give up on your relationship. Deciding to wordlessly cheer you on from the sidelines and watch you bloom, flourishing into the person he robbed you of being for a chunk of your life, though whenever your spring hit, it would be without him. Until some day in the future where his pride wasn’t as suffocating, where he could genuinely, wholeheartedly repent his grievances and only hope for your forgiveness.

Kirishima never took Bakugo for a quitter, hell would freeze over before he even thought such a thing. So this was certainly a shock. What was even more shocking ­– and overwhelmingly concerning– was the fact that Katsuki had willingly, on his own accord confided in him, and he’d, in his own roundabout way, taken accountability for being a gigantic douche to you. As much as the redhead respected his friend’s decision to stay clear of you, he couldn’t help but wish you’d just talk to one another for once. Kirishima really was a saint, having to listen to two idiots ramble about how much they miss the other.

“Listen, man. I know you feel bad and all that, but maybe you should just talk to her? I’m sure she’d like some closure on this just as you do, even if that doesn’t mean things will go back to the way they were.” Eijirou tried to reason, praying to whatever higher being out there that Katsuki would just get the fuck over himself and communicate with you.

“Fuck no. That’s not fucking happening, shitty hair,” Kirishima rolled his eyes at the oh so affectionate nickname, thoroughly done with his best friend’s melodrama. Welp, I guess there’s only one thing left to try. He heaved internally, mentally and physically preparing himself for Bakugo’s tantrum.

“Well, you know that if you won’t talk to her, others will, right? I heard some guys saying they’re gonna ask her ou–”

“Shut the fuck up! I don’t give a rat’s ass who asks her out!” He definitely did. Eijirou hid his smile. Checkmate.

“Whatever you say, dude.”

Later that day, three distinctly powerful knocks woke you up. Needless to say, you didn’t think that night would end up with you and Katsuki staring each other down, seated on your bed at one in the morning. Words got stuck in his throat, so he just… noiselessly watched your face, as if trying to telepathically ram his constipated emotions into you, in hopes that you’d make sense of them. Obviously, that didn’t work.

“Did you come banging on my door at one in the morning just to stare at me, Bakugo? I mean I know I’m pretty but still–”

“Shuddup.” Not really the best thing to say to you after weeks of radio silence. You were about to make another salty remark, but he opened his mouth first.

“I fucked up,” The fact that he was acknowledging he was at fault was… something. But that wasn’t nearly enough to pay off the debt off turmoil he’d caused you.

“No shit.” You replied without missing a beat. The ice that tinged your words caught him off guard, but he really shouldn’t have been surprised. He sighed, knowing he’d have to strip himself of everything, including his pride (especially his pride) down to his very core, to have a go at a second chance.

And so, he did.

He poured his everything out for you to observe, without an ego film distorting his words. Syllables reeked of muted agony, he really had rid himself of anything and everything that wasn’t his deepest soul. He finally offered you himself just as you had done countless times before. Katsuki swore that his heart would –and always has been– explicitly yours, he’d roar that fact at the constellations above if you so wished him to. And while it would take a while to heal from coruscating blisters he’d inflicted, you were more than content mending and welting your heart with his.  

[dwellordream]

“...While on his travels Augustus would have continued to be preoccupied with the old issue of what would happen after his death. He had clearly demonstrated at the time of his departure that he could not manage without Marcus Agrippa, married at the time to Marcella, Octavia’s daughter. Agrippa now divorced her (her compensation was to be married to Iullus Antonius, the son of Antony and Fulvia), so as to be free in 21 to marry the widowed Julia. Plutarch says that this marriage came about through Octavia’s machinations and that she prevailed upon Augustus to accept the idea. It is not clear what her motives would have been.

If we are to believe Seneca we might see pure spite. He claimed that Octavia hated Livia after the death of Marcellus because the hopes of the imperial house passed now to Livia’s sons. This could well be no more than speculation, and Seneca does not even hint at any specific action by Octavia against her supposed rival. The whole story sounds typically Senecan in its denigration of dead individuals who are easy targets. Once again, we are told nothing about Livia’s reaction to the marriage. She might not have been able to object to the earlier marriage between Julia and Augustus’ nephew Marcellus, but in 21 the situation was different. Her older son, Tiberius, who was not yet married, had been passed over in favour of an outsider to the family. 

But whatever his sense of obligation to his wife, Augustus probably felt that he had little choice in the matter. Agrippa’s earlier reaction to having to take second place to Marcellus, a blood relative of Augustus, would have provided a good hint to Augustus of how his friend would have taken to playing second string to Tiberius. Agrippa was now a key figure in the governing of Rome. He was not a man to be provoked. If Livia had been entertaining hopes that this early stage of a preeminent role for either of her sons (and such a suggestion, while reasonable, is totally speculative), such hopes would have faded with the birth of two sons to Julia and Agrippa.

Gaius Caesar was born in 20 bc, and, as if to confirm the line, a second son, Lucius Caesar, arrived in 17. Augustus was delighted, and soon after Lucius’ birth signalled his ultimate intentions by adopting both boys. He thus might envisage himself as being ‘‘succeeded’’ by Agrippa, who would in turn be succeeded by either Gaius and Lucius, who were, in a sense, sons of both men. In late 16 bc Augustus set out on an extended trip to Gaul and Spain, where he established a number of veteran settlements. Livia may have accompanied him. Dio does report speculation that the emperor went away so as to be able to conduct his affair with Terentia, the wife of his close confidant Maecenas, in a place where it would not attract gossip. 

