#which may have been a mistake fueled by raw emotions

[teenageukulelescreamo]

also hi I am alive I promise??? Work and life have been a ton but I’d very much like to get back to drawing and making fun stuff soon!!! I’m just dealing with stress, seasonal depression, juggling work things, etc- but I am okay don’t worry!!!

[dear-yandere]

hiraeth (ii).

hiraeth (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

yandere! don! giorno giovanna x f! reader. collab with @ddarker-dreams​​. read part one here! do not re-upload or use our writing without permission.

› warnings: angst, blood and gore, poisoning, canon-typical violence, death. › word count: 9.3k. › art credit: spearthymint.

Intrusive, lifeless eyes watch on from afar with tangible disgust. Hatred being the driving point behind his entire existence, all positive emotions are but a long forgotten memory of the past. To see the devil incarnate rejoicing in the fine pleasures of life is sickening, enough to make his head spin in further abhorrence. Observing from a safe, undetectable distance has been a rough challenge. All for the sake of procuring revenge, to fill the hole in his heart Giorno Giovanna tore out all those years ago.

Fueled by malice, the Stand, Snake Oil, slithers in the shadows of false paradise. More akin to a hybrid between human and snake, Snake Oil is the size of a fully grown man when stretched out to his fullest. His appearance is similar to that of a cobra, clad in ebony scales that serve as armor and dull, ruby eyes. Despite his imposing physique, it is truly unfortunate; having seen Giorno up close, Snake Oil knows killing him is impossible. So he’ll go for the next best possibility, inflicting the same pain he felt all those years ago. Having what you love most in the world ripped from you, torn apart before your eyes until nothing but blood and flesh remain. This is the bleak world of gangsters. To take and be taken from. To maintain equilibrium, vacillating between the highest of triumphs and lowest of defeats. Snake Oil has known nothing but the latter, surrounded by loneliness and bitterness that festers like an open wound. The scars of that day remain, the corpses of his family attempting to defend one another a grim reminder. A reminder that he’ll grip until his last breath, his only anchor in this world.

An eye for an eye.

The two of you are a picture perfect scene; pity how such beauty is fleeting. All it’ll take is a single opening. Giorno’s guard is lowered considerably, but he clings to you like an insistent shadow. How irritating. If only he left your side for a few more moments, then you’d be within range to kill. To have revenge just within grasp feels surreal in the best of ways. It brings a rush that the Stand hasn’t felt in years. The pain that makes up his resolve has yet to fade, pulsing and growing stronger as he searches for an opening. 

There’s a visible shift between you two. 

Snake Oil’s uncertain of the nature of things from this distance, gathering clues to the greater picture through body language. You’re on edge, impulsive, as you separate from Giovanna’s clutches, however momentary it may be. Snake Oil realizes this is the best opportunity he’ll be afforded. It isn’t the ideal set of circumstances, with your insistent shadow nearby, but it’s enough to be out of Gold Experience’s range. The Stand possesses great speed, a skill that will be fully taken advantage of in this course of this plan; in this moment, it seems more like a blessing than a skill, given who he’s going up against.

Checking to make sure the Don doesn’t follow you and remains seated, fate finally seems to have smiled upon Snake Oil today. This is the best opportunity he’ll get. 

Slithering from his hiding spot amongst thickets, he lunges at you from behind. A horrified shriek leaves your lips at the constricting sensation surrounding you, body feeling like it may explode at any second. The air is forcefully pushed from your lungs, breathing growing erratic. Out of instinct, you struggle in hopes of freeing yourself, to no avail. 

Two, phantom-like apparitions phase through your neck. You cry out, but the sound is pitiful and choked, dying mid air. The skin of your neck is raw, the insides slightly turned out and exposed in order to accommodate the invisible fangs of your attacker. The area pulses, quickly numbing when a venom is injected into your veins. The change is immediate, your eyes widened to their brim and your screams choked into your throat like spit. Your vision darkens slowly, the grip you once had on your consciousness now gone; the last thing you remember is the shock on Giorno’s face.

Giorno rises in an instant, a flash by his side procuring Gold Experience Requiem to come to your defence. Before any more movements are made on either side, Snake Oil takes control of the situation by speaking in a booming voice. It commands authority, knowing that leverage is within his grasp. That this wicked man wouldn’t dare endanger your life.

“Make one, tiny move, and I snap her neck.” 

This is the plan, for better or worse. For Snake Oil to utilize its ability, a fast acting venom that’ll kill you within minutes. The in-between time of injection and subsequent organs shutting down will take place. During this period, he’ll finally find satisfaction in Giovanna’s suffering, helpless to aid you in fear of making it worse. Changes in your skin should be taking place now, veins growing dark as it carries the lethal dosage to the rest of your body. It’s acting slow, Snake Oil realizes. Or maybe it’s a trick of the light, a false concern born from his anxiety about the situation.

It's a tricky situation, one which requires Giorno to act fast and tread carefully.

“I take it you won’t tell me who you are.” Giorno chooses his words with the utmost care despite the shock and anger rolling from his body. Gold Experience Requiem hovers closeby, the same rage thinly veiled beneath the Stand’s imposing and threatening presence. As Giorno’s Stand, GER has always been utterly taken with you, having no need to hide its affections like its user must. He is a pure amalgamation of Giorno’s love for you; the sight of your life endangered is no doubt a blow to its usual composure and restraint. Neither party wants nothing more than to destroy their enemy in an instant, but there’s no guarantee you wouldn't be caught up in the fray.

“You say that as if you remember the names of every person you’ve hurt,” Snake Oil does little to hide his animosity, keeping an eye out for any tricks Giorno may have. “It made no difference who I was before. Not until I threatened your little prisoner, that is.” The Stand sneers, its arm coiled around your neck. Its tail is strung around your lower half, restricting any flailing and movement should the poison’s effect be prolonged. 

“What is it that you want?” Ignoring the Stand’s treatment of you, to the best of his ability, Giorno tests the waters. Every word the Stand speaks is funneled into his mind, searching for hints that can be taken advantage of, for any cracks that can be slipped through. The top priority is to get to you out of harm’s way, no matter the cost. Composure on either end is unfaltering, a duel of wits to secure a victor. This is a matter of life and death. And still, Giorno hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected to see your body, your skin pallid and your limbs motionless, cradled in the arms of a man who intends you harm. His composure falters at the mere sight. That Stand isn’t just holding you; he’s holding Giorno’s happiness, his future, his heart in a vice grip. He sees the way your eyebrows knit and your body winces, the Stand’s grip far too tight to insinuate any goal other than to kill.

Snake Oil only smiles in response, not yet wanting to ruin this moment of pure distress radiating from the Don and his Stand. The sight itself is rapturing; it’s not everyday that a lowly civilian such as himself gets to see one of the most influential men in the world come apart.

Unabashed, Giorno considers what information is presented to him. From how this Stand speaks, its user is older, if not a bit inexperienced. No slang or other terminologies from a younger generation are present in his words, it’s far more removed and bitter. As if the user has seen the worst the world has to offer, callous in his direct approach; as if the user is betting everything on the line for a small chance at attacking the Don of Passione.

He needs to get you out of the Stand’s range. Since the Stand didn’t attack him, the main source of his user’s ire no doubt, it’s likely a long-range Stand. Any suspicious movements will lead to your death. And, from a quick look around, there are no suspicious vessels within a 10 km radius of the island; he would have seen them approaching long before, had there been. Its user must be far, and the Stand must be operating at its maximum range. Engaging in close-range combat would be the best bet if you weren’t engulfed in the Stand’s arms, its poison already blackening the veins around the entrance wound. Killing it might prove to be the only antidote, but on the other hand, it’s a risky trade. Perhaps the Stand’s power doesn’t include producing an antivenom — killing it early would slash any chances of saving you before the poison spreads further into your system. The only option for Giorno now is to provoke him, upsetting the Stand to the point where a mistake is made. In that opening, Giorno will strike.

“It must’ve been a lot of work to make it here,” Giorno begins his plan with a cautious comment, searching for any outward reaction. Nothing. Assuming he’s safe to continue, he offers his observations. “If you have any demand, make them known now.” 

It’s not so much stalling, but rather, testing the waters. To see how much resistance he can offer without you being placed in any more danger, igniting sparks that will only gain strength with time. Each word is selected with great care, not wanting to further upset the emotional user and trigger an undesirable outcome. Under the face of immense pressure, Giorno steels himself. It’ll do you no good otherwise.

The Stand lets out a distorted chuckle, its grip on you unwavering. “Demands? Of course, someone in your line of work would naturally come to that conclusion. You think I’d go this far for power? Money? Drugs?”

Giorno’s eyes narrow, and he mentally checks off one motive. 

“There’s nothing then? No affiliation, no desire for material gain?” Giorno’s incessant line of questions come to a halt when the Stand tightens its grip around you. Sensing that Snake Oil’s growing irate, Giorno can only assume it’s because this encounter isn’t going as planned. Given how frail you are, the poison should have spread to major points in your nervous system, your death imminent. While Giorno has his theories, ones he can only hope to be true at this very moment, they’re placed on the back burner for the time being. 

“How could I forget? That’s all that matters to people like you.” The Stand’s tone is low, prudent. Giorno’s interrogation is getting somewhere, it seems. The Stand’s grip on your shoulders have loosened slightly, only to retighten within a moment’s notice. Giorno’s heart tightens in response, the unpleasant feeling not showing on his face in the slightest. “Gain. How to make more at the expense of others, a greed that cannot be sated no matter whose life is taken in the process.”

Ah. Perhaps...

“You say that like nothing could satisfy you.” The tempest unfolding in Giorno’s mind begins to calm. His answers lie at the eye of the storm, waiting to be found. It’s an easy enough feat for someone of Giorno’s caliber, as his job requires quick-witted thinking and observation. So he presses forward, his words more daring, his answers more confident.

The Stand can’t help but grimly agree, darkness spreading over its inhuman face upon realizing how unaffected the don is. “Nothing can.”  

It’s brief, but Giorno catches a glint of sadness cross the Stand’s features. A trick of the light, perhaps, as he’s yet to see any Stand capable of showing emotion; and yet, this one reeks of resentment and regret. He’s closer to his answer.

“Not even her death?” 

“It’s a place to start.” The Stand hisses in a displeased tone. This isn’t how he envisioned this encounter in his mind, the countless outcomes that all ended with Giorno Giovanna in the pits of despair. He should have known better; the Don of Passione is cruel. A monster who wouldn’t be phased even by the loss of his beloved. Still… an element of unknown is always present in Stand battles. Your immediate death should’ve been carried out by now. That’s how it was meant to be; the venom is fast acting on normal people, only slightly less-so on stand users. He draws bated breath and lets his expectant gaze flicker toward you. The moment you breathed your last, Snake Oil would have true satisfaction, witnessing Giorno lose everything he holds dear, just as he had all those years ago. Ultimately, he’d be killed for his transgressions. But he’d come to terms with that long ago, the final chapter of his life ending in Giorno’s grief. The ultimate satisfaction, even if it sends him to Hell. Even if it keeps him from his family.

But your face is pristine, calm despite the painful wound on your neck and the quickly blackening vessels under your skin. You… you’ve stolen that opportunity from him. Why won’t you just die already, like you’re meant to? Why can’t you die as quickly as his own family died before him? It can’t be due to Giorno’s Stand. If you were within Gold Experience Requiem’s range, that meant Snake Oil would be as well. The battle would be hardly fought, the Stand’s sacrifices for nothing. If that were the case, Giorno wouldn’t be watching from afar, the great Don of Pasione helpless to save his own beloved. 

Something is wrong.

He can’t let it be for naught. Not after all the sacrifice, after all the hellish years that plagued him. Even now, Giorno waits patiently, an air of dignitary grace and poise befitting someone of his position. His eyes never once stray from the Stand’s physique, not even to check on his beloved, presumably searching for an opening to end the Stand’s life. There’s no chance to give it more thought. The power the Stand wanted to hold in this moment is faltering, slipping between his fingers like fine sand.

“How long ago was it that I took something from you?”

He’s going out on a limb, an educated guess more than anything else. He almost feels pathetic, betting your life like this, as if you’re another bargaining chip in Passione’s plans, another expendable pawn. But there’s no other option in his sights, his thoughts filled with saving the light of his life from the darkness of his own past. 

There’s no longer an immediate response from the Stand, nor a sarcastic quip full of loathing. It felt like the most logical explanation, revenge being the greatest motivator known to man. Giorno knows he made the correct assumption, or something close to it, considering Snake Oil’s change in attitude. Did the Stand think Giorno would remain in the dark until the end? 

“What… what do you mean?” 

Hesitation.

Giorno’s lips twitch into a small, satisfactory smile, his nerves having earned some rest upon guessing correctly. He continues, this time with a barrage of thinly-veiled accusations rather than questions. “It must’ve been longer than a few months, with how much planning this would’ve taken. So when was it? A year, two maybe?”

The most drastic changes were made within Passione during the first six months of Giorno taking over. 

“Why does the time even matter?” He bites. “All the people you’ve killed, they’re nothing but faceless names on a list to you.”

Giorno wants to laugh; for someone so bent on killing him, he took the bait far too easily.

“While that holds some merit, you’re no better in that regard.” He begins, shaking his head and shifting his weight onto the other foot, looking awfully lax despite the context of this conversation. He takes note of the way Snake Oil’s fingers twitch with arrogant annoyance. “Wanting to involve an innocent life who has nothing to do with this, you don’t know the first thing about her.” 

“You’re wrong. I know plenty about this girl who had the misfortune of meeting you,” Snake Oil’s blank eyes flicker towards your incapacitated form. You look more like a helpless pup than the wife to a mafia boss; perhaps… perhaps that’s why he chose you. For your vulnerability, for your innocence. “Not that you made it easy. Having virtually every aspect of her existence wiped from the planet, going so far as to pay off police to end their missing person search… scum never has hopes of growing, do they?” 

Giorno has no reason to justify his thoughts to a stranger who intruded on your paradise and put your life in peril, no matter what injustices he might have caused the man in the past. Only for the motive of provoking him further does he respond. “For the sake of protecting her from those who’d do her harm.” He quips, his expression unchanging.

“Is that what helps you sleep at night, Giovanna? A pat on the back for kidnapping some girl from her life, taking away all her freedoms? Letting her family search and search, only to be fed lies that there are no leads, that the case has gone cold?” Snake Oil’s grip on you falters slightly, a wave of pity washing over him at your poor predicament. How unfortunate you are to have earned the attention of a demon… “You don’t know the first thing about losing someone precious to you, do you? What you’re doing to her isn’t protection. This is greed, meant only to benefit yourself,” the Stand accuses. “Considering how greedy you lot are, I’m surprised it hasn’t occurred to you that, if it weren’t for your manipulation, she would’ve slit your throat weeks ago.” 

Giorno is wholly unfazed; he has been called worse, by you even. Nothing the Stand says or will say could come close to the unfiltered hatred he’s heard from you. “Believe what you want, Snake Oil. It makes no difference to me.” 

“... So it doesn’t. I suppose labels hold no significance in your life — you’ve come to terms with what you really are. You're a fool, thinking someone like yourself is capable of love. A murderer can experience no such thing.” 

“And that’s what I am to you,” Giorno deduces, scouring the Stand’s mannerisms for any clues that may be of use. “A murderer.” 

“It’s not what you are to me. It’s an undeniable fact.” 

Giorno doesn’t give him the luxury of a response nor the slightest change in his own expression. His stare is blank, even with your life on the line, even when you hang uselessly from the enemy’s arms. The venom is spreading, creating a thick, void-like trail along the paths of each vein it reaches. Starting from the entrance wound in your neck, your blackening veins look like tendrils, crawling up your face and down your chest — toward your brain, your heart. So that is his Stand power...

“Does she know, Giovanna?” Snake Oil hisses, handling your unconscious body harshly. Giorno bites down on his bottom lip at the mere sight, composing himself; now is not the time to strike, not over something so trivial. If that were the case, he would have used Gold Experience Requiem the moment this enemy laid a single finger on your person. Snake Oil barks out more questions, clarifying himself. “Does she know who you truly are beneath that mask?”

Giorno returns his gaze to his enemy, the look in his eyes hardening considerably as he chews on the question. Is that his motive? To use you as a bargaining chip, a means to lower his guard far enough to strike? It’s clever, if nothing else, but Giorno is poised in the art of manipulation. The chaos unraveling in his head, jumping from conclusion to conclusion over your current state — even that is pushed to the far reaches of his consciousness. Lashing out will do the Don no good. It’s a strength right now more than anything, the ability to stuff his own emotions and humanity into the recesses of his mind. Considering how emotional this Stand and its user must be to find a remote, isolated island and its sole inhabitant — regardless of Passione’s extensive influence over the territory — this man has a personal vendetta against Giorno himself.

But he should have never involved you.

Occupied with their back and forth, the pair of men fail to take notice of how your finger twitches by your side. The movement is subtle, easy to miss; even Giorno is too caught up in the situation to pay you any mind for once. The slightest movements of your incapacitated body are the least of his concerns, right now, his mind filled with one thought: you haven’t awoken. You are dying, and that is far more than Giorno can take.

“She doesn’t need to know.” 