Even if the rumours were well founded, the implication need not necessarily follow that he had left Livia behind. Livia had a reputation as a femme complaisante, and Augustus may simply have wanted to get away from the prying eyes of the capital. Certainly at one stage Livia intervened with Augustus to argue for the grant of citizenship to a Gaul, and this trip provides the best context. Moreover, Seneca dates a famous incident to this trip, Livia’s plea on behalf of the accused Gaius Cornelius Cinna. It could well be that Seneca misdated the Cinna episode, but he at any rate clearly believed that Livia had been in Gaul with her husband at the relevant time.

…Agrippa lived to see the birth of two other children, his daughters Julia and Agrippina. The first (born about 19 bc) is the namesake of her mother, and, in the historical tradition, cut from the same cloth; the second was to be somewhat eclipsed in the same tradition by her own daughter and namesake, the mother of the last Julio-Claudian emperor, Nero. Agrippa thus became the natural father of four of Augustus’ grandchildren during his lifetime (a fifth would be born posthumously), and his stock rose higher with each event. He had served his princeps well, and could now take his final exit. In 13 he campaigned in the Balkans. At the end of the season he returned to Italy, where he fell ill, and in mid-March, 12 bc, he died. 

His body was brought to Rome, where it was given a magnificent burial, and the remains were deposited in the Mausoleum of Augustus, even though Agrippa had earlier booked himself another site in the Campus Martius. In the following year Octavia died. She is celebrated by the sources as a paragon of every human virtue, whose only possible failings had been the forgivable ones of excessive loyalty to an undeserving husband and excessive grief over the death of a possibly only marginally more deserving son. As noted earlier, we should be cautious about Seneca’s claim that Octavia nursed a hatred for Livia after the death of Marcellus. But there can be no doubt that her death was in a sense advantageous to Livia, for it removed one of the main contenders for the role of the premier woman in the state. Only Augustus’ daughter Julia might now lay claim to a precedence of sorts, but she in fact became an agent in furthering Livia’s ambitions, rather than an obstacle. Once her formal period of mourning was over, Julia would need another husband. Suetonius says that her father carefully considered several options, even from among the equestrians. 

Tiberius later claimed that Augustus pondered the idea of marrying her off to a political nonentity, someone noted for leading a retiring life and not involved in a political career. Among others he supposedly considered Gaius Proculeius, a close friend of the emperor and best known for the manner of his death rather than of his life: he committed suicide by what must have been a painful technique—swallowing gypsum. This drastic action was apparently not in response to the prospect of marriage to Julia but in despair over the unbearable pains in his stomach.

In 11 bc, the year of Octavia’s death, Augustus made his decision. He could hardly pass over one of Livia’s sons again. They were the only real choices, given the practical options open to him. Both were married, and Drusus’ wife was the daughter of Octavia, someone able already to produce offspring linked, at least indirectly, by blood to the princeps. Divorce in this case would not have been desirable. Augustus had already demonstrated his faith in Livia’s other son, Tiberius, by appointing him to replace Agrippa in the Balkans. He was the inevitable candidate for Julia’s next husband. In perhaps 20 or 19 Tiberius had married Agrippa’s daughter Vipsania, to whom he had long been betrothed. Their son Drusus was born in perhaps 14. In 11 Vipsania was pregnant for a second time, but Tiberius was obliged to divorce her, although he seems to have been genuinely attached to her. Reputedly when they met after the divorce he followed her with such a forlorn and tearful gaze that precautions were taken that their paths would never cross again. 

He was now free to marry Julia. This marriage marks a milestone in Tiberius’ career and in the ambitions that Livia would naturally have nursed for her son. Augustus was clearly prepared to place him in an advantageous position, and the process could be revoked only with difficulty. It is inevitable that there should be speculation among modern scholars that Livia might have played a role in arranging the marriage. Gardthausen claimed that she brought it off in the teeth of vigorous opposition. Perhaps, but the suggestion belongs totally to the realm of speculation. If Livia did play some part in winning over Augustus, she did it so skilfully and unobtrusively that she has left no traces, and the sources are silent about any specific interference on this occasion.

Nor can it be assumed that Augustus would have needed a great deal of persuading. No serious store should be placed in the claims in the sources that he held Tiberius in general contempt and was reduced to turning to him faut de mieux. Suetonius quotes passages from Augustus’ correspondence that provide concrete evidence that the emperor in fact held his adopted son in high regard. Suetonius chose the extracts to show his appreciation of Tiberius’ military and administrative skills, but his words clearly suggest a high degree of affection that seems to go beyond the merely formulaic. 

He addresses Tiberius as iucundissime, probably the equivalent in modern correspondence of ‘‘my very dear Tiberius.’’ He reveals that when he has a challenging problem or is feeling particularly annoyed at something, he yearns for his Tiberius (Tiberium meum desidero), and he notes that both he and Livia are tortured by the thought that her son might be overtaxing himself. Livia’s other son, Drusus, although arguably his brother’s match in military reputation and ability, seems to have been quite different from him in temperament. Where Tiberius was private, inhibited, uninterested in courting popularity, Drusus was affable, engaging, and well-liked, and there was a popular belief, probably naive, that he was committed to an eventual restoration of the republic. He had found a perfectly compatible wife in Antonia the Younger, a woman who commanded universal esteem and respect to the very end.