The Don smiles sardonically. Gone is the ray of light that usually graces his features when he sets foot on this island, when his gaze lands on you. This man keeps speaking of you as if he knows you. If you were awake right now, you’d be easily swayed, your thoughts a mess and  your mind easily malleable. This could ruin everything, everything he’s built here, everything he’s built for you, with you. You won’t look at him the same. Not like this morning. Not even like the weeks before, spent in harrowing isolation, flinching at his very presence. You’ll look at him like you would a monster; horrified.  

But you aren’t awake. You are on the brink of death and he’s made next to no progress in your rescue. What a pitiful excuse he is. For all his power and influence, he can’t even protect you. He can’t even protect the very thing keeping him alive, the only person that showed a semblance of genuine love for him, even if it was hidden behind a hesitant and doubtful countenance. He was making progress. You were making progress.

“I am a murderer, as all gangsters are, but my reasons are just. I don’t need to explain them to someone such as yourself.” He laughs blithely. “Who did I kill that was so important to you?” He asks the same way one would ask for the time.

Snake Oil doesn’t answer.

“For you to come here, you must believe their death to be unjust. Who was it?” Giorno dwells on the thought for a second, deducing that these unknown variables must be closely related to this Stand’s user. “I can hardly recall their names, much less their faces. That begs the question: what did they do?” His smile grows, one-sided, as if knowing something his enemy does not. “I wonder… was it human trafficking? Narcotics?”

His only response is a glare, the Stand’s arm tightening around your neck like a noose. But, the Don head only cants to the side, testing the waters further. 

“No matter. If I wasted time doing so myself, they must have deserved to die.”

It’s spoken like an irrefutable fact. An ultimate dismissal of human life, of their own autonomy. An insult to the memory of those Snake Oil held dearest. The words aren’t only indifferent, but spoken with implicit confidence. In the recesses of his mind, he knows what it is Giorno is trying to do. Rationale is snuffed out, replaced with righteous fury. 

“You… you don’t deserve to speak of them. You know nothing.” 

“Do I now?” The Don’s body relaxes, now knowing what the Stand is after. The investigation falls; the interrogation begins. “Ah, I remember.” His lips twitch into a cruel smile, enjoying the act of playing with this enemy’s feelings. To be ruled by one’s feelings, to the point of enacting revenge on a man you haven’t a chance of winning against — this Stand and its user wouldn’t make it in the world of gangsters for much longer. “A wife, and a….son was it? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? For revenge.” He tests the waters with a contemplative tone despite already knowing the answer, the Stand’s body language holding a tension and enmity it hadn’t moments before. “I don’t recall their faces or names, really, but I remember their screams. Your wife was groveling at my feet, begging for mercy. She had this look in her eyes — betrayal. You didn’t tell her your true profession, did you?” The Don’s lips twitch when Snake Oil falters, the latter’s eyes wide. “And your son… a prominent member in the very drug routes Passione aims to quell. I remember he tried to bargain with me, sell you out in exchange for my mercy.” Giorno laughs at the irony. To not even be trusted by your own family… “Like father, like son. He deserved to die.”

Snake Oil draws a sharp breath.

“And your daughter… such a sweet little thing. She didn’t understand what was happening.” He recalls with faint disinterest. “The look on her face was so tragic. I almost felt sorry for her. But she is related to you by blood, and scum can only breed scum.” An idea formulates, the words pressed past his lips as easily as breathing. “It’s a pity, though. She got away before I could…” He trails off, relishing in the way Snake Oil chokes pathetically on this information; his daughter… his only family is alive, somewhere, and... “I suppose I'll have to find her, take care of what I started." Giorno finishes.

“Shut up!” In his anger, Snake Oil’s grip tightens around your neck, squeezing at your already-suffocated veins. Giorno’s eyes flicker, taking note of the blackening nerves beneath your skin. “Don’t forget who’s in control here, Giovanna…!”

It’s all talk meant to rile him up, create an exploitable opening. Snake Oil refuses to fall into the trap, a ploy meant to keep him from enacting revenge. The words are heavy, a weight over his shoulders, but the Stand has you. While you should be dead by now from his ability, there are other ways to kill. Messier methods that he didn’t wish to stoop to, not until now. Giorno Giovanna, in all his sadistic glory, has dug a grave for his own beloved; an end truly befitting a monster such as himself.

“The pain I felt that day… you get to experience it now. You’ll pay for your sins in blood,” the Stand sneers, its expression full of countless years of pain. His gaze turns toward your unconscious body, his mind already concocting plans of a painful death. “Her blood.” 

"You view me as a demon, but do you have the resolve to stoop to my level?" Giorno quips, his resolve quickly running thin. The air is tense, suffocating, but he can’t let his mask falter. It would mean the end to this. An end to you. An end to this paradise, this false Eden.

He’s not ready for that. Not yet. Not when you were finally...

“So sure of yourself, so confident…” Every word drips with malice, forced out from a dark place. Every syllable is a shot to Giorno’s heart, to his willpower, Snake Oil feels his goals shift, wanting nothing more than to prove Giorno wrong. That not everything can fall into place as he sees fit, that he isn’t as omnipresent as he believes himself to be. To see those calculating eyes widen in horror, knowing that he made a grave error. 

It’s wishful thinking. Nothing in this world is that simple. If it were, Snake Oil’s family would still be by his side,and he wouldn’t be here, threatening an innocent girl with the displeasure of being involved with the worst scum society has to offer. He wouldn’t have had to stoop to the levels he did, likely disappointing those he cared for in the distant past. He wouldn’t have to stoop to Giovanna’s level and kill a blameless soul.

Monsters can only breed monsters.

Should the poison fail, so be it. It’s a messier death, a far less merciful one, but Snake Oil no longer has the capacity to care. How could he, after being taunted, when it was Giorno who was meant to be cowering away in anguish?  The Stand’s grip around your limp body strengthens, intent on strangling out all signs of life. This is it, the final act of dishonor to end it all. Within a few seconds, you should be reduced to nothing but a corpse, a shadow of your former self, that sadistic light in Giovanna’s eyes long gone.

Time is at a standstill. It all happens in the blink of an eye. 

At his torso, there’s a forceful shove that sends him sprawling backwards, air knocked from his lungs. Snake Oil lets out a shocked gasp, noticing the surprise on Giovanna’s own face; it’s clear he wasn’t expecting this turn of events, either. This attack… it couldn’t have been him. So that means you’re…

Before Snake Oil can dwell on his revelation, Gold Experience Requiem phases into the Stand’s field of vision, its speed unmatched and its strength beyond anything he’d prepared himself for. He knew death was coming should he mess up, should he let that monster creep under his skin. And yet, it still ends like this, a hole driven into his chest, just as it was meant to be. The pain is nothing new. The loss of everyone he’d ever cared about hurt far worse, but this… this is comforting. A release, a mercy. A promise that he will soon see his family, again. 

The gentle wave that washes over him is short lived; the blow had sent him flying, his back pierced by a nearby rock. There’s pain, briefly, before it washes away all the same. Washes away into nothing. Death, he’s come to realize, feels like nothing, and yet everything all at once. Even death has a heart, it seems, a vague sense of clemency and calm that life lacks. All the memories of a time long past, all the regret and the pleasure that comes with living. Sweet memories, bitter memories… memories of his family, killed at the hands of a man who acts like a God dictating who should live and who should die. A God who slaughters innocents, under a false moral code. A God who locks away his own lover, as if her life means nothing; a God who looks at her the same way the stars admire the sun.

And yet, in Snake Oil’s last moments, that same God looks down at him the same way one would a fly before you kill it. The same insignificance, the same detachment. Like he meant never meant anything of value. And he realizes...

Death does not discriminate; life does.

Giorno gazes at the dying man with a look of vague disinterest, a sight he’s grown accustomed to. There’s no anger, no pity, no emotion. Those were stolen the moment your eyes snapped shut and your blood started rotting. Snake Oil will find no satisfaction in this squandered death, his life squelched out and amounting to nothing. 

“Go to Hell. They’re waiting.”

The words fall from his lips so easily, so listlessly, without a shred of remorse. Snake Oil’s last moments are far from peaceful, those precious moments prior having lulled him into a false sense of security. They? Who are they? The Devil? His enemies? Or…. 

Realization hits. His blood has started to clot, and yet it boils with anger with indignant realization: he will go to Hell for his sins. He will go to Hell, and his family won’t be there. A sinner has no right of choice, only a punishment and its executioner. Even in these last moments, he’d hoped Giovanna would grant him the mercy of solace, the sympathy of a human rather than the malevolence of a monster. But that hope was misplaced from the start.

“Y...y-you’re a…. dem—”

But it’s too late. Snake Oil worked with diligence, but the devil works faster.

The storm has passed. The corpse, in its final moments, is gagging on thin air and it occurs to Giorno that its user is dying. Gagging on his own bile and vomit someplace far off, someplace Giorno can’t reach in his current state. If your life wasn’t in immediate danger, he’d hunt for the bastard himself, ensuring that his life has come to a permanent end. But you are more important. You will always be more important.

When he turns, he expects the worst. He expects to see your skin sallowed and your face sunken. He expects to see a lifeless husk, a goddess without the glow he’s come to admire. But that light is still there. You are still there, just as radiant as you were before your Eden was corrupted. The rise and fall of your chest is unmistakable, no matter how shallow your breathing may be. You’re alive. You’re alive, and Giorno’s legs nearly give out at the thought. Seeing you this close again, even as you cling to life, feels too good to be true. Giorno’s not sure who to thank, be it fate or having the devil’s own luck, but you’re still here. Still with him. This was too close to the chest. Pesky little details will be examined later, to ensure nothing like this ever has the chance to repeat. Security being tightened, loose ends removed… there’s an abundance of work to be done. For now, he allows himself to think only of you. 

He’s by your side in an instant, checking your pulse and breathing. Gold Experience takes note of the movement beneath your wrist, pulsing as it should be, yet rapidly dimming. Any flesh wounds he can spot are immediately healed with a featherlight touch, fearing the unattended wounds may harm you further. He holds your limp body to his chest, gently trying to shake you back into consciousness. To bring you back to him. 

“Let me see those gorgeous eyes of yours, amore.” His voice is so quiet and weak, it’s drowned out by the ocean waves. “I’ll be here as long as you need me. We need to finish our date, right? There’s still so much we have to do. I’ll clear my schedule, so just open your eyes and...”

He chokes, eyes wide with bitter tears. Your color is paling at an alarming pace, lips becoming a sickly blue. The flower he made earlier now looks out of place against your skin, its vibrant yellow petals so vivid in comparison — mocking you. Giorno chokes on his own spit; there’s no escaping it: you are dying, and he may as well be too. Giorno’s grip on you falters due to his own trembling, forcing him to steady you entirely against his chest. Every breath he takes is laboured, the weight of the world dragging him down. He’s seen this sight too many times before, and in his heart, he knows what this means. Without full knowledge of Snake Oil’s ability, there’s no way to treat whatever wounds were inflicted on you; he can only grasp at ideas from the previous encounter.  It’d take hours to find and deliver the proper antivenom, and by then, it’d be too late. He knows this, and he hates himself for it. He hates his knowledge, his experience that allows him to come to this horrific conclusion. Giorno wishes he were a fool so he could delude himself into believing you’ll continue to live with him.

“You said you wanted a frog for a pet, didn’t you…? I’ll make as many as your heart desires, I swear it. So, please…” The words die at the back of his clenching throat. His entire life, he’s told himself that crying is useless. That it achieves nothing, a waste of time and effort. Action is always the best course, the only path that amounts to overcoming grief. It’s been the philosophy of his life, and yet; he kneels here on the verge of tears all the same. “Please, please, please…”

Another shake, more urgent than the last.

“I wanted—” he gulps back a telling lump forming in his throat, “I wanted to do so much with you. Cooking together is just the start, there’s so much more...” His voice is a low whine, like a child begging his parents for their time and affection. It’s a battle against time, a battle that he’s losing. “So much more…” His words are incomprehensible at this point, slipping from his mouth before he can gather himself. “I love you, [First]… I love you, I love you. Please, God…” The words are unschooled, said without thought — genuine. There has never been a moment in his life where he believed God to be real, not after everything he’s seen, not after everyone he’s lost. You can’t be another causality — he can't lose you too.

For the first time since he was a child, Giorno cries.

He cries for everything he put you through, for everything he took from you. Every wish you had, every dream he never got to hear. He stole them like his family stole his own. He promised to be better, a better man — someone who could change the world, someone with a good heart. Growing up, he wanted nothing more than to prove his parents wrong. His step-father, cynical and drunk and good-for-nothing. His mother, neglectful, always chasing a high, as if her own family was the lowest of the low. And his real father, his origins and identity unknown; a man who no doubt would not want to be part of Giorno’s life, his own son’s life. Giorno didn’t want to be like any of them, didn’t want to grow up to become a monster in the shape of a human. That sentiment feels hypocritical right now, having just lost his composure and temper. The remnants of a man’s own soul is not too far off, mangled and destroyed beyond recognition, its user dead on the shores of a monster who stole his family.

Giorno Giovanna is not a good man. His tears are more for you than anyone else; you truly did have the misfortune of meeting him. The Devil could drag him to Hell right now and his last thoughts would still be: “Let her go to Heaven.”

There’s a gradual change. 

To the untrained eye, it might be too subtle to pick up on. Almost like a transparent sheen hovering just above your skin, a low hum of energy resonating alongside it. Giorno’s lip twitches as your complexion practically shines, eyes squinting to combat the light's growing strength. Too much is unfolding before him, a complex mystery where he remains in the dark. Snake Oil… he’s certain that Stand is no more. That’s when a chilling realization hits, like a bucket of ice being poured over him.

Gold Experience Requiem remains by his side, the Stand at the ready to attack as Giorno constructs a plan. Could Snake Oil have had a Stand that stays active upon death, like Notorious B.I.G? Giorno freezes at the thought, knowing full well the power a Stand like that would have. Hunting down its target for eternity. Did Snake Oil place an ability on you that triggered after death? In that case, precautions need to be taken to ensure you’re not placed under any further harm. There’s still a chance to save you; even Notorious B.I.G. had its flaws, no matter how terrifyingly powerful the Stand at first seemed.

But… something about it is off. The energy convulsing from you feels different, almost familiar. Warm and enveloping, unlike Snake Oil who conveyed nothing but bitterness and lost hope. What is this…? 

The luxury of thinking is replaced by a raw desire to act, to salvage what little remains, not willing to patiently assess the situation any longer. Not after that’s what led to your possible death sentence in the first place. Divine light radiates around your limp body, and Giorno reaches out, prepared to fend off the perceived threat. His trembling hand inches closer to your iridescent skin, tingling at the sensation rolling from your person like a barrier, and then— 

He’s flung back against the ground, as Snake Oil was before him. Gold Experience Requiem releases a fierce battle cry, lashing towards the presumed threat that envelopes you. Your person lets out a disgruntled noise at the attack, eyebrows twitching and body regaining itself. Cheeks flushing with color again, long eyelashes fluttering against your face. Rest is a coaxing concept, though something deep inside you commands that you wake.

Your eyes open.

Blood. Your vision is filled with a thick red, the beautiful blues and golds of the beach but a distant memory. The scene before you is a battlefield, its only remnants thick puddles of fresh blood. The liquid mars the beautiful beach sands, crimson revealing a story you weren’t meant to witness. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, dulling various areas that should be screaming out in pain. There’s too much to chew on, your thoughts in complete disarray. Your body feels prickly, vitality making a swift reappearance. And yet, there’s an unfamiliar pain at your chest, where Gold Experience Requiem’s hit landed. It’s dull, as if there is a layer of protection between your skin and the place the Stand’s fist had landed, but the very thought of Giorno hurting you, no matter the circumstance, has your mind reeling.

It doesn’t take long to piece together scattered pieces of the puzzle. In your delirium, you’d heard everything. It evokes disgust and shame, knowing you willingly went along with Giorno’s qualms. You had lost yourself, giving into him for frivolous comforts. He’s harmed too many, you’re not the only person to be on the receiving end of endless pain; you were just lucky enough to be on his good side. Morality and running a worldwide crime syndicate do not go hand and hand, no matter how many times Giorno tries to humanize himself to you. It’s all a facade. 

This was all a mistake. You shouldn’t have come here, not so willingly, not with him. 

“You’re a monster.”

A fact you’ve known for months now, and yet the words struggle past your teeth. A week ago, you wouldn’t have hesitated to say that and much worse to his face, relishing in the hurt that would momentarily cross his features. You had some semblance of power over him during those moments, using his twisted sense of love against him. You felt powerful, in control for once, having one of the most powerful men in the world grovel in wait for your affection. Before you, he wasn’t Don Giorno Giovanna, boss of Passione. He was just a boy, a psychopath, a man who had taken the world from you and expected your love in return.

You should’ve known it wouldn’t last. He will always have the upper hand, some sort of control or advantage over you. You were a fool to think whatever you two possibly had — a relationship, if you could call it that — could work. Humans aren’t meant to be with monsters, and monsters aren’t meant to fall in love.

You realize that now.

“[First]...” For once, he’s speechless. Even saying that much is difficult. Gradually, he stands from the spot he’d been flung to, wearily making his way toward your crumpled body. His hand reaches out, shaking; were you slipping in and out of consciousness the entire time…? How much did you overhear? How much did you see?

“Don’t come closer!” You blink back tears, your vision focusing and unfocusing in the midst of it all. Your fingers, your hands, your… your body is glowing. The light is faint, weak, like the remnants of a flame before its wick gives out. “I-I… W-what happened? What happened to me?”

The puzzle pieces fall into place in his head. Giorno draws a sharp breath, his thoughts reeling to provide an explanation that won’t frighten you any further. In this state, you’re running on a high, coming down from the power your body has just awakened to. Having just defended yourself against a deadly venom, your body is running on pure adrenaline just to keep yourself upright. Your mind is reeling to rationalize what’s happening. Every nerve in your body felt like they were on fire, burning you up from the inside out. It’s as if you’re being overclocked, forced to work at full capacity, threatening to crash at any moment. Power rolls off your body in waves, as if it was meant to be there, as if it was there all along. And there’s an energy in your veins that feels wholly foreign, simultaneously yours and someone else’s at the same time. The ringing in your head is disorienting beyond compare; it feels as if your mind has been invaded, as if there is something else, someone else in your consciousness.

“What did you do?!” You don’t want to look at him, not in this moment, but the situation leaves you no choice. Your eyes flicker, briefly glowing with unadulterated rage when your gaze meets his. It couldn’t be possible, he couldn’t have… “You… you made me a monster just like you.”

“[First], I can explain everything, but you need to rest or—”

“No. God, I’m such a fool.” Your gut wrenches when you accidentally turn your gaze upon the battered corpse, its body mangled and face unrecognizable. Its heart hangs from its chest; you shudder to think what his human counterpart looks like. His death must have been painful,  agonizingly slow — an end befitting a monster more so than a human. And he… he’s surrounded by a sea of blood — your husband is surrounded by a sea of blood. 

“How could I forget? W-what you are…” Your eyes are fully glowing, pulsating with a holy energy when they meet his, but the sight is far from terrifying. You’re trembling. You’re crying. You’re pleading with him, just as  you had when you first arrived on this island. You’re scared. “W-Will you do the same to me?” 

His heart shatters.

Even now, as broken as you may feel, you cannot let yourself fall apart. If you break now, you won’t escape. He won’t let you escape. It will just be worse this time. You’ll always know the truth, the fact that countless lives have bloodied his hands — that he killed in cold blood then looked at you like your life is the only one worth keeping. 

“You’ve already taken everything from me. You took my family from me. My friends. My life. My future. How am I any different from them? From any of the people you’ve hurt?” His expression wavers at your endless accusations, but he doesn’t defend himself and you take that as a confession to his sins. “That man was right. Do you remember all of them? All of your victims? All their faces? Their dreams and ambitions?” Air catches in your throat, realizing something the enemy had divulged; your family. They’d been… they’d been lied to, and that revelation does nothing to quell your anger.“What about their families? Are they still looking for them, too?” Your voice cracks, coinciding with your crumbling heart.

That’s right, your family looked for you. They searched for you; they mourned, they were betrayed. They think you’re dead, that you left without saying goodbye — without saying “I love you”. And you were deluded into thinking that everything was going so well, that you could forget, that you could start anew. You were happy, for once, for the first time in what felt like years. As close as you could get to happiness. Finally having set out on a path of healing, recovering pieces of yourself and putting them back together where no one else could. This illusion you allowed yourself to believe dissipates, the fog over your eyes lifting to reveal barren reality. A reality Giorno himself designed and held full control over, like a God, and you his sole obsession. If he is a God, he is cruel. To think otherwise is to be seduced by the enemy. 

“You lied to me. You said I was safe here, that I could trust you.” Your voice breaks at that word — trust. What a pretty word, for such awful lies. “You didn’t have to kill him.”

Giorno gathers his senses, his head ringing with your hurtful words, his heart tired. He is losing you all over again; this is the only thing he can defend, as all your other accusations are more or less true. “[First], I had to. He was going to—” 

“No. There’s never a good reason to murder, not when you have the power to stop them instead.” Your eyes flicker to Gold Experience Requiem, knowing full well of its powers. Giorno holds his tongue, realizing you’re right. He didn’t have to kill the enemy, not… not in front of you at least. Your eyes are not meant to see bloodshed or pain, and yet, he let his feelings get the better of him — and this is his price. “You didn’t have to, but you did. You killed him, Giorno. You killed him.” You can’t bring yourself to look at the corpse any longer. “That’s what monsters do.”

Each word stings more than the last.

He’s analyzing you. Mentally reciting and testing dozens of different explanations that might serve to placate you, even if it’s a temporary fix. Anything to get that stinging look of repulsion off your beautiful face, anything to make you look at him the way you did earlier. This is far more detrimental than the times you spoke down to him before now that a third party had been involved. The damage is already done, nature of himself that he tried to hide from you now out in the open. 

There may be no coming back from this.

“You’ve been through a lot.” Giorno takes one step closer to you, stomach dropping when you flinch at the tentative action. All the progress has been undone, though he can’t mourn that now. He has to keep a straight face, lull you down this high filled with fear and adrenaline. Get under your skin again… make you trust him. “Come, let’s go inside. You must feel tired.”

“No. No, no, no, you liar. You’ve put me through a lot,” you correct with a weak glare, holding your hand to your chest. The same hand that had finally come to accept him just minutes prior. Recalling his touch makes you want to scrub the skin raw, knowing how bloodied they were.  “Just… stay away from me, p-please.” Your demands sound more like pleads, the shock of your new abilities still paralyzing your system. Your wings encircle you still, their transparent silhouette coursing with a power you know not what to do with. Their presence alone makes you feel safe, a much needed barrier between you and him. It even withstood a direct attack from Giorno’s own Stand…

The possibility of escaping is becoming frighteningly real.

Giorno withdraws his outstretched hand, not wanting to scare you any further. It’s clear you don’t want to listen to him right now, and he’s not sure he wants to continue persuading you; the trembling of your body, the look on your face, like a frightened doe — you’re scared of him. The same girl that had looked at him with hesitant admiration, that had played with him, that had gotten to know him, that had kissed him — she’s gone, and some deep, hateful part of him knows she won’t ever come back. He’s walking on eggshells again and he knows it. In the terrified state that you’re in, there won’t be any deescalation. You’ve seen too much, know too much. It’s troublesome, too many factors at play to safely talk this out. There’s still the problem of your safety, and monitoring your body for any further repercussions from the earlier Stand attack. Giorno considers all of this, and with a silent sigh, makes a swift decision on how to best fix this. More roadblocks are set in the path of recovery, but he’s determined to see this through. That’s how he’s always been, and how he’ll always be until the day he draws his final breath. You are no exception; you never will be. Not when everything he does is wholly for you.

You realize something is amiss when he doesn’t respond any further to your pointed accusations. Normally, you’d see a flicker of hurt flit across his features — the only time he ever lets his guard down, even slightly, is with you. That’s not the case now, not after everything you’ve heard, everything you’ve seen. Lips parting, you’re about to inquire what it is he’s plotting, but by then it’s far too late. From the blood by your feet, roots start to form at the base, coming to life by Gold Experience Requiem’s ability. An unidentifiable substance leaks from them, sapping away at the remnants of your consciousness like parasites. It acts as a salve, soothing the snake bite on your neck and the skin covering your blackened veins, but its true purpose is far from that, meant to constrain you, to confine you. It’s a terrifying sight, being restrained by vines tainted in the blood of a dead man, being restrained by an entity that had made you gifts and brought you joy only minutes prior.

He’s using his ability on you.

Gold Experience Requiem, an entity that had excitedly made you a crown to place atop your head, looks almost distraught as he covers you from head to toe, confines you like his user has for as long as you can remember. They are one and the same, you realize; how foolish it was to believe this man was capable of anything but tragedy. You had been charmed by pretty lies fashioned to ensnare you for eternity. His words, his actions, everything about him was a lie — a forbidden fruit.

Standing becomes too arduous a task, your body crumpling to the ground in a pathetic show of weakness. The world around you grows blurry, your eyelids fighting to remain open only to lose and sink into the sweet call of sleep. Everything feels so far away. The call of the birds, the crashing of the ocean… even the sand that rubs against your skin doesn’t register. The only thing that does is the look on his face, so unlike the monstrous, dissociated expression he had when he took a man’s life before your eyes. Even that, all the pain, dread, betrayal, it’s all slipping away, to some place you cannot reach. Not anymore. The light that stems from your back flickers, the remnants of your holy wings shattering like fragments of glass. Giorno approaches you as the disorientation continues and your Stand deactivates, having protected you long enough. He wants nothing more than to take its place as your savior, your protector, his arms reaching out to catch and prevent your body from further harm. You’ve been through enough. You were right; he’s put you through enough.

As consciousness fades, you hear the Devil whisper one final promise.

“I’ll fix everything, just give me time.” 

[getitinbusan]

When your cheating ex calls months later will you answer?

Jungkook

Cheating, Heartbreak, Angst and Sex

You were just about to fall asleep when your phone went off.  With an exasperated sigh you rolled over wondering which of your friends was in need. You moved for the device a little annoyed but felt obligated to answer, after all,  they'd been there for you no questions asked during the break up. 

The screen lit up "DO NOT ANSWER" and your heart dropped. You'd once read that it was a good idea to rename your ex in your phone so you wouldn't feel temptation to communicate but that was months ago. You made the fatal mistake of not deleting his contact picture and now here he was showing up on your screen. He never did try and call, this was the first time you were faced with the decision of answering.  

Setting your phone down you pulled the covers over your head and tried to block it out of your mind.  A single notification pinged through your duvet and bounced around your head before you surrendered. With a mind of its own your hand snuck out of your blanket fort and picked up the cold device 

JK: Please Y/N, I really need you right now.  

Y/N: Why are you doing this to me Jungkook? I'm finally getting over you.  

JK: I'm selfish and I'm stupid but I'm also the loneliest I've ever been in my life. Our apartment is so empty, I haven't been able to sleep in our bed since you left. 

Y/N: I'm not the one who left Jungkook. You seem to forget that you checked out of this relationship before I packed my boxes.  

JK: Can I please just see you? 

JK: Please 

JK: 

Y/N: Are you really crying right now?  

JK: I haven't stopped since…. Fuck, I know you hate me, its killing me. Please just let me apologize in person 

You knew it was the wrong choice, seeing him was just going to rip your heart in two again.  

Y/N: Send a fucking car

The door man greeted you with a closed mouth smile and a nod. Embarrassment creeped through your being whenever people looked at you with pity, "I'll let Mr. Jeon know you're here."

Meeting you at the elevator he looked a mess. He'd lost some muscle and his skin was pale, his sunken eyes were red and tired. Reaching out to hug you, he thought better and instead jammed his firsts into the pockets of his worn grey track pants.  He was wearing a T-shirt and you were forced to observe his tattoos like a fucking train wreck. They were like a banner, there written across the body you once worshiped, saying, "I fucked someone else."

He noticed you looking at his arm and ran his hand over it, "I guess you haven't seen them yet." He proudly held it out for you. You felt sick to your stomach, "Yeah, I don't really want to look at them Jungkook. You could at least have the decency to put on a fucking sweater or something."

He was puzzled by your reaction but reached for his flannel button down hanging off the back of the couch anyway. The tears came immediately, you needed to make him understand what he'd done. You sobbed his name, "Jungkook, how am I supposed to look at you when her writing is all over you in permanent ink?" 

He dropped to his knees looking up at you pleading, "But you have to, look at me Y/N, I never meant to hurt you. What can I do? I'll do anything to fix this."

The ache that had tormented your heart returned stronger than ever. "How am I supposed to trust you? You told me you were going to Geoje Island to hike Gyeryongsan Park. I didn't question you, I didn't ask you not to go, I wasn't a bad girlfriend Jungkook, I just fucking loved you. All I've been able to do for months is try to figure out how I screwed up… but I didn't, you did.  Now you have the nerve to ask ME how to fix it?"

You crumpled to the floor beside him crying uncontrollably, he was devastated finally seeing the effect his actions had on you. 

"I'm going to fix this, I'm going to put us back together," picking you up he carried you over to the couch and held you against his chest. You were both crying but the comfort of his heartbeat thrumming through you brought you a peace you'd missed so much. 

"All my life I've trained hard, I've done what I was told, I followed the rules and I've had to act as "Jungkook" the idol. The truth is, I don't know who Jeong-guk is. During the break I wasn't under the microscope, I just got to do what I felt like doing, and honestly, it felt really good. I hiked Gyeryongsan with my brother and we met a group of people, they were from the tattoo shop. I decided to just do it… because I wanted to. It took a few days so we got to know them, drank with them, ate with them, they just felt like friends." He paused his story sensing your agitation. 

 "Did you think of me at all Guk?" Your heart was racing, anger creeping back in as you remembered seeing the pictures online.  "We don't get to be seen in public, we don't get to hold hands, we don't get to go out to eat. Why was it okay with her?"

He took a deep breath, "I could because she wasn't you… because I didn't care,  because I wanted to see what would happen" He put his fingers in your hair and brushed it out of your face, "I can't with you, I need to protect you, I need to keep you safe and out of the spotlight so you don't get hurt. The fans can be really mean, I honestly don't know what I'd do if the people I am so grateful for turned on the person I love the most."  

You let your fingers fan out over his chest, just getting to touch him again made your heart race. You didn't want to get sucked back in but here you were, his words were believable and you even felt a little bad for him. He placed his hand on top of yours, his tattoos demanding your attention  "Why didn't you talk to me? You just let me go, let me believe what I saw." 

You traced the outline of the heart with your fingertip and you felt a tear land on your face as he leaned over you. "I was just trying to figure out who I was, I didn't think you'd love ME, especially after what you saw and heard. When we were in New Zealand I did a lot of reflecting, even though I'm struggling to know who I am, I'm less of that person without you. You not only make me more of the man I want to be, you put up with who I have to be." He kissed your forehead and you understood.  

"Guk…I'm so tired, take me to bed." He let out an audible sigh of relief knowing that you were willing to move forward with him.  

Raising your arms over your head he pulled your shirt off your body and replaced it gently with one of his oversized T-shirts. Turning down the sheets you crawled in, it felt like your mind could finally have a rest. Sure that your doubts and sadness would come back, at least for tonight, they had been defeated. He wrapped his arms around you as you both gave in to months of mental exhaustion, sleep conquering sadness, hope turning into dreams that once again dared to reveal themselves.  

The sunlight danced on your eyelids, the scent of Jungkook heavy in the air, you must be dreaming. Afraid to open your eyes, afraid it wouldn't be real you felt his hand on your waist and you couldn't help but smile.  He knew you were awake, nuzzling into your neck he whispered, "It feels like heaven having you back." 

Turning to him you placed your hand on his cheek, "My head is telling me to go but I really want to be here, please make me stay." 

Leaning in he kissed you, god it felt good. You'd blocked out every memory of the pleasure you'd once shared but with one kiss they came flooding back and you wanted him so badly inside of you.  

Roughly you kissed him and began tugging off his clothes. Pulling his shirt over his head the sight of his tattoos fueled an aggression in you to take back what was yours. "Tell me you love me Jungkook," you growled as his cock hardened in your hand.  

"I love you," he panted back, "I fucking love you more than anything."

He sucked your nipple into his mouth as you straddled him sinking down onto his eager dick. Both of you moaning you continued your assault, maybe you could fuck the pain away, "Did she make you feel this fucking good?" 

Like you weighed nothing he immediately flipped you onto your back, laying over top of you he stared frozen. 

"Stop,  just…stop….I didn't fuck her, I didn't do anything with her… I need you to believe that." He was crying, "please believe me"

You did, maybe it was naive but in that moment you really did.  Holding his face you let your lips ghost over his, "I believe you."

Taking control he moved slowly, deliberately, entering you while not breaking his lips away from yours. He rolled his hips deep into a rhythm that rubbed perfectly inside of you and you were lost.  The pleasure elevated by his admissions of love and desire for you as he called your name and moaned in time with his motions.

The raw feelings like electricity heightened your desire, as you let go you cried aloud clenching around him as you both came. "You're so beautiful giving yourself to me, I don't deserve you," he was so emotional, you'd never seen him like this. 

Laying together coming down from the high of passion, life did what it always does, the adrenaline had worn off and the truth came creeping back in. Unsure of what may or may not have happened it was a betrayal nonetheless. Trust had been lost, lies told and promises were broken.  Where did you go from here? 

He lay beside you stroking your hair with a small content grin on his face and you ran you hand over his chest, fingertips across his collar bone and skimming down his arm. The words on his skin screamed at you and sadness draped over you like a blanket of darkness. Noticing the wetness gathering on his chest,  he sat up to see the tears quietly fall down your cheeks. Leaning over he retrieved his long sleeve shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head. "I hope one day you can look at me and it won't hurt. My arms are supposed to protect you and comfort you not make you sad."

You rolled over to face him, " I hope so too."

[aurora077]

Aeons

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13707409/1/Aeons

She’d screwed up. She knew it when it happened, but it was only now, lying on her hotel bed after one of the most exhausting battles of her career, that she realised just how much she had screwed up. 

For a few, world-shattering moments, he was gone. It may have been a minute or an hour, but to Ladybug… to Marinette, it felt like aeons. 

She let out a wet, derisive laugh. Who tells their partner they don’t trust them in the middle of a battle? Her, clearly. And then he wasn’t her partner anymore and she could hear nothing but her own pounding heartbeat and a loud ringing in her head. 

I renounce you echoed over and over again. She had lost him.

She never meant for that to happen. Hadn’t seen it coming at all. After all, what was Ladybug without Chat Noir? Nothing.