They produced two sons, both of whom would loom large on the stage of human events: Germanicus, who became the most loved man in the Roman empire and whose early death threatened to erode Livia’s popularity, and Claudius, whose physical limitations were an embarrassment to Livia and to other members of the imperial family, but who confounded them all by becoming an emperor of considerable acumen and ability. They also had a daughter, Livilla, who attained disrepute through her affair with the most loathed man in the early Roman empire, the notorious praetorian prefect Sejanus.

Drusus dominated the landscape in 9 bc. The year seemed to start auspiciously for Livia. In 13 bc the Senate had voted to consecrate the Ara Pacis, one of the great monuments of Augustus’ regime, as a memorial to his safe return from Spain and the pacification of Gaul. The dedication waited four years and finally took place in 9, on January 30, Livia’s birthday, perhaps her fiftieth. The honour was a profound one, but indirect and thus low-key, in keeping with Livia’s public persona. Her sons continued to achieve distinction on the battlefield. A decorated sword sheath of provincial workmanship has survived from this period.

It represents a frontal Livia with the nodus hairstyle, and shoulder locks carefully designed so as to flow along her shoulders above the drapery. She appears between two heads, almost certainly her sons, and the piece pictorially symbolises Livia at what must have been one of the most satisfying periods of her life. To cap her sense of well-being, Tiberius, after signal victories over the Dalmatians and Pannonians, returned to Rome to celebrate an ovation. Following the usual practice after a triumph or ovation, a dinner was given for the Senate in the Capitoline temple, and tables were set out for the people in front of private houses. 

A separate banquet was arranged for the women. Its sponsors were Livia and Julia. Private tensions may already have arisen between Tiberius and Julia, but at least at the public level they were sedulously maintaining an outward image of marital harmony, and Livia was making her own contribution towards promoting that image. Similar festivities were planned to celebrate Drusus’ victories. Presumably in his case Livia would have joined Antonia, Drusus’ wife, in preparing the banquet, as she had joined Tiberius’ wife on the earlier occasion.

While Tiberius had been engaged in operations in Pannonia, Drusus had conducted a highly acclaimed campaign in Germany. By 9 bc he had succeeded in taking Roman arms as far as the river Elbe. So awesome were his achievements that greater powers felt the need to intervene. He was visited by the apparition of a giant barbarian woman, who told him—she conveniently spoke Latin—not to push his successes further. Something was clearly amiss in the divine timing. Suetonius implies that Drusus heeded the warning, but calamity befell him anyhow. In a riding accident Drusus’ horse toppled over onto him and broke his thigh. He fell gravely ill. 

His deteriorating condition caused consternation throughout the Roman world, and it is even claimed that the enemy respected him so much that they declared a truce pending his recovery. (Similar claims were later made about his son Germanicus.) Tiberius had been campaigning in the Balkans at the time but had returned to Italy and was passing through Ticinum after the campaign when he heard that Drusus was sinking fast. Travelling the 290 km in a day and a night, a rate that Pliny thought impressive enough to record, he rushed to be with his brother. He reached him just before he died in September, 9 bc. Drusus was universally liked, and his death at the age of twenty-nine could not seriously be seen as benefitting anyone.

Nevertheless, it still managed to attract gossip and rumours. The death of a young prince of the imperial house would usually drag in the name of Livia as the prime suspect. In this instance such a scenario would have been totally implausible, and Augustus became the target of the innuendo instead. Tacitus reports that the tragedy evoked the same jaundiced reactions as would that of Germanicus, three decades later in the reign of Tiberius, that sons with ‘‘democratic’’ temperaments—civilia ingenia—did not please ruling fathers (Germanicus had been adopted by Tiberius). 

Suetonius has preserved a tradition that Augustus, suspecting Drusus of republicanism, recalled him from his province and, when he declined to obey, had him poisoned. Suetonius thought the suggestion nonsensical, and he is surely correct. Augustus had shown great affection for the young man and in the Senate had named him joint heir with Gaius and Lucius. He also delivered a warm eulogy after his death. Even Tiberius’ grief was portrayed as twofaced. To illustrate Tiberius’ hatred for the members of his own family, Suetonius claims that he had earlier produced a letter in which his younger brother discussed with him the possibility of compelling Augustus to restore the republic.

But events seem to belie completely the notion of any serious fraternal strife. Tiberius’ anguish was clearly genuine. His general deportment is of special interest, because of the light that it might throw on his and Livia’s conduct later, at the funeral of Germanicus. According to Seneca, the troops were deeply distressed over the death and demanded Drusus’ body. Tiberius maintained that discipline had to be observed in grieving as well as fighting, and that the funeral was to be conducted with the dignity demanded by the Roman tradition. He repressed his own tears and was able to dampen the enthusiasm for a vulgar show of public grief.

Tiberius now set out with the body for Rome. Augustus went to Ticinum (Pavia) to meet the cortege, and because Seneca says that Livia accompanied the procession to Rome, it is probably safe to assume that she went with her husband. As she travelled, she was struck by the pyres that burned throughout  the country and the crowds that came out to escort the funeral train. The event provides one of the few glimpses of Livia’s private emotions. She was crushed by the death and sought comfort from the philosopher Areus. On his advice, she uncharacteristically opened herself up to others. She put pictures of Drusus in public and private places and encouraged her acquaintances to talk about him.

But she maintained a respectable level of grief, which elicited the admiration of Seneca. Tiberius may well have learned from his mother the appropriateness of self-restraint in the face of private anguish. It was an attitude that was later to arouse considerable resentment against both of them. During the funeral in Rome, Tiberius delivered a eulogy in the Forum and Augustus another in the Circus Maximus, where the emperor expressed the hope that Gaius and Lucius would emulate Drusus. 

The body was taken to the Campus Martius for cremation by the equestrians, and the funeral bier was surrounded by images of the Julian and the Claudian families. The ashes were deposited in Augustus’ mausoleum. The title of Germanicus was posthumously bestowed on Drusus and his descendants, and he was given the further honour of statues, an arch, and a cenotaph on the banks of the Rhine. Augustus composed the verses that appeared on his tomb and also wrote a prose account of his life. No doubt less distinguished Romans, of varied literary talent, would have written their own contributions.

The anonymous Consolatio ad Liviam represents itself as just such a composition, intended to offer comfort to Livia on this very occasion, although it was probably composed somewhat later. Livia was indeed devastated, but as some form of compensation for her terrible private loss, she now, after some thirty years in the shadows, came into greater public prominence. The final chapter of Drusus’ life seems to have opened up a new one in his mother’s.”

- Anthony A. Barrett, “In the Shadows.” in Livia: First Lady of Imperial Rome

[laurore-stormwitch]

the demon and the witch

Here’s the second chapter my first fan fiction! This is from Zoya’s POV which was so much harder to write. Hope you all enjoy it! 

word counts: 4392

You’ll find it in full in AO3

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Zoya hissed while trying to strengthen the bandages on her wound, through which a small flower of blood was already blossoming through. Damn those kerghud and their blades. She checked her sides too, finding with relief she was not in much pain. At least the healers were able to take her of that; but the poison the Fabrikators found on the kerghud’s knives was slowing down the process on the deep cut on her shoulder.

You still prevailed, rumbled Juris inside of her. You took down all of them on your own. The voice was beaming with his pride.

And got thrown against a tree for good measure, she answered grimly while examining her wound. It could’ve been worse. Still, it wasn’t a good sign; the Shu were supposed to be their allies now. Why did a pack of kerghuds attack her? They really didn’t need another thing to worry about. She sighed, opening the windows and letting the cold air revive her a little. The ride back to the palace had left her sore; it took her hours and standing on a horse with a throbbing chest and blood all over her hadn’t been pleasant. She arrived after dinner only to be welcomed by a furious and shaken Genya who had tried to cover for her absence and had immediately taken her to get patched up. Not really an ideal day.

She was pondering whether to drown her sorrows either in bed or in wine when she heard some strained voices in the corridor; they sounded rushed, worried. Someone was giving orders to her guards to stand down and resign their post, sending them away. Oh, for Saints sake, not now, she thought as the door slammed open and Nikolai Lantsov stomped in her room with a weary expression, stopping in front of her. Of course he found out.

“What the hell happened Zoya?” She glanced at him, both annoyed and warmed by his uneven breath and messy look; he seemingly ran through the whole palace to get here, already in his more comfortable clothes for the night. Armour in place, her words were clipped and sarcastic.

“Did anyone never bother to teach the future King of Ravka the subtle art of knocking?”

Nikolai looked exhausted; he released a long breath he seemed to have been holding for ages while he carefully skimmed her for injuries, lingering on the bandages on her shoulder and upper arm with a worried look. She quickly put her kefta back on covering them, uncomfortable under his gaze. When he seemed to have assessed that she wasn’t going to die in the next couple of minutes, he relaxed, releasing the tension in his shoulders, shoving the worry away and regaining his usual merry attitude.

“No one thought I’d actually be the future King, you know. Maybe that’s why they skipped it.”

His tone was light, but he took a couple of steps in her direction, still checking her. She rolled her eyes, making a good show of being irritated. He was being overly dramatic. She knew that whoever told him of her little excursion would also have told him that she was safe and sound and healers already had tended to her; he had no reasons to put up these theatrics.

“I’m fine.” He huffed in response, casting his eyes heavenward too.

“You broke three ribs.”

“Two”, she corrected, “And they’ve already been healed.” He didn’t flinch, taking another step forward and gesturing to her arm.

“What about that?”

She shrugged her shoulders ignoring the stab of pain the movement provoked.

“Are you here to question me or do you actually need something?”

Nikolai grinned, leaning against the wall next to the balcony. She shifted unconsciously away from him. He was too close, only a couple of feet apart from her. And they slipped inside their usual banter too easily: everything came too easily with him. Her look wandered outside the window, averting his amused eyes still trained on her with an intensity she didn’t want to consider.

“Ah, there’s the spite. You’re really fine then.”

There was an affection in his voice that was hard on her nerves. What was he doing here? The whole point of her actions was to keep the distance; this didn’t exactly fit with the plan, the two of them alone in her chambers at this hour of the night. She collected her strength, making the decision to ignore him. His smug face was making her want to shove him out the door. The silence stretched and she waited with hope that he would just leave her be, sensing her irritation. But Nikolai was Nikolai after all, seemingly untouched by her demeanour.