She was nothing without him. How was she supposed to go on?

He had his flaws, sure. They both did (she was currently starkly aware of hers). But he was the one who lightened the load on her shoulders. She was often annoyed at him when he joked in the wrong timing, but without him to keep things light, her heavy thoughts would have overwhelmed her. And though she hated when he sacrificed himself for her, she knew he would never stop. He was always throwing himself into danger for her. To protect her. Even when he had transformed that day, his first concern was Marinette (she assumed he was nearby, how else would he know to look for her?). Granted he didn’t know it was her, but she counted it anyway. 

She couldn’t recall how she got back to the hotel. She’d moved as if in a daze. When Alya told her to go after Adrien, she did. But somehow it felt insignificant. She should have gone after Chat. Screw identities, she was the Guardian now wasn’t she? She should have gone after him and apologised for making him feel like a failure. Because he wasn’t.

He was her rock. 

And yes, he’d screwed up but so did she.

It was clear he hadn’t expected to be leaving Paris. He’d have said something to her when they met. She was being unfair to him. But seeing Paris being destroyed and knowing she couldn’t do anything for anyone who would have been hurt in the attack stung. And she took it out on him. 

She sobbed loudly, not bothering to hide her tears as her roommates were all out celebrating. She was lucky they just thought that she was bummed that Adrien left. And she was, but at the moment it wasn’t her main concern. 

No, her main concern was figuring out how on Earth she would ever be able to make this up to her partner. She wasn’t sure how she would face him after this. They’d worked well enough together but that was a life or death situation.Once she was back in Paris she would have to find a way to properly apologise to him. Her tears were hot on her face and she was getting snot all over her pillow but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Tikki nuzzled her making soft sounds of comfort. 

She didn’t think she deserved it. 

The panic of seeing that monster destroying Paris while they were waiting on her, expecting her to come and save them….to fix the destruction. And she wasn’t there. She couldn’t do anything. At the time all she was thinking of was that he’d lied to her and now things were irreparable and it was all his her his fault!. She’d lashed out at him and hurt him. Which made things almost irreparable with them. 

She had no idea how Aeon had convinced him to come back. She was utterly and pathetically grateful to the android. It should have been her facing her partner and bringing him back his miraculous but, aside from the fact that she didn’t know his identity, she was too much of a coward . She didn’t know if she could bear his rejection of it a second time (and remembering the despair on his face when she told him she didn’t trust him, well, he would be well within his rights to refuse to take it back). Plagg wouldn’t have been able to bear his rejection either. Tikki said she’d never seen the black kwami so serious...so sad. 

Plagg loved Adrien. That much was obvious to Tikki. Marinette didn’t know Chat’s identity so she had no idea how much Plagg meant to him and how much he in turn meant to Plagg. Renouncing the miraculous was probably the hardest thing in the world for Adrien. But he’d done it because he didn’t want to cause Ladybug trouble. 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone, least of all you,” he had said. Tikki knew now more than ever just how much he loved her charge. Marinette said he’d made his choice, but she had no idea how hard a choice it would have been. And though Aeon was not human, she was close enough. Chat’s cataclysm destroyed her. Tikki could only imagine how that would have affected him. He was after all, still a child. And taking a life despite it being non-human and reversed...well...she was glad he had Plagg back, because the poor boy would need someone in his corner. 

She didn’t mention this to Marinette. She was already beating herself up about her actions so Tikki didn’t add fuel to the flame. Marinette knew she had messed up and deeply hurt her partner so the kwami would simply be there for her while she cried out her regrets and her grief. 

Because it was grief. 

For a few long moments she had lost her partner, and she didn’t get any time to truly process those emotions before being thrown back into battle. 

Tikki couldn’t help but feel relieved despite Marinette’s sorrow. Because if she had bottled up those emotions they would have become toxic. She needed to feel them and grapple with what happened, a thing that could not happen in France because of Hawkmoth’s insidious presence. It had been way too long since her holder could fully express her emotions. And express them Marinette did. She’d been crying for an hour already. Hard, wracking sobs that tore through her and left her body shaking, throat raw and eyes swollen. 

But Tikki had to make sure she didn’t spiral any more. At the rate she was going she’d be dehydrated and too exhausted to function the next day. Floating over to the nightstand she picked up the water bottle and brought it over.

“There there Marinette, it will all work out,” Tikki said, patting her face softly and passing her the water bottle. “Drink.”

“Will it?” she sniffled, “How can you be so sure?” Marinette did not feel like drinking however Tikki’s expression was kind but firm so she reluctantly did. She hadn’t realised how parched she’d been.

“Because you’re a team. He didn’t come back for New York, he came back for you.”

“How could you possibly know that Tikki? Why would he come back for me after the way I treated him.” 

‘Because he loves you,’ Tikki thought.

“Chat knows you better than you think,” she said instead, “He has his own guilt to deal with and he knows you did as well. You both made mistakes and he has never held it against you. He won’t start now.” 

“He left me Tikki!” she said, her lower lip wobbling again. Her voice broke, “He left...and it was all my fault.”

Marinette had run out of tears by this point, but her eyes burned. Her guilt and her fear were eating at her. 

“I thoug- *hic* thought I’d never see him again.” 

Tikki’s eyes melted in understanding.

Marinette couldn’t believe her eyes when Aeon had come back with Chat in tow. She didn’t even think. She ran to him and held him close. If they didn’t have to fight she felt sure she would have clung to him for ages. But they had a battle to win and then Chat had to leave. She didn’t even get to apologise.

“Tikki, I *yawn* I have to…” her eyes drooped, “to apmswm”

Exhaustion finally catching up with her, she mumbled incoherently before falling asleep. Tikki sighed and tucked herself next to her, happy that Marinette was able to get some much needed emotional purging, because once back in Paris she’d have to hold everything inside again. She was even more glad that she didn’t have to persuade her to apologise. Seems like she realised it on her own. 

She hoped that Plagg helped Chat to work through his feelings before he arrived in Paris. Because he had to be a lot more emotionally scarred than her own charge and he too deserved to feel his feelings without the threat of Hawkmoth turning him into a villain. 

She was worried about these new developments with Hawkmoth but that could wait until the class trip was over. There was no need to bother Marinette with it now. First, she’d let the kids work things out between them. It was imperative that they learn to communicate better. Though personally, she thought they’d learned their lesson.

[zahramalik]

TITLE: MACBETH AUDITION TRIGGERS: None. WORD COUNT: 1,245 NOTES: Zahra might be going for Macbeth, but what she mostly wants is to break out of the box Orson forced her into. It’d be nice for her final role at Alderidge to be something that breaks away from that, even if it’s not Macbeth. If she gets a role that’s starkly different from the others she’s had, it’d cement the fact that she is actually a talented actress and can get roles without banking on her looks. However, it’d also be interesting if Heidi turns out to view Zahra the same way Orson does, and decides she should play a more traditionally feminine role. It’d crush her, and probably make her question her place at this school.

Also, I realized that Zahra’s monologue is the main’s blog description only AFTER I decided on it and after I wrote like half of this para already. Please don’t hold that against me!!

“I’m Zahra Malik, and I’ll be auditioning for the role of Macbeth.” The deliberate omission of Lady prompts Heidi’s brows to jump in surprise. Still, the director doesn’t hesitate to jot the request down in her notebook, which is surely filled with details of the other students’ auditions. No going back now. 

Most would expect Zahra to go for the ruthless and conniving queen; it’s only the natural progression after playing a lovelorn princess last semester. And it’s admittedly poetic, how both Lady Macbeth and Zahra are held back by their roles as women in a society that admonishes them for being as cutthroat as any revered man. Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty. People have always taken Zahra at face-value, as an object meant to be admired rather than an intelligent being with ambitions of her own. Lady Macbeth had to settle for living vicariously through her husband, who never would’ve become king without the will of the play’s women.

Zahra is through with being a mere lady. Like Macbeth, she is determined to become king at any price, even if the cost is her own heart. 

“I’ll be performing Edmund’s monologue from act one, scene two of King Lear.” It’s drastically different from the other monologues she had in her arsenal — Helena, Cleopatra, Cressida — but it still would’ve come as no surprise to anyone that she’d chosen a villain’s monologue. After all, Macbeth is arguably the villain of his own story, and Zahra has never felt like the hero of her own. But while it was heavily debated on whether Macbeth’s tragic rise to kingship was because of destiny or the witches’ manipulation, Zahra knew she was not merely someone’s pawn. Like Edmund, she was never blessed by the gods or granted fortune by the stars. Everything she had gained, she’d clawed after it on her own.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Heidi says, Zahra can’t help but feel as though those words are merely the start of something grand.

“This is the excellent foppery of the world —” Try as she might, it’s difficult to kill the girl Zahra and become reborn as the bastard Edmund on stage. The two became unintentionally entwined during all the time she spent practicing the monologue. She could not help but see herself in King Lear’s Edmund, a complex villain who had been rejected since birth as similarly as she had. They both thirsted for a power that belonged to others, and were willing to go to drastic lengths to achieve their goals. And like Edmund, she’d felt shunned by her own hometown, was born from her parent’s mistakes and molded from it. Even at Alderidge, it was hard not to feel like a second-class citizen amongst uppercrust classmates who fit in so seamlessly, whose birthright guaranteed they’d never have to struggle the way she always had.

The inability to separate herself from the character only made her performance that much more thrilling to watch, every word a dynamite of raw emotion. All the anger she has towards the world, towards the people who looked down upon her, channeled into a soliloquy penned centuries ago. Her voice is strong, her hair is pinned back tightly, her stance is tall and commanding — Zahra proves that she can play a conniving, nefarious man just as compellingly as she can play any beautiful maiden.

The performance isn’t all just rage and contempt; Zahra can’t help but present sorrow as she laments on how Gloucester’s mistakes cursed his bastard son to live a vicious life. “My father compounded with my mother under the dragon's tail; and my nativity was under Ursa major; so that it follows, I am rough and lecherous.” Despite his wretchedness, Edmund has always been one of the more sympathetic Shakespeare villains, especially when he can convince the audience that Gloucester deserves all of the cruelty that Edmund would soon bring upon him. Zahra does her best to do the same, giving a performance that would turn anyone on her side, even if her getting Macbeth means that Hudson doesn’t.

No, shut that down. Zahra doesn’t allow her guilt to seep into her performance but instead she channels it into rage, fueling Edmund’s contempt towards Edgar, the beloved legitimate brother. Why couldn’t she have both Hudson’s success and the lead? Why did she allow her choice for Macbeth to hurt her so much? It shouldn’t have been difficult to choose herself over someone else, and she’s furious that she’d allowed herself to get too attached. Edmund was right, she had no one but herself to blame for her own faults.

Edmund, too, felt guilty in the end. A lot of good that did for him.

“— fa, sol, la, mi.” It was a stellar performance, better than anything she conjured up in her rehearsals. Zahra has to stop herself from breaking out into a grin onstage, proud of herself for managing to pull it off. Fuck Orson’s low expectations for her, she was so much more than a pretty face. Macbeth was hers, goddammit.

It takes only a second for Heidi to completely turn the switch. “Would you mind running through that again for me, differently this time?”

Zahra can’t help but pause, a bit taken aback by Heidi’s request. Orson never asked her to give another take on her auditions. Then again, Orson probably already decided on what role she’d have before anyone stepped on stage. So what was Heidi’s play here? Did Zahra somehow mess up her first performance? What was it lacking that Heidi needed to see it again a second time? Or did Heidi just want to see Zahra’s versatility, test her flexibility as an actor? Zahra’s first instinct is to ask, “Different, how?” but immediately realizes that’s a stupid question. Instead, she says, “Of course,” and makes her way back to where she first began. 

This time, Zahra focuses more on Edmund’s vindictiveness, plays him less emotional and more calculated. His scorn for his family leeches through more savagely. This is the birth of a monster, risen from the lack of love and respect Edmund had to endure his whole life. “Tut,” she scoffs, “I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing.” Zahra may have been uncertain in how her audition was going, but as Edmund she showed that she was nothing but in control of her own fate.

She is pure wickedness at the end of it, ready to strike down Edgar in order to claim the power that had never been granted to her. It’s perhaps a more vindictive performance than one would give when going for Macbeth, the guilt-ridden mad king. But there’s wickedness in Macbeth, too, a warrior who may have hesitated, but still cut down his enemies in order to maintain his place at the top.

Heidi nods, dismissing Zahra and revealing no insight to if that second performance gave her whatever she was looking for. “Thank you for your time,” Zahra says, her voice void of any emotion. She can’t help but feel a bit drained; this was longer than any other audition she had to give for Orson — what did that signify? Zahra had no idea how to feel, and despite everything, wished the stars would be kind enough to give her an answer.

[ryanmeft]

My Top Performances of 2019, Part 2

Here is the second half of the list of my favorite film performances of 2019. I tried to be as objective as possible, but it’s also a result of personal preferences. As before, the order is unimportant. Part 1 is here:  https://ryanmeft.tumblr.com/post/190668845597/my-top-performances-of-2019-part-1?fbclid=IwAR3_d80vj0FbIVXqWaTV1heUlIDJJmL-JB_ZksaadO_oNRztnhBMICxzTd8

Zhao Tao in Ash is Purest White

She’s got everything you could want in a rusting former industrial town: a good boyfriend who has influence in the area’s small underworld, which gives her power, love and money all at once. In a blink it is all gone, and she finds herself adrift in the world, dealing with the resentments of people with no patience for what she has gone through. Tao is the key component of this crime drama, which is more drama than crime. She does not take the world in blazing force as a crime figure in a Scorsese film might do, but quietly and slowly accepts that the days of her power are past---and unlike the men around her, tries to adapt to, rather than battle, the inevitable.

Ana De Armas in Knives Out

Knives Out is in the grand, disappearing tradition of the character actor, albeit with the parts mostly played by superstars. Yet among a roster that includes Captain America as an irresponsible playboy and Michael Shannon as a professorial-looking semi-Nazi, De Armas’s humble heroine Marta stands out. Maybe it’s because Marta is humble but not naive or entirely innocent, and De Armas manages to capture both her cunning and her honesty without turning her into a doe-eyed victim. She’s the kind of character you want to become a Nancy Drew-esque mystery hero for adults, so you can revisit her later adventures.

Joaquin Phoenix in Joker

Some hated the movie, some loved it, but one thing it seems everyone could agree on is Phoenix’s performance. He’s credited as Arthur Fleck, not as Joker, and his handling of the character couldn’t be more different than any previous portrayal. Arthur is sad and lonely, not at all an enigma---his private life is laid out for us in great detail---and Phoenix portrays him as just sort of being blown through the world, bereft of any real agency. You can debate all day whether the character deserves to be portrayed in a sympathetic way, but you can’t say Phoenix doesn’t pull it off, making us root for this maladjusted, societally-forgotten misfit almost up ‘till the end. 

Sienna Miller in American Woman

In a just world, Miller, hardly a household name, would have her face up on the stage Sunday night for playing this role, a drunken, hard-partying too-young mother and grandmother whose life begins to change when her daughter disappears. I say begins to, because this is not one of those magical stories of miraculous redemption. Debra does not become a good parent to her grandchild right away, and never becomes a great one. Instead, the film follows her throughout years of her life, during which, naturally, she must go on living as she mourns. Miller embodies each stage of this perfectly, never once allowing drama tropes to disturb her unflinching portrayal of an ordinary life.

Jeff Goldblum in The Mountain

What does the word “monster” conjure for you? Whatever traits it brings to mind, they are all present in Dr. Wallace Fiennes. He’s an egotistical, self-interested, callous man who performs lobotomies on mental patients in the 1950’s American heartland, the kind of person for whom his gruesome practice is not an outmoded method to be improved on by advancement, but an art form in itself, and his patients merely the canvas. This isn’t handled like a horror movie: Goldblum is not a mad scientist cackling away in a lab, but an urbane, cultured, engaging professional---which makes him all the more frightening.

Gugu Mbatha-Raw in Fast Color

Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel were, to a large extent, a marketing department’s ideal female superheroes: always flawless, gorgeous even when kicking ass, unable to make any very serious mistakes. Ruth is very much not that. She’s living wherever she can, dealing with the effects of past addictions, running from the government, scared of her own powers. She’s not just unlike any other woman in tights (without the tights), she’s unlike any mainstream superhero ever has, can or will be. Mbatha-Raw is one of our most underrated actresses, and she portrays Ruth in a way that allows us to both sympathize with her plight and support her as she grows stronger. The movie’s not getting a sequel, because the Hollywood franchise machine isn’t ready for imperfect superheroes yet, but it is getting a series, so at least we’re getting more of Ruth in some medium.

Renee Zellweger in Judy

I won’t pretend I knew much about Judy Garland going in, and frankly I’m not sure I understand her after seeing the movie---it was, in most respects, a fairly typical music biopic. Where it broke the mode is in Zellweger’s performance. I think it’s fair to say the once-household name has been largely forgotten by Hollywood in recent years; she never had the perfect starlet looks or the ideal girl-next-door adorableness that is the main standard on which women are judged. But she had the acting chops, and here she finally gets to prove it. Her Garland is twisted and gnarled inside and out by years of sexist treatment and the resulting substance abuse, but still a loving mother to her children and a great singer---and justifiably angry at the industry that used her up and spit her out.