“I already sent word to the Shu. We…I’ll take care of it.” She sensed him stop before adding something else, no doubt avoiding saying Ehri’s name and leaving her out of the conversation. Zoya shook her head, even more unnerved by this unwelcome caution in her regards.

“It doesn’t matter. They’re going to say it was a rogue attack. I took care of it.”

Meaning I burned them all.

“Just tell our dear princess to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Somebody else could’ve gotten really hurt.”

“But they found Zoya Nazyalensky instead. What a stroke of luck for them.”

She didn’t react to his praise, so he just kept talking, keeping an easy attitude. But she knew him well, and she could hear the strain in his voice, the turmoil he was trying to keep hidden.

“Do you care to tell me why my most valuable general decided to take a stroll in an open field and almost got herself killed?”

Fine then, so ignoring him was not the correct strategy; she resorted to her ruthlessness and his guilt.

“Most valuable.” Zoya scoffed. “Thought you’d be satisfied; you’d finally have the perfect excuse to replace me.”

She turned to him while speaking, holding a firm gaze; so she was able to see the shadow of shame and pain that swept through his eyes at her words.

As hurt as she was, their fight the other day served her right. It was bad enough to convince her that staying away from him was the sensible thing to do, and now it gave her a weapon to use to keep distancing him. Also, she really didn’t intend to linger on the topic and explore the reasons why she made what she knew had been a reckless decision. Lately, the palace was far too crowded for her liking; it had begun to feel suffocating, and not only because avoiding Nikolai was growing harder and harder by the day. The dragon inside her craved the sky; the power in her was constantly rumbling, pretending to be unleashed. She still didn’t understand it, the force of it, the craving for destruction that came with it. It was slowly changing her: each and every day her senses got stronger, her hunger got deeper. It demanded to be used; there were times she didn’t know how she kept still, moments in which the air around her crackled without her control, nights in which thunder boomed and clouds darkened the sky as her mood grew more sour. So she started taking these rides outside the city, trying to find places where she could test her abilities without risking destroying the Little Palace. In a time that seemed long lost, she would’ve liked to confide in Nikolai with this. But he wouldn’t understand now, he wouldn’t get what she feared to become if she kept searching for more. And she made a choice after Isaak’s death, the choice to give up on her foolish hopes and dreams and be a general after all. That choice included letting Nikolai go, which he was making hard to do.

They looked at each other for what felt like an eternity. A pang hit her throat, and she felt an unfamiliar prickle in her eyes. Why did she want to cry now? She searched for her anger, trying to bury the feeling of despair that was troubling her mind. She prayed for him to say something spiteful, or to turn on his heels and go. Instead, he came even closer, moving a delicate brush of his fingers over the bandages that peaked near her collarbone, sending a shiver through her. Too close. Get away.

“I’m sorry, Zoya.”

And why for all Saints on earth did he have to say her name like this? It was almost like a prayer. A soft whisper full of honesty, not even an inch of his casual arrogance or boldness. She sucked a breath in, holding her pose, arching a brow in his direction.

“Nice speech. Bet you practiced it a lot in front of the mirror.”

He waved a glowing smile at her, while she pondered wherever this good mood came from.

“I had a nice speech, you know. And yes, I also practiced it. But then you went on to put yourself in danger and I got a little distracted.”

She glanced at him. “I’m not a helpless girl whom you needed to run to and save from a monster.” I may easily be the monster myself, Nikolai. Leave. He didn’t back down.

“I didn’t say that, as a matter of fact. I said I got distracted by you being hurt.”

You’re still too close. Get away. Her feet didn’t seem to listen to her brain, which was sparring with her heart for dominance. She turned to her side, away from him.

“Get out, Nikolai.”

“I don’t think I want to.” She was going to kill him.

“I want you to go.”

“And I want to be more handsome than I already am, but some things are just too hard to get.”

Her glare would have made every man on earth shiver with fear. It was apparently useless on Nikolai.

“Enough childish games, Nikolai. Say what you have to say and then leave.”

He sighed. “Just listen to me, please? I really did have a speech. I was out of line the other day, and I didn’t mean a single word I said. I reacted in the worst possible way and I hurt you. And I’m sorry, both for doing it and for waiting too long to realize it.”

She stopped him with an irritated laugh, her eyes slitting silver. How arrogant of him.

“You didn’t hurt me. You were just being the harsh leader you may finally be growing into.”

He shook his head, ignoring the remark, determined to go on with this charade.

“It’s more than that. I should’ve said something sooner. What happened in the Fold...we never got the chance to talk. I don’t know how you are, what you’re going through.” Maybe punching him in the face was not a bad option. Alina did it after all, if she remember correctly. “I let you drift away and I regret that.”

The conversation was steering in dangerous territory. She clenched her jaw and her fists, equally intent as him to stop this.

“You’re gonna regret this if you keep talking.”

“Why?” His controlled tone slipped a bit as he threw his arm in the air, getting more nervous. “What’s wrong with talking? What’s wrong in saying that I was an idiot to behave like I did, that I need my general by my side? That I don’t like all the distance you’re putting between us?”

“There’s no us, Nikolai.” She spatted, fists still clenched, trying to keep the hold on her power already rising inside her. She sensed where this was going and desperately tried to prevent it. “You shouldn’t even be here at this hour. You are going to marry your Shu princess, and be the King Ravka needs. I am your general, as you dutifully pointed out, nothing else. Stop acting like a fool.”

Oh, how well do you lie to yourself. Are you ever gonna stop? That was not the moment for Juris to chide her and mock her, doubting her decisions. She hushed him, trying to focus. Nikolai looked struck at her words; he opened his mouth and then closed it again, seemingly deciding what to say. She narrowed her eyes, an uncomfortable suspicion creeping in her mind. Speechless Nikolai Lantsov was never a good thing.

“Maybe I’m not.” He cleared his throat at her confused look. “I’m not marrying Ehri.”

Juris roared. Zoya widened her eyes in shock: a wave of outrage flooded her thoughts, along with an unwelcome strike of hope she suffocated.

“Nikolai.” His name was said much like a threat. “What on earth are you saying?”

He held up his hands, speaking slowly, trying not to set her off and appease her wrath.

“I need you to trust me on this. I may have another solution, one that doesn’t involve forcing me and Ehri in a loveless marriage we both despise. One that still assures me the alliance.”

She was not having this. The air around them started to feel more dense, the smell of a rainstorm filling the room. Her voice grew louder, her temper brewing.

“I hope you’re joking, or you’re more of a fool that I ever thought possible. Whatever she told you, she’s tricking you. What are you thinking? Ravka is on the brink of destruction, why would you risk your country?”

“It’s not about Ravka.”

"You don’t get to choose, Nikolai. You are a ruler. You have a duty.” He let out an exasperated sound, coming even closer. There was barely the space of a breath within them. She kept going. “You are our King. I won’t let you do something so reckless.”

Now he was losing his temper too, flames burning in his eyes. He caught her wrist, his grip like steel.

“Why do you run from this? Why do you deny yourself of happiness when there’s another way?”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Everything! I don’t want to marry her. And I don’t want to see my country fall.”

“You think you can have it all? Then what do you want, Nikolai?”

He shot her a pleading look, his soul pouring out of his eyes. Her heart missed a beat, as she shook him away and took two steps back, finding herself with her back on the wall. No. She regretted her question in an instant.

You know what he wants. You know who he wants. Juris wasn’t backing out either.

A whisper rolled out of Nikolai’s mouth.

“Zoya…”

“Don’t.” He came towards her. They were dancing; she cast him a warning look.

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no coming back if you say it!” She was shouting now, shivering with rage and dread. “Because I will believe you if you say it and it won’t change anything!” Tears threatened to fall again, her whole body was vibrating with power. She couldn’t hold back anymore, she would’ve hurt him. And yet this stupid boy was not yelding his steps, not afraid of the woman in front of him.

“I’m not giving up on you.”

“Please, Nikolai.” A sob escaped her. Was she pleading with him now? But as much as her, he had made a decision, and he wasn’t gonna abandon his resolve. He went on, unforgiving, holding her gaze and his chin as he spoke.

"You need to hear me. And you can trust me."

"Stop." She was losing.

“It’s always been you, Zoya. You’re the only thing I want.”

The sword drew through her hearth, cracking it open.

Show this boy king what you are.

She threw her fist open unleashing the storm, tears streaming on her cheeks, and shot a speeding gust of wind in his direction. It knocked Nikolai over, trashing him on the floor; he hit the wall, the current howling and holding him in place. The window on her side shattered as lightning fell from the sky, leaving a trail of smoke in their wake. Papers were rustling around the room, a cold breeze sweeping over them; she watched in horror the destruction she brought. Abruptly, the air fell still as she drew away the power, not wanting to meet Nikolai’s eyes and the disgust she was sure to find there.

“Go away, please.”

He heard him breathing heavily, getting back up on his feet. His uncertain steps crunched on all the letters left on the floor.

"Zoya, it’s okay. I’m here."

"Shut up."

Juris wasn’t finished, too. He growled. Don’t be a coward. You should be the Queen.

“Shut up!”

The scream rose from her sore throat and she fell on her knees, hitting the pavement and catching her head between her hands. Her heart hurt. Her lungs hurt. She made a desperate attempt to fight back the pain as she grasped the last bit of sanity in her mind, huddling on herself like a child. Electricity ran through her skin and a final thunder rolled over the room. Everything stopped as the place grew silent, Zoya shaking on the floor.

“I’m not leaving.”

His voice floated to her like they were underwater; it didn’t even tremble, it was calm and firm, not the one of a terriefied man just taken on by a summoned storm. He slowly walked to her again, rubbing the back of his head a little. Did she hurt him? Shame towered over her. He lowered himself down to her; his movements were delicate, attentive, as if she was a wounded animal he needed not to scare. Another whisper came to her and she grasped at it like an anchor.

“I’m not leaving you.”

She felt his hands on hers, his touch soft as a feather as he circled her wrists and he tried to pull her back on her feet with a soft tug. He caught her elbow, steadying her; instinctively her other hand tightened around his shoulder as her vision blurred and focused back on him; she let her head lean on his chest, catching some air. They stayed like that for a while, Nikolai’s tender eyes waiting for her to get back to herself. He gently tilted her chin up to look at her, brushing some strands of hair away from her face and sighed.

“I missed you.”

The words fell on her like an avalanche. There was a fierce purity in this ordinary admission, spoken like a confession he knew she wouldn’t be able to take. There was so much more to this; it spoke of all the things they never allowed themselves to say, of all the stolen glances and forgotten truths; of how they belonged next to each other, the peace and quiet they found together, how hard it was to be apart; of the times she saved him, and the ones he saved her.