Paul Walter Hauser in Richard Jewell There was never a single chance of seeing the camera pan to Hauser during Sunday’s roll call of acting nominees---both he and the person he plays are about the polar opposite of Hollywood’s image of itself. And it must be said that while Jewell should not be forgotten, Eastwood’s movie, with its ginned-up anti-press narrative, maybe should be. But none of that is on Hauser, whose performance firmly proves that fat guys can be more than bumbling comedic relief or ineffective sidekicks in the movies. It matters that someone who looks like Jewell is portraying him, and that he does it so well that we can almost overlook the film’s other faults.

  Honor Swinton Byrne in The Souvenir

This one was little-seen, and though it generated awards buzz initially, it’s already been largely forgotten. That’s too bad. Byrne’s Julie is a woman torn between her own ambitions and her love for a man who is---abusive? How to judge him? It’s a toxic relationship fueled by addiction on his part, but the movie is more about how you cope with a partner who is committed but not capable of commitment. Perhaps the most resonant aspect of Julie’s character is the way she holds out hope even when everyone tells her not to, even when she herself knows deep down that it is hopeless. You may find this weak, but I’ve never known a human being who wasn’t in some measure susceptible to it.

Jonathan Pryce and Anthony Hopkins in The Two Popes Everyone has strong feelings about the Catholic Church---it’s not a thing you go half-measures on. And every Catholic has strong feelings about the last two Popes---again, they aren’t the kind of personalities that inspire milquetoast reactions. What Pryce and Hopkins do in portraying Francis and Benedict, respectfully, is remind us that no matter how much they claim to be the chosen of God, these are after all two men---two men with flaws and opinions, whose own lives have shaped them every bit as much as the Bible or the church. When they are on screen together, you can imagine them in an odd couple buddy comedy, two aging road trippers tending to the flock. Lots of performances didn’t make my arbitrary 20-point cutoff. To be dead honest with you, it’s entirely possible that if you ask me in a year, I’ll have re-considered who is on the main list and who is in the honorable mentions; the idea that what I say now, when all these movies are fresh in my mind and affected by immediate emotional reaction, has to be my inviolate opinion for all time is silly. That said, here are some excellent and noteworthy performances that didn’t quite make the cut.

Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood

Kelvin Harrison, Jr. in Waves

Zack Gottsagen in The Peanut Butter Falcon

Isabela Moner in Dora and the Lost City of Gold

Alessandro Nivola in The Art of Self-Defense

Cate Blanchett in Where’d You Go, Bernadette?

More or less everyone in Little Women (I couldn’t decide, and thought more of the acting than the overall film)

Jodie Turner-Smith in Queen and Slim

Cynthia Erivo in Harriet

Kaitlyn Dever in Booksmart

Edward Norton in Motherless Brooklyn

[ladywinchester1967]

Shape of my Heart: Chapter 3

Pairing: Billionaire! Jensen Ackles x Allie (OFC)

Warnings: HERE BE THE SMUT, we got oral (female receiving,) fingering, unprotected sex (wrap your wacker IRL), domestic!Jensen, fluff, angst, feels. 

A/N: Hope you guys enjoy the 3rd chapter of this series!! This is a work of FICTION and not meant to disrespect Jensen or his family (they are lovely and amazing, we’ll pretend he is single for this.) I did read though this and any mistakes that may have escaped are mine. Pic are not!

Wanna catch up?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

In her head it was all sunshine and butterflies. Allie has been on two, coming up on three dates with Jensen and they were constantly calling and texting.

“Uh oh,” Trish said “I know that look.”

“What look?” Allie asked as she dug into her salad.

“That love struck look,” Trish said fondly “it’s cute on you, it really is.”

Allie rolled her eyes and said

“It’s not love, I’ve barely been on three dates with him.”

“But you REALLY like him right?” Trish asked

“Of course I do.” Allie told her “What’s NOT to like? He’s sweet, smart and sexy as hell.”

“Sexy huh?” Trish asked her eyebrows raising.

“GOD yes!” Allie told her.

“I've never heard you describe a guy as sexy that wasn't Sebastian Stan or Alexander Skarsgard.” Trish pointed out and Allie laughed.

“That's true,” she admitted “but I'm telling you, he is.”

“I believe you.” Trish said with a fond smile.

That night, Allie and Jensen were talking on FaceTime when he asked

“So what are your plans for this weekend?”

“Well, I was hoping to see you if you aren’t too busy for little old me.” She said with a pretend pouty face and he laughed.

“No need to pout baby, I always want to see you. How about you come over and I’ll make you dinner?” He suggested.

“You can cook? I didn’t know you could cook!” She exclaimed.

“I’m no chef but I’m up to scratch,” he said “so what do you say?”

“Sure, you want me to bring anything?” She asked.

“Yes, your appetite.” He told her.

“Good thing I always have that with me.” She chided him, making him laugh again.

That weekend, Jensen had messaged her his address and according to her map, it would take her around fifteen minutes to get there. She stopped at the store and grabbed a bottle of wine she knew he’d like and continued on. As she got closer to his house, she watched as the neighborhoods got nicer and nicer.

“Wow.” She said and double checked her phone to make sure it was taking her to the right place. Sure, he had mentioned he was in the technology business, but he’d never mentioned money, not even in passing. She raised an eyebrow as she turned into a neighborhood that wasn’t named and went down the road her map was taking her. She got to the second to last house on the right and pulled into the driveway, marveling at the house in front of her. It was an all white, brick house with white trim and a natural wooden front door. Suddenly feeling very self conscious and foolish, as if she had pulled up to the wrong house and this was all an elaborate April Fool’s joke, she got out of the car and walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Once Jensen appeared, he was smiling and gave her a hug and a kiss after he opened the door for her.

“Jesus, who lives here?” She asked

“I do.” He told her and glanced at the bottle of wine in her hand “I told you not to bring anything!” He exclaimed, but was nonetheless delighted.

“You do?” She asked as she marveled at the high ceilings and grey walls with white trim “You live here?”

“I pay the mortgage every month, so I would hope so.” He said with a shrug.

“It’s just,” She stammered “wow, really, really nice.”

“Thank you.” He said with a smile “Dinner isn’t quite ready yet, so we can chill that wine and I’ll give you the tour.”

“Sure.” She said with a huge smile. They walked past a set of stairs, through the living room and dining room and into a huge kitchen with a large island in the middle of it.

“Wow,” She said as she looked around, marveling at the granite counter tops, sleek modern appliances and solid hardwood floors. It smelled phenomenal, like an Italian restaurant “wow, this is a HELL of a kitchen.”

“I’m not usually in here much,” he admitted “but when I am, it’s not too bad.”

He got the wine from her hands and she asked

“What did you make again?”

“Chicken tortellini,” He said “with a white wine sauce.”

“YUM,” she said “that sounds amazing!”

He took her through the house, while holding her hand; showing her the gym, his office, the pool and his bedroom.

“What’re these other rooms?” She asked

“Guest rooms,” he said “Jared takes up residence every once in a while.”

“So you guys are best friends huh?” She asked.

“Yep,” Jensen said with a proud smile “we met in college and have been best friends ever since then. He’s kind of like my little brother.”

“Aw,” She said and squeezed Jensen’s hand “that’s sweet.”

Jensen gave her a grin and squeezed her hand back.

“You hungry?” He asked “I’m pretty sure dinner is ready by now.”

They made their way down to the kitchen where they served themselves and Jensen opened the bottle of wine she’d brought, pouring both of them a glass. She took a bite of the food and, much to her surprise, it was delicious. She told him so, which made him smile.

“Thank you,” He said “glad you like it.”

After dinner, they made their way into the living room where they sat and talked, just like they always did. The only difference this time was that he was able to reach out and hold her hand or touch her knee, which she enjoyed. She intertwined her fingers with his, letting her thumb run over the back of his hand.

“You have very small hands,” he commented and she laughed “seriously, you do!”

“Says the guy with bear paws he calls hands!” She exclaimed and he laughed “I’m a little girl, of course my hands are gonna be little!”

“And I’m a big guy.” he commented.

“Which means big gloves.” She shot back and he rolled his eyes.

“That was SO bad!” He said with a shake of his head, in spite of the fact that he was grinning broadly.

“You’re smiling so it’s not that bad.” She reminded him as their fingers laced together again.

“I’m smiling at how bad it was.” He told her as he pulled her close.

“You like it.” She told him as she slid right next to him.

“I SUPPOSE I do.” he said as he cupped her face in his free hand.

“You do,” she told him and grinned “I can tell.”

He nodded, leaned in and kissed her tenderly. She sighed into his mouth as they kissed again and again. She arched into him, pressing her body closer to his. He let his hand roll down her body, where it settled on her hip. He tugged her into his lap and she swung her leg over, straddling him as she placed her hands on his chest.

“You okay?” He asked as he tightly gripped her hips.

“I’m fine,” she practically moaned into his mouth “this is perfect.”

He pulled back and smiled before going back in and kissing her. She slid her hands to his shoulders and then up, where she cupped his face in her hands and she grinned as his beard scratched her palms. His hands slid down to her rear where he gripped her meaty ass.

“Fuck,” he moaned into her mouth “you have the hottest ass.”

“Mh, you mean that handsome?” She asked him.

“Every word.” He said as he gripped her ass again, making her moan into his mouth.

“Fuck, Jensen!” she cried, feeling his half hardened cock swell under her. She ran her fingers through his hair as they rocked against one another.

He pinned her on her back against the couch and kept grinding on her as she wrapped one of her legs around his waist. His lips moved from hers as he kissed down her jaw and to her throat where she let out a whine.

She let out his name in an almost breathy chant as he growled against her skin.

“Jensen please,” she begged “I want you so badly.”

He picked his head up, nodded and kissed her sweetly. Fueled by raw emotion and liquid courage, she quickly took her shirt off and let it fall to the floor, leaving her in a black bra. He grinned as his fingertips gently traced over the swell of her breasts before he attacked her collarbone with kisses. His beard delightfully scratched her skin as she tugged on the hem of his shirt and rid him of the offending article. He pressed his bare torso to hers and nipped her neck, making her cry out as he slipped the straps of her bra down and kissed her shoulders. She locked both of her legs around his waist and ran her hands up and down his strong back as he worked his way back up to her mouth where they heatedly kissed. She quickly took her bra off and set it aside as he moaned against her mouth. He slid his hand down her bare side and traced his fingertips along the waistband of her leggings. He pulled back and looked at her, as if asking for permission.

“You can touch me,” she told him “I want you to.”

He gave her a smile and pushed his hand down the front of her leggings where he found her soaking core waiting for him.

“Fuck sweetheart,” he moaned “all this for me?”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly “all for you.”

He pulled his hand out of her leggings and sat up. He tugged the garment off of her along with her panties and parted her legs. He ducked his head down and licked a thick stripe up her slit, making her whine loudly. He loved her taste and scent; sweet with a little bit of muskiness. His tongue made slow circles around her clit as she let her fingers slide through his thick, dark hair.

“Jensen,” she breathed “oh, fuck Jensen.”

He buried his face in between her legs, his tongue splitting her folds open and lapping over her entrance as she squirmed under him. Her hips rolled and she threw her head back against the pillows, raw pleasure coursing through her system as louder moans fell from her lips. He tightly gripped her thighs and sucked on her hard, making her back arch as she rocked her hips harder into his face.

“Jens, god!” she cried as a tingly sensation rolled up her back and the dam in her belly threatened to break. “I'm gonna, god, god, oh god!” she yelled but he didn't pull away, in fact, he pulled her closer and pushed his tongue inside of her, the strong muscle swirling as his teeth gently scraped over her clit, sending her over the edge. The dam broke as she let out a loud cry, squeezing her eyes shut as wave after wave came over her. Just as she was settling down, Jensen picked his head up, grinning as he licked her arousal from his lips.

“Damn baby,” he said as he kissed his way back up her body and then kissed her lips “you're so damn responsive, you taste like a fucking dream and you look like one when you come.”

“That was fucking intense.” she told him as they kissed.

“I could watch you come for hours.” he told her with a sweet smile as he pulled back.

“That would be a feat,” She told him “I'm not sure I can go that long.”

“Let's find out.” he said and he laid on his side, using his leg to open hers again as he let one hand wrap around her shoulder while the other made its way to her breasts where he took her nipple into his mouth and sucked on the over sensitive bud. She whined and then he switched to the other breast, doing the same thing as his flattened hand made its decent down her body. He swirled his tongue around her nipple as she let her fingernails dig into his shoulder and grip his hair tightly.

“Fuck me,” she begged “please fuck me.”

He didn't respond right away as he let go of her nipple with a light, wet pop. He fingers slid through her silken folds as she moaned, her hips thrusting up to meet his touch.  He easily slid two fingers inside her as she whined , his thumb finding her clit and working it into short, slow circles as his fingers pushed and pulled in and out of her. She threw her head back again as he kissed and sucked on her neck.

“That's it baby,” he murmured against her skin “just like that, fuck, you're doing so well baby.”

“Jensen!” she cried “God, I want you inside me.”

“Let me watch you sweetie,” he said “then I'll fuck you.”

Maybe he hadn't been kidding when he said he could watch her come for hours, she thought. She bit her lip and moaned loudly as he kissed his way up to her lips and he moaned against her mouth, increasing the speed of his hand. Her moans got louder as her orgasm got closer and she rocked her hips to match his motions.

“You gonna come again for me baby?” he asked as he pulled back.

“Yes, yes!” she cried out in a tone that she barely recognized.

“Come,” he told her “come all over my hand baby.”

He hooked his fingers just so inside her and she was seeing stars. She let out a loud cry as her second orgasm crashed over her, making her body shake as he pulled his hand from between her legs and licked his fingers clean.

“God you're wet,” he said “you got another one for me?”

She nodded as he shifted positions, climbing off the couch and scooping her up into his arms. He carried her up the stairs to his room where he pushed the door shut with his foot and then gently laid her in the plush bed. He stripped out of his jeans and boxers before climbing on top of her. She parted her legs to accommodate him as he ran the head of his cock through her soaked folds, making her whine. He slid inside her and she gasped as he filled her, her walls deliciously burning as his thick length stretched her open. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders as he started to move, fucking her slowly and deeply. They kissed and he moaned against her lips.

“Fuck,” he cried “so fucking tight!”

“I want,” she begged “god, I want!”

“What do you want baby?” he asked between kisses “tell me.”

“Bend me over, please!” she cried.

“Roll over for me.” he told her.

She untangled her limbs from around his body and rolled over, arching her back as he growled.

“Showing off that sexy ass for me?” he asked as he gave her a light smack on her left ass cheek and she cried out.

“Fuck!”

She looked over her shoulder and watched as one of his eyebrows shot up.

“You like getting spanked?” he asked and she bit her lip, nodding. “Holy shit.” he said and plunged back into her, gripping her hips hard. He fucked her hard and slow as her moans built up into loud cries. He pushed her chest flat into the bed and then bent over her, his chest to her back.

“You want me to spank you some more pretty girl?” he asked as he bit the shell of her ear and she let out another loud cry.

“Please,” she begged “yes, please spank my ass some more!”

He pulled up and let his hand crack across her behind and she cried out again. He did the same thing to the other cheek and she gushed on his cock. He bit his own lip trying to hold out from drilling into her as he smacked her ass again. A stream of his name and curses fell from her mouth as her orgasm rose.

“I'm gonna, god!” she cried “Oh my god, I'm gonna come!”

Jensen let himself go; his skin smacking into hers as she clawed at the sheets above her head and screamed into the mattress, making him lose it just as she clenched around him for the final time. They stayed that way for a few seconds breathing hard before he pulled out of her and she whined at the loss.

“Come up here,” he told her and made his way between the sheets. She slowly crawled up to him and joined him, curling up into his arms, her head on his chest as her heart hammered. They lay there like that for a long while, catching their breath as their free hands laced together and he kissed the back of her hand. “You okay?” he rasped and she looked up at him, nodding.

“That was amazing.” she said with a sleepy smile.

“That's a happy face if I've ever seen one.” he said with a grin and kissed her.

After a few more minutes of cuddling, Jensen got up, putting his jeans and a fresh pair of boxers on, he then ventured downstairs to fetch the rest of their clothes and some water. When he returned, Allie was laying on her stomach, her arm stretched out over to his side of the bed. She tugged her bra and panties on and then accepted the water from him as he climbed back into bed. They both put their glasses to the side and resumed cuddling, her arm across his hips and their legs tangled together.

The next day, which was Sunday, Allie got together with Natalia and Trish at her apartment complex's pool and told them about her date with Jensen.

“So he had you over to his house?” Natalia asked “Sounds like things are getting serious.”

“We haven't talked about that.” Allie told her as she took a sip of her drink “We're just, I don't know. Seeing each other?”

“Well, if you don't ask him, you'll never know.” Trish said as she lathered more suntan lotion on to her legs.

“I mean I guess I should, but I don't know.” Allie said

“Look, if you're happy with how things are going, maybe you don't need a label, you know what I mean?” Natalia said.

“But I WANT the label,” Allie insisted “I have to know right? I mean is he my boyfriend or a guy I go on dates with and have mind blowing sex with?” Natalia nearly spit out her drink and asked

“I'm sorry, did you say mind blowing SEX?”

“She did!” Trish insisted “I heard it!”

“Mind blowing huh?” Natalia asked as Allie's cheeks flushed a deep crimson color and nodded.

“Yes,” she said “fucking mind blowing.”

“Yeah, I'd lock that shit DOWN if I were you.” Natalia said.

That night, Allie paced in her apartment, should she have the “where is this going?” conversation with him? She bit her lip as she changed into a simple summer dress and then headed over to Jensen's house.

When she arrived, Allie was greeted by Jensen, who wrapped her into his arms and kissed her deeply.

“Missed you today.” he said as he affectionately kissed her forehead.

“Sounds like a boyfriend to me.” she thought as she crossed the threshold and he closed the door behind her.

“Pizza sound okay to you?” Jensen asked as they walked into the living room.

“Pizza sounds phenomenal.” she told him.

“Okay, I'll order us some.” he said as he pulled his phone out.

“Wait, before you do that,” she said “I want to talk to you for a second.”

He looked up from his phone and cocked his head to the side.

“Everything okay?” he asked, looking concerned.

“No, I mean, everything IS fine, great actually.” she said “I just,” she paused, twisting her hands in her lap “I don't know how to word this exactly, so I'm just gonna say it.”

“Okay.” Jensen said, still looking concerned.

“It's just that, I like you. Like, really like you.” she told him with a smile “And I just want to know, like, where is this going?”

Jensen's throat went dry, he had a feeling this conversation was coming. He swallowed as best as he could and then sat down.

“I'm sorry,” she apologized “I didn't make you mad did I?”

“No,” he said as he shook his head “come sit.” he said and motioned for her to sit by him. She did and he said “I'm not sure how to say this either, but I'll be honest with you. That's okay right?”

“Absolutely.” she told him.

“I'm not ready for a commitment.” he told her.      

Allie’s heart sank. She sighed and said

“I’m not asking for hearts and rainbows every day, I just need to know that I’m the only one you’re seeing.”

He nodded

“Yes, you are the only one,” he said “I’m just not sure if I’m ready for the boyfriend and girlfriend thing is all.”

“Can I ask why?” She asked him.

He wrung his hands and took a deep breath

“I was in a relationship,” he started “for six years and when that ended it was really hard on me. I’m finally in a place where I feel I could be someone’s boyfriend again, I’m just not one hundred percent sure, and I want to be before I risk hurting you.”

As much as his words stung, Allie could appreciate them, at least he was not leading her on.

“Okay,” She said “well that feels like a punch in the gut, but I appreciate your honesty.”

“Is that something you can work around?” He asked “At least for now?”

Allie felt torn, potentially give up this amazing man or just go with it and see it through?

“Is it fair to say that I don’t know?” She asked him.

He nodded.

“It is,” he said “I can’t blame you or be angry for you not being sure.”

“I’m willing to try,” she told him “I’m not sure how it’s gonna work, but I’ll try it.”

He gave her a wry smile and said

“I’m not sure when or if I’ll ever get there,” and reached for her hand, which she gave him “but if and when I do, I’d want it to be with you.”

She smiled and steeled away how she really felt. That raw and powerful emotion she felt for him would have to be put in the back of her mind behind a hard, iron door. She slowly shoved it where it belonged as he leaned in and kissed her. His lips were so warm and plush, his arms so strong and secure, she knew that even if the heartbreak was coming would come, she could at least be content for now.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hope you guys liked that!!! As always, you kind feedback is so appreciated. All of my tag lists and boxes are open so if you want to to chat, say hi or get on any of the lists, please let me know. Hope all of you are having a good week and I’ll see you for the next chapter!!

​​​The Squad:

@waywardbaby​​​​​​​​​​ @waywardnerd67​​​​​​​​​​ @familybusinesswritingbro​​​​​​​​​​ @ain-t-bovvered​​​​​​​​​​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​​​​​​​​​​ @unholyqu33n​​​​​​​​​​ @dacleverfox​​​​​​​​​​ @emoryhemsworth​​​​​​​​​​ @bobasheebaby​​​​​​​​​ @myinconnelly1​​​​​​​​​​ @mogaruke​​​​​​​​​​ @imma-winchester-addict​​​​​​​​​​​ @purpleskiesandcherrypies​​​​​​​​​​ @dean-winchesters-bacon​​​​​​​​​​ @animerose96​​​​​​​​​​​  @roonyxx​​​​​​​​​​​ @snffbeebee​​​​​​​​​​​ @ezilyamuzed​​​​​​​​​​​ @srsllydunnodoncare​​​​​​​​​​​ @latetothewinchesterparty​​​​​​​​​​​ @emilyshurley​​​​​​​​​​​ @atc74​​​​​​​​​​​ @midnightsilverafterdark​​​​​​​​​​​ @adoptdontshoppets​​​​​​​​​​​ @biawol​​​​​​​​​​​  @spaceystacey123​​​​​​​​​​​ @bella-ca​​​​​​​​​​​ @clo-heda​​​​​​​​​​​ @closetspngirl​​​​​​​​​​​ @thekatherinewinchester​​​​​​​​​​​ @maddiepants​​​​​​​​​​​ @idreamofplaid​​​​​​​​​​ @love-those-boys-in-flannel​​​​​​​ @flamencodiva​​​​​​​​​ @blueberrykushlovexoxo-blog​​​​​​​ @sandlee44​​​​​​​ @tumbler-tidbits​​​​​ @rainbowsinthestorm @deans-baby-momma​​​​ @algud​​​ @maui137​ @drakelover78​ @keymology

Dean/ Jensen:

@spnbaby-67​​ @akshi8278​​ @deanscarlett​​​​​ 

[sleepychai-fics]

Jacksepticeye x Fem!Reader - Possessed

Request: Anon: Gaaaasp open requests?? How about a Jack x fem!reader, where (y/n) gets replaced by her secret evil ego and Jack figures it out?

Pronouns = female

Tag list:

@thecinnabitch @fanderrawr

If you’d like to be tagged in any works I do, don’t be afraid to ask!

Words: 1776

I’m so sorry this is late. I failed my promise again I’m so sorry, please forgive me. Also I know it’s not exactly valentines-ey but it was the next thing on my list to type and I just wanted to get something out. Anyway I hope you enjoy

Entering the house set off all kinds of alarms for Sean. He pauses in the doorway, overcome by the dense atmosphere that seemed to fill the house, and takes a cautious look around the house.

“(Y/n)?” He calls out with hesitance. With no immediate response, he begins to panic.

After closing and locking the door, he begins to search each room. With every empty room, his anxiety grows. The fear of the unknown aura looms over him with every frantic step which only fuels his anxiety.

He turns to the kitchen, th last place yet to look.

It’s subtle, but the slight change of atmosphere is evident. Sean stops just before the kitchen, taking his place against the wall as he tries to get a sense of the mood.

The density remains but now holds the feeling of distress and misery. But even with the concentrated aura, it feel as if it’s being held back, restrained, preventiong it from complete expression, taken over by an overwhelming force of psychic energy. How Sean knew this was beyond him, but there was no mistaking it; his mind was thrumming with an electric numbness, there was no other identification for the invisible force.

Sean take a deep breath, preparing himself for what might present itself, and stepped foot into the kitchen doorway.

There you were, back to him with a steaming kettle on one side and a coffee jar on the other.

Relief should be flooding over Sean, but its not. Instead he feels more apprehensive.

“(Y/n)?”

“Sean!” You shout with glee. You turn around, once putting down the spoon in your hand, and approach Sean. “Hey Baby! I missed you!” You wrap your arms around Sean’s neck and hug him tightly.

Hesitantly, Sean places his hands on your hips. He takes this moment to recollect what he’d just seen.

Your skin had paled in colour. Your eyes, though lively, looked dull and soulless. And he couldn’t stop recalling the flicker of anguish and struggle that flushed beneath your pupils.

It was as if there was someone behind them, trapped and trying to escape.

Sean gathers up the confidence to speak.

“I-I wasn’t gone long love. I only went down to the grocery store.” Sean pushes you away, enough to gaze into your eyes.

You look at him sweetly and let go of the embrace. “I know but I still missed you.”

Sean’s heart flutters as you return to the counter to continue making the coffee. He chews on his lips briefly, deep in thought as he speaks once again.

“I couldn’t find any tampons at the store, they ran out of stock.”

“Oh that’s fine. I’m sure we can make time to go out tomorrow.”

His heart begins to thunder against his chest as fear floods through his veins. He takes another minute to compose himself, clenching up his fists tightly by his side and staring at you with uneasiness. As he musters up his courage, he silently prays, hoping that his mind would be proven wrong.

“We’re doing a cola with Mark and Amy tomorrow.”

“Oh, well then I’m sure we can still make time to go out for a few minutes.”

Hope breaks inside of Sean’s mind as he sets his face in rage and takes a step back. His mind fills with dread and begins to prepare for what may turn out to be an emotional battle.

“You’re not (Y/n).”

You choke out a laugh, glancing over your shoulder at Sean. “Sean! You’re being silly.”

“No, I’m not” His voice drops dangerously low and he’s not sure if it’s from anger, sorrow, worry or all three. “I never went to the grocery store, I dropped off a game USB for Robin. (Y/n) doesn’t need tampons, she has contraception. And the collar isn’t until next week.”

The room is blanketed in silence as Sean finishes his discovery. You stand there in place at the counter, back to Sean and hands frozen mid-air above the mugs. The air is thick with tension and if that doesn’t dive away anything, the change in aura does. Instead of being is distress, it seems to have a will of power, clawing at the wisp of freedom before once again being taken over by the comprehensive energy.

“I should’ve had telepathy.”

Soft scraping jerks Sean’s attentions to the curtains. He gasps as he stares at the moving fabric as it slides across the railing itself, only stopping when it completely covered the windows and glass door.

His eyes gaze at the unexpected occurrence and he can only stand there and witness in shock.

A low chuckle draws his attention back to you and he surprises and shock only seems to continue from there.

Your beautiful (e/c) eyes are replaced with metallic purple ones. What once held kindness and grace, now stares at Sean with menace and pure evil. 

Your fingers had been twitched ar slight angles and a misty blue emitted from your palms, dripping down in thin strings of air and pooling at your feet.

The lights begin to dim as you creep your way towards Sean.

He wanted to move, to back away, but he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried. Something was stopping him from moving, keeping him in place. And it didn’t take him a second thought to know it was you.

“Can you feel it?” Your voice dripped with venom, lower than your honey sweet voice, and flaunting danger. Sean grunts in struggle as you begin to circle him, eyes tracking you with each step you take. 

He tried to move his head but is unable to do anything but watch as you disappear from his vision.

“That raw power around the room?” You taunt him, giggling with wicked delight as you firmly grab a hold of his shoulder, making his breath hitch. “That’s me.” You whisper into his ear and walk around the room to face him.

“Who are you?” Sean seethes through his lips, blue eyes glaring into your stone cold ones.

“Oh sweetie. I’m what you humans would call, an ego. But is a name is what you’re looking for,” You lean towards Sean, eyes seductively looking into his. “Call me Ziera.”

“What have you done to (Y/n)!?” Sean yells in a futile attempt.

You pat his cheek and pout. “Oh hush baby, she’s still here. In fact,” You tap your temple. “She’s right here, watching us with a front row seat. Isn’t that great?”

“No.” Sean grunts, his heart breaking at the thought of you being mentally restrained.

“Oh yes.” You whisper with delight, giggling and lifting a hand, letting your fingers graze his cheek. “You wanna know what she’s doing now?”

Sean continues to seethe in anger through his teeth, glaring fiercely at you.

“She’s screaming, begging to be let free. Begging to be with you. Begging me not to hurt you. How pathetic is that huh? So pitiful.”

“Let her go!”

“Oh? But our fun has only just begun!” Your fingers slide down his throat as you step away form him, hands hovering by your sides. “There’s still so much I want to do to you.”

Sean grunts and huffs in anger as he tries to fight against the invisible force holding him back.

You smile drops. “You wanna know the amazing thing about telekinesis?” 

Sean’s breath hitches as you raise your hand in front of you, fingers barely inches apart. 

“You don’t even have to touch the object. It’s all about the mind.” With that, you inch your fingers closer together, and Sean’s throat closes against his will.

He chokes and desperately urges for his throat to open up and allow him the breath he is being denied, but it’s no use.

He stares at you in fear as he suffers painfully. You stand there with a smirk, an evil glint in your eyes. But as Sean strains to focus on your eyes, he sees a flicker of pain.

Black spots begin to cloud his vision and a light headed feeling creeps up on him. Hope fades for a second, but rises once again.

A flurry of power overtakes him in a rush and he barely see the lights spark as a powerful impact within him explodes, sending him a few feet on the floor.

Sean gasps and moves his hands to his throat, itching his throat as he regains the oxygen he was denied. He lays there for a minute, panting and coming to terms with his very much alive state, before lifting his head up towards the kitchen. The sight before him is just another shocker to add to the night.

Anti pushes you up against the counter, his hand wrapped around your throat and pushing your head against the cupboard. His other hand, armed with his knife, presses against your stomach, barely spilling blood.

Power radiates from the room as your glowing purple eyes menacingly at the ones of the glitch demons, which glares with an equally menacing one.

“So, glitch bitch finally decided to pop in huh?” You growl.

Anti’s own growl is chopped up with the static and glitches that courses through him in anger. “Don’t call me that.”

“Awe, did I hit a nerve?” Your taunt causes Anti to growl press the knife into your stomach, piercing the skin.

Sean jerked up onto his feet, reaching out with his hand. “Anti don’t -“ 

“Oh hush, I know this is your girlfriend. It’s a minor flesh wound, nothing the doc can’t fix.”

The reassurance, although weird, sent comfort and gratitude over Sean, something he had never experienced with Anti.

“So, why decide to pop in now? And not while your host was frozen?” You spoke with venom.

“You can mess with him all you like but I’m the only one who can kill him.”

And just like that, the comfort is gone.

“Only because you can resurrect him.”

“That’s right!”

You look from Anti to Sean, then back to Anti. “Well, it’s clear that my presence isn’t wanted.”

“Never was to begin with.”

“So I’ll be on my way shall I?”

“Not so fast.” Anti growls, snarling viscously at you. “Get out of her body.”

Your smirk is off-putting, more so as power pulses around the room. “No can do.”

With a rush of wind and a blast of power, Anti is sent flying across the room, crashing through the glass window.

Blue mist pools around you and leaks from your body. You turn to Sean, eyes locking with his.

“She’s mine.”

With a flash of light and an eruption of blue mist, you’re gone.

~

poof!

[ettadunham]

A Buffy rewatch 6x16 Hell’s Bells

aka the cycle of abuse

Welcome to this dailyish (weekly? bi-weekly?) text post series where I will rewatch an episode of Buffy and go on an impromptu rant about it for an hour. Is it about one hyperspecific thing or twenty observations? 10 or 3k words? You don’t know! I don’t know!!! In this house we don’t know things.

And in today’s episode my hot take is that I feel for Xander. Well, it’s not as much of a hot take, as it is taking a stance on a topic of contention, I guess, but there, you have it. I’m sympathetic.

Okay, so maybe “me feel bad” really isn’t a hot take, but I find that Xander’s choice at the end of Hell’s Bells can still be a bit of a hot topic for many fans on multiple levels. Not only do people criticize Xander as a character for it, but the storyline and writing itself.

Which I do get. While we were told throughout the season that Xander has his fears and doubts about this wedding, those weren’t nearly as prominent or well-established as Buffy’s depression or Willow’s issues with power and addiction. By which I mean that they didn’t seem so severe that would naturally lead to this outcome – mostly because we haven’t really explored what’s at the heart of those fears.

But that’s also my next point. While there may not have been as much focus on the source of most of Xander’s trauma this season, it’s been all over the series from the get go.

Xander had a horrible home life. Sometimes the references to this might not seem quite as obvious, since Xander’s learned to cope with it through humor; but other times, it’s painful in its rawness.

For me the best episode to pair with Hell’s Bells for that matter is Restless. I mentioned before that the dream sequences there are particularly illuminating when it comes to Willow and Xander’s characters for me. And in the latter’s case, this is the episode where that truly pays off.

Remember, in Restless by the end of his dream, Xander’s fears manifested in a looming shadowy figure breaking down his basement’s door to rip his heart out. A threat that was revealed to be his own father.

Think about that act itself. It’s not just that in a world full of demons and monsters Xander’s most afraid of his own father. That’s already pretty fucked up. It’s also that in that vision of his fears manifesting, what his father does is to rip his heart out. The symbol of his ability to love and care for his friends and the family he made for himself.

And make no mistake, that is what defines Xander the most. That’s the person who he wants to be. I criticize Xander from time to time for being emotional, for acting on his feelings without thought – something that he admittedly does here as well. But that’s just as much his strength as it is his weakness.

With all his flaws and insecurities, at his core, Xander’s just all heart.

So, is it any wonder that what he’s afraid of the most is losing that? And the pain he’d cause to his loved ones as a result?

The vision of the future Xander’s shown is fake, but it’s one that’s clearly concocted of his own worst nightmares. And the last moment of that paints a terrifying picture of the cycle of abuse as Vision!Xander is just about to hit Vision!Anya.

This episode, more than any that came before makes it crystal clear that Xander’s father is a piece of garbage of a human being, with the rest of his family being different levels of awful. And the psychological scars that were left from growing up in that environment run deep. They were also left unexamined in regards to Xander’s impending marriage, so it’s no wonder that exposing them so violently shook Xander up this much.