Stop fighting, General. Lower your weapons.

She was tired. Saints, she was so tired. She wanted to rest in the comfort of his arms. She felt herself beginning to surrender.

He is yours to keep. She trembled in his hands, shaken by the conviction in Juris’ voice.

Zoya looked at the boy in front of her, still gently grazing her cheek with his knuckles, at his tousled flocks, at the glowing rays of sun hidden in his eyes. She moved one hand to his stunning face, tentatively touching his lips. A shiver went through him, but he stayed perfectly still while a look of confusion and yearning flashed through him.

He has always been yours. Juris roared, sending flames scorching her chest.

Zoya of the broken heart. Be whole again. Take him.

And once again, just like she did in the Fold, Zoya let herself fall.

She pulled him to her with a hand on the back of his neck, closing the distance between them, crashing her lips onto his, releasing the hunger and the despair that plagued her. When they met, it felt like a war. It felt like a blessing. She registered her king reacting in a split second, without even a hint of hesitation: the hand that was on her arm went to hug her waist, drawing her closer than she thought possible with a desperate need, while the other one was now entangled in her hair. He was holding onto her for dear life, as if she would break if he let her go.

Kissing him was a thousand lives and a single fleeting moment, time stretching in this suspended bliss; she broke free, gasping for hair, drowning in the shock of what happened. Nikolai wasn’t a fool, and he knew her all too well; he knew it would only take her the fraction of an instant for realization to dawn over her, so he didn’t let her slip. He pulled her to him again. But that flicker of oxygen to her brain was enough for fear and remorse to clench at her soul. She pushed lightly onto his chest, and this time he got the hint, leaving her mouth and backing up just what was necessary for them both to release their breath. Good, she thought. At least one of us still has some semblance of control . If it really was up to her will, once so unbreakable, she would’ve never stopped.

“Saints, Zoya.” The words rolled out of his mouth in an ushered tone, as if speaking too loudly was bound to break the enchantment cast upon them. She mustered the courage to look at him: he was watching her in awe, the golden freckles in his eyes darkened by a sheer desire. He may have stopped kissing her, but his hands were still keeping her flushed against him, his uneven warm breathing grazing her neck, making it almost unbearable to try and form a coherent thought. Her heart was aching.

“We can’t.” Her voice was barely audible, devoid of every resolve she had hoped to still have in herself. She trained her look on the floor, the pain squeezing the air out of her lungs. What did I just do? Zoya sensed Nikolai shifting closer, brushing his lips on her lashes, her cheekbones. He rested his forehead on hers. Was he smiling? Why was this damned boy smiling? She cast her eyes up; he really was smiling, cocking his head slightly on one side.

“What?”

“You’re really stubborn, you know.” He teased her. Zoya marvelled at his confidence, at how unfazed he seemed at the fact she was basically rejecting him after shoving him against a wall and possibly giving him a concussion. Not that she felt herself being convincing: all ruthlessness seemed to have left her body. She still didn’t trust herself much to talk; each word was agonizing to get out.

“I just told you we can’t do this. Why are you smiling?”

“I know you don’t mean it.” He shrugged his shoulders, still refusing to let her go. Like the truth was as simple as that, and he had the gift of knowing. Fighting this was tiring; the moment their lips met, every carefully hidden thought, every feeling she locked away flooded out with an overwhelming strength, knocking down each and every one of her defenses.

“How come?”

“You haven’t pushed me away. And you did kiss me, just so you remember it.” Zoya’s lips curled a little before she could stop herself, rolling her eyes. Bold as only Nikolai could be in a moment like this. “Someone told me you were going to find a way to surprise me” He mumbled under his breath, lost in thoughts for a second.

“Besides”, he added. “I’m not in a rush. I’ll convince you eventually. You know my charm has no limits.”

She huffed, but didn’t find it in herself to step out of his grip. She was still falling, and he was the one to catch her. Zoya let her hands rest on his chest: she could feel his heart pounding like it was about to take flight, echoing in her mind and sending waves of soothing calm over her. His certainty was endearing.

“You’re insufferable.”

Nikolai looked perfectly at ease, beaming with confidence. He let out an amused chuckle and placed a soft kiss on her hair.

“Don’t run from me.” He turned serious, placing both his hands on the sides of her jaw, keeping their eyes locked together. “I need you with me to face all of this. We’ll find a way; I know we can. We’ll figure everything out together. And we can do this right.”

General Nazyalensky knew better than to trust fragile promises of peace. And yet the hopeful girl she’d been held onto this one like it was a long awaited shore in a storm-swept ocean. She could regret this tomorrow: for tonight, maybe she wanted to be that girl. And against every belief she had, she really did trust him like no one ever before. She found herself nodding lightly, slightly amused by his hint at doing things right. Nikolai and his idiotic sense of honour. The dragon inside her had spread his wings, roaring his power. Bolts of desire were still shooting through her, leaving her brain a mess, and she could see the feeling mirrored in Nikolai’s eyes. She didn’t know that freeing her heart from the cage it was trapped in would taste so sweet and terrifying.

You are the dragon, Zoya. You will bide your time. And you will have it all.