Was it right for him to leave Anya at the altar? Of course not. It was bad, hurtful and irrational. This idea that marriage is something you can’t undo and could be a mistake that lasts forever is very Catholic of the show – but I mostly chalk it up to Xander’s tendency to act on his emotions that he couldn’t think past that, and remember that divorce exists.

Truly a miraculous invention in our society.

So, yeah. My two cents on Xander in Hell’s Bells is that he was obviously wrong, but I feel strongly and deeply for him just as well. We all face moments in our lives where we’re paralyzed by our fears, unable to make the right choice even when we know what that would be.

(I am much less forgiving on how he handles himself in the aftermath of that, but that’ll be a discussion for another day.)

It sucks nevertheless, and my heart breaks for Anya. In a way, this is her own past mistakes coming back to haunt her; except that the demon-guy doesn’t really what matters. Rather it’s what he exposed in Xander, and the pain Xander’s actions caused Anya.

It’s also worth noting that D’Hoffryn only now offered back Anya’s old job after he refused her back when she lost her powers. Vengeance demons can only be created through pain. Channeling and directing that pain onto others is what fuels them, but Anya’s spent a millennium already detached from the original source of her anger at that point. D’Hoffryn waited for her to go back to that place of darkness before taking her back, for Anya to feel desperate to escape her pain once again.

On a lighter note, we get some nice comedy out of the wedding party, like Dawn bonding with a demon kid about embarrassing relatives, or Buffy still being the worst liar in history. Buffy and Spike also share another nice moment of honesty, and while Xander and Anya’s relationship is breaking down, Tara and Willow are starting to reconnect.

Working relationships in the Buffyverse basically follow the laws of thermodynamics. Everything tends towards entropy, and when one relationship is going well, it inevitably means that another one is falling apart concurrently. That’s just basic conservation theory.

Entropy is coming for us all, guys. Sooner than you might think even…

[yulon]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 40)

Thank you so much for your patience! I wanted to take the time to really, truly express my gratitude for everyone's continued support. It means the world to me whenever I get a new bookmark or comment. To know my hard work is letting you guys enjoy a story is absolutely fulfilling, and I can't thank you all enough for taking the time to leave such nice words. Thank you!

Anyway here it is.

“Are you ready?”

The cavern smelled of herbs, smoke, and wet soil.

Ebonhorn had set up many offerings around the space: oils, flowers, and bushels of herbs lay in bowls and bundles around the space: on the ground, on the natural shelving, on the little crevices in the walls.

“Are all of these… necessary?”

Ebonhorn fixed a flower in one of the bowls.

“No,” he said. “It’s traditional to, though.” He backed up and cast a long look around the cavern. “But I think tradition errs on the side of caution. Something we need, here.”

Wrathion wrinkled his nose.

“But you need reagents every time… though not all of them?”

Ebonhorn glanced at him. “No,” he said again. “But they help immensely. It’s difficult to contact Azeroth to begin with. Every little thing helps.”

Wrathion hummed softly. Even if they were earth dragons? He could understand mortal shamans needing such reagents, but -

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. For once he trusted another dragon on something. Ebonhorn knew what he was doing.

“Are you ready?” The tauren looked at him expectantly, the skull over his face casting shadows along his muzzle and paint.

“Yes,” Wrathion said, his heart fluttering. “Of course.”

Ebonhorn nodded and turned to position himself in front of the large, natural column of rock in the center of the cavern. It was covered in cave-moss and flowers which glowed dimly in the dark. In the silence, he heard water trickling somewhere from beyond the walls.

The tauren nodded at him to come closer.

Wrathion joined him. Prickles of excitement popped in his palms. The cavern held a stillness that felt more natural than it did foreboding. Like the silence high in the mountains or in an empty clearing. If only there weren’t in such a cursed place - then Wrathion may be able to enjoy it more.

“Have you ever done anything like this before?”

“No,” Wrathion admitted. “Nothing like this.” He frowned and added: “But I have felt through the earth before. You know. The lay of the land. And I’ve moved things around. Of course.”

Ebonhorn withheld a grunt. He closed his eyes and rose his hands straight in front of him.

“It’s a start,” he said. “You’re young. Draw upon the powers you used, then. The one deep in your chest.”

Wrathion closed his eyes. The feeling in his chest. A core of power. When he didn’t focus on it, it felt like a dull burning like his flame. But when he reached for it, it jumped up and sparked. Energy thrummed into his touch and spread into his blood.

The earth felt like a map underneath him in the next breath. The landscape spread before his mind’s eye. He felt the recesses, the lava pits, the hallways of tone, the caverns, even the top of the mountain.

He breathed in deep, refreshed at the contact.

“Now seek out the core of her,” Ebonhorn said. His voice was far away, a sound beyond a veil. “Go deep and deeper. Follow the trail of energy. It should feel stronger with the smell of the incense.”

Deep and deeper? Wrathion reached the tendrils of his consciousness deep - past the main cavern, past the layers of rock and sediment, past any signs of life, down into a world of still earth unmoved for millennia.

He’d never explored this deep before - for obvious reasons. But despite the stillness, it wasn’t eerie. Instead it was calming in a base sort of way. His soul and mind drifted in the silence.

But Azeroth - where? He reached out in all directions and felt nothing but more stillness. He tried to push away his growing frustration.

Wrathion focused. Maybe he should try to send his intent out, and she would respond.

Protect. Purpose.

I’m here to help you.

Let me help.

He repeated the mantra with each heartbeat.

It didn’t take long for something - someone - to respond.

A pulse of light appeared in his mind’s eye. Light, and feeling. It was like a song, but unlike one he’d ever heard before. Even so it was beautiful, and something deep inside of him lifted.

Purpose.

He followed where the pulse came from, and continued to come from. Deeper, deeper, deeper...

Wrathion opened his eyes.

Gone was the cavern, and gone was Ebonhorn as well.

He found himself in a tunnel of sorts. It wasn’t so different from the ones in Blackrock, except something about it felt… ancient. Maybe it was because everything was so large. The tunnel was massive enough for Deathwing himself to comfortably walk through. He felt like an ant among reeds! Prehistoric, he thought. No, ancient wasn’t quite the right word. Ancient might descript Titan artifacts or High Elven structures. Something about this… this was before even all of that existed.

Wrathion stood still. Should he walk forward? Wait for something to come to him?

Feel her out, Ebonhorn had said. Seek her. He’d done that before, but did he also mean to do so now?

He walked. His footsteps made no sound. The pulsing had stopped, but he could feel energy coming just around the bend of the massive structure.

He turned around it. Wrathion’s breath caught in his throat.

The chamber was massive. Mirroring the one he’d left behind, the walls were jagged stone, built of hundreds upon hundreds of layers, a striation of colors and years of sediment. But everywhere he looked, the cavern was sectioned differently. There, sandstone and lime; here, obsidian and dried lava. Even the ground lay in swirls of different materials: sand, gravel, soil. It was like a section of each piece of the world had been sliced and placed to fit in a piece of the cavern. It felt like standing in a color wheel, though each color was another landscape.

In the center was not a column of rock.

It was pure, pulsing light.

The purest light possible.

It was not white light. It reflected like a gem, as if it was made up of many facets. At first glance it was white, yes - but glancing at it again and again, it looked different. Here was diamond, smooth and flat like ice; there it was bright and gritty like sand. There was patterned green - vines? - and here the ocean and its rippling peaks. But when he caught a glimpse of all of these things, they shifted away at once and became something else. It was ever-changing, nebulous as an unwritten spell. It was light, an untouchable thing, and it was not; he felt like he could reach out and touch it, and feel at once all the patterns and textures and colors he’d seen and had not seen.

It? No - she.

The spirit of Azeroth. At last.

He stumbled to a kneel.

            Azeroth.

            He couldn’t come to terms or fully realize the emotion that swept over him.

Relief, aw, fear, longing, joy?

All?

None? Something else?

His head swam, and he looked at her, or the vision of her, unfallen tears glassing his eyes.

The world he’d pledged his life to protect… his entire meaning for life… here, before him.

She was right here.

“I… I am… humbled to be in your presence,” Wrathion breathed. “I have dreamed of this for so long.”

The light shimmered before him. A voice echoed from it - but he couldn't understand what it was saying, or if it was saying anything at all. But all the same the voice was beautiful, the song that held the pulse from before. It was like the sound of rainfall, the crash of waves, the wind howling through snowy peaks. Every wonder of the world was her voice - and it made his conviction soar.

The light moved closer to him. Power rolled off of her, so immense and overwhelming he almost couldn’t breathe. He had never felt such raw energy before. But before he could be truly overwhelmed the light shone brighter, and touched him. A warm feeling of welcoming and joy spread over him, and he gasped.

It was as if she had pulled her arms around him and held him close. The tears that had shone on his eyes fell freely now, and all at once the crash of all his suffering and failings of the past months smashed into him.

He doubled over and sobbed. It was too much. All he had suffered, and now here she was, the purpose for his life, the purpose for his being, before him, welcoming him despite it all.

She did not move away, but a feeling of guilt and sorrow pervaded him, soft but convicted.

“All I’ve done, I’ve done for you,” he said. “I’m sorry. I failed. I should have wiped them all out. I promised you that my family wouldn’t befoul you anymore. And I failed.”

Warmth touched his chest, and he looked up, his tears beginning to stop as quickly as they had come. A tendril of her light moved away from where it had touched him, almost a little warily, unsure, but nothing could mistake the aura of good radiating off of her.

It’s okay, she seemed to say. It’s okay.

“But I … I know now I’ve made a mistake,” he continued. “But that mistake led me here. To you. To help you.”

Fervor rose in his voice now, replacing his grief and suffering. A fervor fueled by his righteousness not only to redeem himself, but to redeem himself for her.

“I can help you more if I have others like me,” he insisted. “Maybe it was good I failed you, because now I can do something so much greater. Mortals… they don’t understand how it feels. Not like I do. Not like… like others like me would.” He rose to his feet. “Azeroth. I’ve come before you to ask your help. If you can show me where the others who fled from me hide, I can purify them. You’ll be warded tenfold. It just won’t be Ebonhorn and I.”

All his failures had led to this. He was sure of it. He had failed to kill Sabellian and his children, because he wasn’t supposed to. He’d failed to wipe the world of his other corrupted kin, because he wasn’t supposed to. It had always been a dim dream to think of what the Black Dragonflight could be again, but Ebonhorn had given him an actual option.

“The Hammer of Khaz’goroth can purify them, as it did Ebonhorn,” he went on. It may kill some, but others might live. “And then the Black Dragonflight can be reborn!”

No one understood like he did, what he’d had to do to his own family. They didn’t understand. He had to do it. It was his duty to protect Azeroth, and his first duty was to slaughter those who would harm her, who would use her earth and fire and lava to turn it against her, even if they were his own kin. Perhaps he had been too zealous with Sabellian, worlds away. He knew he’d made that mistake, and now he had paid for it with his freedom, for his suffering. He knew. Despite all of the times he’d denied it for the sake of his own pride, he knew.

And he’d learned.

“Please,” he insisted. “Let me help you more than I have been.”

A hum emanated from her, low and gentle and unsure. Her surface shimmered. For the barest of moments her form was a dragon’s head, looking down at him with sorrow and understanding. In the next breath she was gone.

Panic. Anger. Wrathion stood up straight. What had he said wrong? What had -

Color exploded around him - and when he opened his eyes, he was somewhere else.

Before him stood a man, tall, with great, sloping shoulders and armor that accentuated the strength of his body: black and rich red brown, three inches deep and studded with spikes and rivulets that resembled mountain ranges and peaks.

They were standing on a cliff. The overlook enjoyed a vastness of scenery: to the west lay a forest in bloom; before them, an outcrop of rocky plateau that led into a beach to the east. The sun was high and bright, and set the capes of the waves flickering gold.

The man’s back was to him, but nearby were two others. One was a woman wearing silver chainmail, while the other was a Vrykul in summer leathers.

“Are you sure about this?” the woman said. “I’m positive we can move some Wings from the southern post -”

The man waved a hand. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before. Much greater threats have fallen over my claws.”

The man turned, and Wrathion froze.

Deathwing?

But - no scowl. No scarred face. His eyes were wide and mirthful and warm gold; his hair was long and wavy, like his own, slicked back with a confident flourish. The facial features were the same, but everything else was near the opposite. Even his skin had a dark and lively glow to it, unlike the Deathwing Wrathion knew, who was pallid and unnatural looking.

This wasn’t Deathwing at all. This was Neltharion! Azeroth was showing him a vision almost ten-thousand years old.

“Kera, go and find the new positions of the giants,” Neltharion said. “I’ll take care of these.”

The vrykul looked down at the mountains. Wrathion followed his gaze.

What he had thought to be ridges in the mountains - they were moving. Slowly, but they were moving. Stone giants? But enormous, bigger than Wrathion thought possible. Some even had forests growing on their back as they ambled their way south.

“You can’t take all of those, my Liege,” Kera pressed. “Let me -”

“There’s not enough time to get the Wings you want here,” Neltharion said in a pleasant voice. He stretched his arms above his head. “And our Vrykul friend here would be worse for the wear if we waited.”

The vrykul grunted. “I care not how it gets done, only that it gets done. I’d like a village to return to.”

Neltharion smiled and slapped the Vrykul good-naturedly on the shoulder.

“Then no more talking. Kera, go. I will handle these.”

The view shimmered and broke apart like water droplets spinning away from oil. They recombined - and Wrathion stood on a platform overlooking a tundra. Every glance showed more and more snow, black and shimmery in the daylight.

“Really abysmal here.”

Neltharion stood at the edge of the balcony. Beside him stood a woman with red armor and furs.

Alexstrasza. The regular curl of anger lingering in his chest. Even after she had healed him in Lion’s Landing, he doubted his animosity toward Reds would ever truly heal.

“I don’t recall you complaining about the weather during our youth,” Alexstrasza said, a smile in her voice. She didn’t look younger, but instead… lighter, somehow, with how she held herself, how her eyes lit her face.

“Yes, when I was a dim-witted proto-drake,” he scoffed. “I really only complained about not enough enemies to fight, if I remember correctly.” He paused. “And I don’t think it was this cold back then.”

Alexstrasza smiled.

“Something you seem to still struggle with, I’ve heard.”

Neltharion raised an eyebrow at her.

“And where did you hear this?”

“Most of your lieutenants,” she said. “I've heard that rose the Basin dam by yourself.”

“An easy thing!” Neltharion laughed. “I’ve lifted mountains before.”

The Red pursed her lips. “We’re leaders of our Flight, Neltharion. Not mavericks on our own.”

Neltharion’s mirth left his face. He pulled away from the balustrade and frowned.

“If I can achieve something by myself, I’ll do it by myself. Better use of resources and time. Why ask for help amongst my kin when I can do it for them?”

“I see how hard it is on you.” Neltharion’s eyes hardened. “You slept for nearly half a month after taking down the Giants’ uprising.” Alexstrasza placed a hand on his arm. “It doesn’t make you weak to ask for help. Our charges aren’t meant for us alone.”

Neltharion softened. “I’m the Earthwarder, Alex,” he said. “The Earthwarder. My Flight doesn’t hold the massive amount of power I do. It’s my responsibility. And if I can alleviate the burden and weight of the world from their shoulders, I’ll do so!”

Alexstrasza studied him, then gave a slow nod and pulled away. It seemed like they had had conversations like this one before, and  the result was always the same.

“Just try to ask your kin for aid when you need it,” she said. “It shouldn’t be a weight you carry all on your own shoulders, brother. It shouldn’t be… a burden.” She grew quiet for a time. “And perhaps they are not as powerful as you are, but that doesn’t mean they cannot do what you can. Remember… we only defeated Galakrond when we were together.”

Neltharion looked out at the tundra. The snow was picking up. The Aspect’s eyes felt far away; something was on his mind but nothing he wanted to share.

A crushing weight fell on Wrathion’s shoulders.

He gasped and stumbled forward. It was suffocating all-consuming.

It was familiar.

And then it was gone, and so was the tundra.

Wrathion blinked rapidly. He caught his breath. He had no time to think before a massive dragon lumbered past.

Now he was in a valley. Neltharion was taking long, purposeful strides toward a group of dragons. Wrathion watched him. His true form was even more bizarre to see than his human form had been. The lack of plates, the ever-burning skin, the smolder of hate in his eyes, the metal jaw - all of it, gone. This dragon was still massive, but his power seemed to emanate from a different place. It felt like it radiated from below his feet, each step sending a wave of raw energy outward, so his aura was ever-shifting and growing and moving.

The group of dragons were a group of his own kind. Black dragons, and more than Wrathion had  ever seen gathered in one place. It must have been two dozen of all different ages watching Neltharion arrive with hopeful and awestruck looks. Wrathion wasn’t sure what feeling overcame him as he stared at them, but couldn’t help but compare the lively group to Seldarria picking at garbage from Kyrak’s bag.

“Earthwarder,” called one of the dragons, one of the largest, with double horns and fins on the side of her jaw. “We’re glad you were able to come so quickly.”

Neltharion smiled. The gathering of dragons watched him with enraptured looks - like they weren’t looking at their leader, but at a god.

“Has the situation improved?” Neltharion’s voice didn’t feel as good-natured. It sounded strained, or tired.

“Some tried to help mend it, but we decided to wait for your expertise.” The dragon turned and hurried through the throng, which parted before Neltharion like minnows making way for a shark.

“Of course,” Neltharion said as he followed, but there was a new hardness in his eyes, a sort of deep irritation that made an uneasy feeling settle in Wrathion’s gut.