She brought her hand on one of his, still wrapped around her neck, intertwining their fingers. Deep inside of her, the stone hit the bottom of the well: waiting there for her there was a quiet feeling of belonging, a home in which she could be safe. A place full of light in which she could rest. Someone to hold her. Someone who loved her. As the fall stopped, Zoya handed over the fight, easing herself in the embrace of the boy that tore down her walls and built her a fortress.

Tell him to stay. She didn’t know if it was Juris or her heart demanding it.

“Stay with me tonight.”

A breath-taking soft smile enlightened his features. Nikolai leaned towards her, whispering an oath in her ear, a secret to share in the midst of night.

"Always.”

He caught her lips and kissed her again, deeper, with more urgency, leaving whatever sense of self-restraint they were keeping to shatter in a million pieces as the silk of her kefta slided away from her shoulders, wrinkling through his darkened fingers, the demon and the witch.

And the world went on fire.

[pinkymoone]

Puella Magi Madoka Magica~ The Cursed Hope 💫

Warning Major Spoilers Ahead! Read with Caution!

Kyubey, our favorite little creature represents hope. However, we all know this whole system is rigged. But is it really? Couldn’t it just be the reality of such wishes that seemed sensible? Think about it. After you’ve made one “wish” out of everything you could’ve possibly wanted in this sucky world (like picking the best thing out of a trash can) and throwing away your old life (that was possibly better), in return for killing witches to save other people (that don’t really deserve or return your forceful, kind deed) just how long can you hang onto being a robot basically? Hope is such a cursed thing rather than the wishes, it is like a facade that later stabs you in the back. But its necessary, if hope didn’t exist, the world would end. 

Mami Tomoe’s Wish- To survive a family car accident. Her death in the third episode of the anime series was shocking to all of us, but the more I thought about it, it made sense. She never thought to save her parent’s lives, only herself, and was the wish what she hoped it to be? It was a blunt one... so Mami did survive the car crash. However she is in forever solitude, no one is ever on her side anymore. Her only purpose was to live for herself, that’s it. So it only made sense that she’d also die alone. 

Kyoko Sakura- Her wish was for people to listen to her father's teachings. She got exactly what she wanted, but she didn’t think about the consequences of this wish before she made it. How was it going to work? Is my family going to be happy after people come to listen to my father preach? Are we going to prevail after all the suffering we’ve been through? Of course not. Mindless people came one by one to hear his teachings, which her father himself was obviously suspicious about. It didn’t bring him joy, but rather, fear. Did my daughter sell her soul to the devil? Sakura was seen as a monster, making her family commit suicide. Leaving herself in solitude. But Kyoko Sakura has such a strong mindset in experiencing all of this. Why? because she’s already seen how rotten humanity was when her family was still alive. In fact, having a purpose in killing witches rather than suffering from them was better.

Sayaka Miki- Her wish was to fix the hands of Kyosuke Kamijo, a violinist whose career ended when his hands were forever damaged. Sayaka’s wish and story was one of the most interesting out of the OG Five Magical girls. Her wish was very innocent, and it only came from her love for him. But wishing for someone else’s happiness, causes someone else to bear all the misery and despair in return. There is no such this as an unfair exchange in this world, and Sayaka Miki seemed to have realized such a trivial idea after she broke. Was she hoping that Kamijo would be happy that she fixed his hands? Did she think that he was going to fall in love with her and they were both going to continue living happily? No. She did not wish for any of those things and only hoped that that’d be the case. 

Homura Akemi- Her wish was to become a person who can protect Madoka, just as Madoka protected her. She was overcome by grief and uselessness after Madoka’s first death, so Homura decided to change into a stronger person. What she had hoped was that her and Madoka could live happily together after everything was over. But she didn’t wish for that. She wished to protect her, and if you think about it, the whole anime was Homura protecting Madoka so the wish did come true. She did not think about how long it would take until Madoka would actually be safe and happy, so how much longer would it take until she finally cheated the system? Homura lost all emotion, innocence, humanity, and forgot about her original motive in making Madoka happy in return for protecting her over and over again. But during that time when Homura would only save Madoka, was Madoka happy? She saw her friends die, her friends getting broken, and Madoka herself couldn’t do anything about it. So. She wasn’t happy. Which goes to show that Madoka making a wish was inevitable even though Homura tried so hard to prevent it. 

Madoka Kaname- Her wish was to prevent all magical girls from the past, present, future and all other timelines, from ever becoming witches. In other words, to become god. But really, this whole idea is controversial. A mortal becoming god? If anyone could do it it would’ve obviously been the being of purity, Madoka. But she was still human. Her wish was to basically lift all burdens of other girls, but like Sayaka’s story, where does all that misery go? It seems Homura might’ve known of such consequences in taking everyone’s despair and bearing it as a lonely god while living multiple timelines which could be the ultimate reason in why she didn’t want her to make a wish (rather than preventing Madoka from dying). To relieve Madoka of this huge stress, Homura turned into the devil itself but gladly welcomed this cheat cuz now, her beloved Madoka can be happy. 

If the wishes aren’t what you hoped to be, then that meant that you yourself was struggling from the very things that you were to fight after making that wish. How could you save and understand others when they are broken, or you yourself are broken? That’s why you’re making a wish right?

So you could ultimately say that these Magical Girls live to ultimately destroy. . .themselves. But did Kyubey tell them that? Of course not. He’s the evil “hope”

You also need to think very carefully about your wish. Analyze every single aspect of it... because sometimes, life would’ve been better if you hadn’t made any wish.