He wondered how much time had passed. Enough for Neltharion to grow wearier about doing things, apparently. Wrathion frowned, wondering why the others hadn’t fixed whatever problem it was. Maybe it really was dire and out of their talons. But there were almost twelve fully grown dragons here. They couldn’t do it by themselves with their own powers?

The area around Neltharion grew hazy until he could only see the Aspect. Wrathion thought he may be waking, but nothing happened. Was Azeroth trying to tell him something?

Of course they wait for me, a voice echoed around him. Neltharion’s voice. And of course you have to have yet another problem for me to fix. The bitterness was palpable, a poison of the air. He wasn’t talking to himself. He was talking to Azeroth, he realized. In response he felt her pang of guilt at Neltharion’s comment.

Wrathion’s frown deepened. Something had changed from one vision to the next. But…

“He made them too reliant on him,” he realized with a start. Of course! If Neltharion had taken on the biggest bulk of responsibility since the beginning the rest of the Flight must have come to accept it as a normalcy. No wonder they looked at him like that: he may have well have been their god if he fixed all their problems with his Titan-given powers.

Powers they also had… he shook his head, frowning. Did they just not use them? No, that didn’t seem right. Maybe they used them for warfare, or for smaller things, or only when Neltharion ordered them to.

The vision flickered again. It came into focus a heartbeat later. Neltharion stood next to the dragon from before and together they looked down into a chasm in the earth. It was deep and smooth, as if someone had cut out a slice and lifted it from the ground.

“It just opened up out of nowhere,” the dragon said. “We thought it might have been -”

“Yes, yes. Let’s close it up before the rest of the plateau unbalances itself.”

The dragon gave an uneasy glance across the chasm. On the side stood three other dragons standing guard at the edge. Behind them… eggs. The chasm had come close to swallowing them all.

Neltharion strode forward to the edge of the plateau. He outstretched a paw. His expression grew intent - almost angry.

Slowly, he pulled his paw upward. The earth rumbled. Deep below, the ground began to rise.

Neltharion growled. Something like impatience - almost contempt - hazed his eyes.

He jerked his claw up - and, like a puppeteer pulling on its marionette’s strings, yanked the earth up in an unnatural, jerking motion. The earth shuddered as it was ripped upward and out of the hole. The plateau began to quake angrily.

The earth sailed past the edge of the chasm, filling it but then going farther. Again the ground rumbled. Wrathion could just see around the edge of it, where the dragons keeping guard over the eggs were crying out in alarm as the new friction had cracks shattering on their end, threatening another collapse.

The new peak Neltharion had made suddenly stopped its excessive growth: the top crushed into itself as if it had hit an invisible barrier, then began to sink down, slowly, gently, until it was flush with the edge of what had once been the hole.

Neltharion frowned, and he and Wrathion looked over at the female dragon, whose paw was splayed out. She’d stopped it.

The Aspect frowned at her, then back at the plateau, where he’d almost made a disaster, with a perplexed, somewhat annoyed look.

“Perhaps I’m out of practice with smaller jobs,” he said dismissively. “I went a little overboard, didn’t I? I’m very sorry. Well done, Sintharia.”

Wrathion gawked. Sintharia? Broodmother of the Black Dragonflight? The only consort of Neltharion to survive Deathwing? Sabellian’s mother?

He had no time to think on it. The vision  changed again, and once more he was at what he could only guess was Wyrmrest Temple. It wasn’t snowing this time. The air was cold but the sun high, casting bright glints on the sheets of ice on the tundra. Neltharion sat next to a giant blue dragon, one dusted with white fur and crystal horns. Jewels radiating arcane energy dangled from its ears and necklaces. Malygos, the Spellweaver.

Malygos sighed. “Our work is never done,” he said. “The Vrykul coming from the North are using some strange magic, for instance. Awful beasts. They tend to warp even the most pure of spells.”

Neltharion said nothing. His eyes were dark and glassy.

Malygos looked at him. One of his ears twitched.

“You’ve been distant of late, old friend.”

The Earthwarder rumbled. He blinked once and looked at Malygos.

“You deal with mortals playing with incantations and curses,” he said. “The entire weight of this world sits on my shoulders. I have no time to stop and take and be present.” Neltharion huffed smoked. “Every day she suffers another trauma or multiple. An earthquake, stone aberrations, a disease of the mountains. I must be everywhere at once.”

The bitterness in his voice was as strong as bile, and for that brief moment Wrathion saw the figure in the Blade’s Edge vision, the seething anger centuries, thousands years forged.

Malygos said nothing; his face revealed even less. Had Neltharion spoke of this before? Or was he used to his friend’s outburst? How much time had passed since the last vision? Enough that a constant strain of irritation now lingered in Neltharion’s eyes, taking the place of his mirth and confidence.

“If you’re unhappy with your station,” Malygos said, “I am sure that another can take your place.”

“Do you think that any other can do what I can?” Neltharion slapped his tail on the ground. The stone cracked. “Azeroth would crumble in a day.”

And  there was the bitterness again, deep and terrible, and Wrathion suppressed a shudder.

“And one did even try to challenge me to it,” he continued with a scoff. “A duel against me for leadership. A little whip of a dragon.”

Malygos’s ears pricked. “I didn’t hear of this.”

Neltharion went quiet. It seemed he hadn’t meant to share it, but his rant had spilled too much over his mouth without thought.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied darkly. “Her skills with the earth were commendable. But they didn’t come up to par with mine.”

He didn’t need to say what they both knew. She’d been killed in the duel. Wrathion didn’t even know there were things like that in place. A duel for Aspect? Such a thing could be challenged? He knew the Blues had a ceremony to do with the moons - it was how they’d chosen Kalec as Aspect - but it’d never occurred to him to think other Flights had similar things. No doubt it was all kept closely guarded. And the Black Dragonflight’s method had probably been lost to time after Neltharion had become Deathwing and had doomed them all. Lost to time like all the rest of their culture before the Old Gods.

Malygos heaved a sigh. “You could do to be less confident.”

Confident? Egotistical was the word that came to mind.

Neltharion didn’t reply. He stared out at the horizon, and in his eyes grew resentment.

“I will never stop being Aspect,” he said. “The others will never be strong enough for it.”

Disgust. Disgust for his own kind. The Flight that he’d told Alexstrasza he’d do anything to lift their burdens. Now… now he didn’t even believe in them?

He thought of the Twilight Dragonflight. The dragons had been made and warped and twisted and remade over and over again, each clutch better, stronger, more unnatural than the last. Better dragons to him. Azeroth was showing him the birth of such a mind.

Why?

What did this have to do with his request?

At once the world pitched into darkness.

“What do you want from me?” he called out, but his voice was dim and pitched, like he was speaking from the bottom of a cavern.

He received no reply save for two lights flickering into existence before him: one red and one white. The red blazed like an ember, while the white light was pure shining and had the consistency of smoke. Like a snake it grew close and then pulled away from the red. Watching them, it felt like the Red should have been moving with it, and when it did move, it jerked one way or another, impatient, angry to be touched.

Another light appeared, and slunked up like a predator. It was purple, but not a royal purple, not beautiful: it was the color of a bruise, of rot.

It snaked close and closer, tendril-like in movement. Carefully it avoided the white light as it made its way toward the Red.

It touched the large light. A small touch, nothing more. The Red rippled.

The tendril touched it again for longer. This time the Red light hesitated. Then it moved, however small, with the tendril - and away from the white light.

This continued, each interaction growing longer and longer until the Red was nearly in harmony with the purple one’s movements. When the purple moved away, the Red followed. And like a lost dog, the white light tried to get the Red’s attention. But the Red shrugged it off.

Then, all at once, the tendril coiled around the Red and squeezed it.

Squeezed harder and harder. Wrathion himself felt himself short of breath.

The white light went reeling backward, any remaining contact broken between the Red.

He looked at the Red. It was utterly encased in the tendril. They didn’t dance together anymore. Once, Wrathion had seen one of the jungle pythons catch a hare and suffocate the life from it.

This was the same.

He glanced at  the white light with a pit in his stomach. The light bounced and fluttered around now, alone and afraid, and at the very edge of the blackness before him curled new purple lights, aching closer toward it.

“This is you,” he whispered aloud breathlessly. “This is what you felt when Father…” Maybe even how she saw it. Did she see as mortals did? Did she feel energy?

“This is why I need to do this!” he insisted. “Let me help you.”

How could he explain how every part of him felt alive with the need to carry this out? It was why he was here. It was his purpose. Why he had done what he had done - and why he needed to do what he needed to do.

“I can make you more protectors,” he insisted, reaching toward the white light. “I won’t be like him. I won’t succumb. Show me where the others are, and with the Hammer, I’ll make you shielded - from everything.”

The light whisked out of reach and went out, leaving him in darkness. He growled in frustration. Isn’t that what she wanted? Isn’t that why she had shown him Neltharion’s descent? He understood - he couldn’t protect her alone. He thought he’d had to, being the last uncorrupted black dragon. He’d thought he’d had to use mortals, to manipulate them into how he needed them, but for the good of Azeroth. Neltharion had taken the burden on himself and had come to grow bitter with the weight.

Which was why he needed to know where others were! Mortals didn’t understand. They weren’t like him. But dragons - dragons like him! - could. Ebonhorn showed him a new option. There could be more like him. Like him, truly. Not like Sabellian and his brood, who were uncorrupted only on a timed basis. Uncorrupted off of Azeroth.

“Isn’t that what you want?” he demanded, clenching his fists. “What do you want me to do? Continue killing them? I’ll gladly -”

The white light snapped to life again. It swept toward him and then to the side. He turned to follow her, and froze. In the distance glowered a green light. Around it curled ribbons like blood and above, lights popped in green streaks like meteors.

“The Legion?” He frowned. “I know! I’m preparing for them too, of course. But -”

The light whisked back to him and tugged him closer to the sphere. Then it let go and zipped over to the side. Another light appeared, black with white striations. Around it danced lights that were spiked, antler like.

“I don’t understand -”

The white light zoomed away yet again.

Again, it created another light. But it was only the ribbon, no sphere. It was earthy-black and had the texture of slate. The white light hesitated nearby.

Slowly, it bounced forward and a fuzzier light appeared between the earthy ribbon. It was indistinct, so much so that he couldn’t even tell the color or texture of it, unlike his own.

The white light flickered away and hovered nearby, expectant. He stared at it, then at the three spheres.

“Alright. That’s… my sphere?” he guessed, pointing at the Legion.

It bobbed up and down, as if nodding.

Wrathion raised an eyebrow and looked at the others.

“What about these?”

She didn’t say or do anything. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“This isn’t really helpful. And anyway I can’t do much about the Legion right now. I’m a prisoner. You did see that, didn’t you?”

She still didn’t do anything.

Frustration bubbled in his chest.

“The Legion’s my responsibility. Of course I’ll protect you from them in any way I can. But if I can make more like me - with the Hammer -”

He was shoved bodily toward the Legion and away from the other spheres.

“Hey!”

He caught his balance, turned, and glared at the white light. It swayed back and forth. Innocently.

She was a lot cheekier than he suspected.

He knew asking her something wouldn’t do much. So Wrathion stood there, arms crossed over his chest, and looked at all the spheres. The Legion one was obvious enough. The others…

Well, clearly she didn’t want him to do whatever those meant.

“Are those for other dragons?” he asked warily, slowly. He knew she’d shown him those visions for a reason, and yet she’d pushed him away when he’d brought up the Hammer. He knew they meant that he needed help; that he couldn’t take on the whole burden of the Flight’s responsibilities alone. But he was only one amongst two uncorrupted. How was he supposed to not be like Neltharion when he had no one else save for Ebonhorn?

The light gave its curt little nod.

“I don’t understand.” He furrowed his eyebrows. “You just.. want me to focus on the Legion? And some… other dragon will do… what I want to do? To help the Flight? Or doom it?”

At once, the three spheres she had made whisked together. They combined - and formed the Red light. Neltharion’s light.

It split up a moment later, back into the three lights. And it recombined. And it split up. Azeroth hummed her beautiful song, but now it was tinged with a sort of worry, desperate for him to understand.

“Yes, yes! I understand this. I do. Really.” He waved his hand toward the spheres. “Neltharion tried to do absolutely everything on the Flight’s behalf, and the whole weight of it was on his shoulders. The entire weight of the world. And he grew bitter. And resentful. And angry. I saw.” The more he spoke the more it dawned on him why she had really shown him the visions. “You want to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

Azeroth song.

“You just want me to focus my duties on the Legion. You want someone else to do… this. You want me to… to not be overwhelmed. So I don’t turn out like him.”

She sang again, quieter, understanding, and gently pushed forward the last sphere she had made: the indistinct one, hazy except for  the earthen ribbon around it.

This one instead, she seemed to say. Whoever ‘this one’ was.

Wrathion shook his head. “But there’s only two of us. How… who…”

Azeroth’s light waved toward him. A rush of gratitude and fierce protectiveness fell over him. He stood, stunned, and for the first time in his life, he felt understood and thanked.

She loved him. She didn’t want him to end up like Neltharion. He remembered the crushing feeling on his shoulders in the vision: the weight of the world. Of her.

She didn’t want to be his burden. She wanted to protect him as he wanted to protect her. In that moment he was one with her, understanding as she did, and in that moment he felt the pulse of her most desperate thoughts.

Trust me. Trust me.

And then, all at once, fast as blinking, he was back in the cavern.

Wrathion lurched back and fell on his rear.

Ebonhorn sat up next to him. His hands were resting on his knees, and he looked at Wrathion, ears pricked.

“I was worried you’d need help waking,” he said. “Did you -”

“I spoke to her!” Wrathion sprang to his feet and a spit of fire shot from his mouth as he forgot himself in his excitement. “It wasn’t just some terrible visions… Well, some parts were, but we spoke! Azeroth spoke to me!” He paused, hands clenched in fists and raised victoriously up past his shoulders. “Mmm… spoken is being generous. More like we played charades. A very frustrating game of charades.”

Ebonhorn got to his feet. He brushed himself off. Only then did Wrathion notice all the essences, offerings, and bowls were empty.

“What did she show you?”

Wrathion explained the visions, the spheres, the tendrils that had killed Neltharion and how they were creeping closer to her.

Ebonhorn hurrowed his brows and sat heavily on a boulder. He scratched his jaw.

“It’s always a guessing game when you speak to her,” he said. “Interpretation is a practiced art for a Spiritwalker.” He looked at Wrathion. “What do you think it means?”

Wrathion crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his chin. He needed to shave.

His visions about the Legion had been obvious and literal. But these…

“Well,” he said, pulling himself up, “I think Neltharion’s visions show how he buckled under so much pressure, of course. He grew bitter. He didn’t use the real strength of his Flight to his advantage. I’m sure if he had, they would have been unstoppable.”

Ebonhorn nodded slowly. “Yes. I thought the same.” He smiled in a coy sort of way. “She always shows visions of unity and compassion. Of coming together.”

Wrathion brightened a little. Like how he unified his mortal champions against a common foe. The more allies one had, the stronger you were. Even if it meant you had to pit some against the other.

Sometimes.

Ebonhorn eyed him. “She must have been listening when we were talking in the tunnel.”

Wrathion’s expression soured.

“Yes, alright, maybe,” he said dismissively. “But I was talking about a future for the Flight, and you said we hardly had one. I had thought she would have liked my idea more than she did, however…”

“Oh. Yes. Your secret idea.”

He’d forgotten: he was going to share it with Ebonhorn after. “I wanted to use the Hammer of Khaz’goroth to purify any other dragons. I know there must be more out there! I’ve already met three down here. And Azeroth is immense…” He trailed off as he saw Ebonhorn’s expression. “You don’t like it either.”

He stood again. The tauren drew himself to his full height.

“You can’t use the Hammer like that.”

“Why not?”

“I was in a clutch of almost twenty-five eggs, and I was the only one to survive the cleansing. All of my clutch-mates, all of my siblings, were killed. Don’t you think I entertained the idea of doing the same when I was young?”

“But what does it matter if some die? Some might survive, and then there’ll be more like us -”

“Do you plan to find them all, and line them up one by one, and see who lives and who dies?”

“I don’t know about lining them up…”

Ebonhorn frowned at him. “I told you: our Flight’s legacy shouldn’t be in the hands of just one. And Azeroth was showing you the same.”

Wrathion’s temper was rising. But what else was he supposed to do? The Legion - he prepared for them, but he was under Sabellian’s thrall now, and his champions had seen everything he’d done in the visions at the Celestial Court. He needed something else to do. Something else to prove. He’d failed so much and -

Trust me. Trust me.

“But they’ll die eventually!” he protested. “And I don’t mean because of me! If more are out there, mortals will find them eventually, and do you really think they’ll let them live after what happened during the Cataclysm? And how do we know the Old Gods don’t have something planned? We don’t! But this gives us even the smallest glint of hope for Azeroth - for us! Maybe the Hammer will destroy them all except one. But that will be one more protector of Azeroth - another dragon like you and me!”

Ebonhorn frowned down at him in silence. “Is this for Azeroth,” he said, “or for you?”

Wrathion wilted. “What?”

“Do you want Azeroth to have a protector, or to have someone else like you? A more worthy dragon, in your eyes? Are those that hold corruption so useless to you you’d rather have them be killed than give them any slim chance that they could take their destiny into their own hands?”

My Flight is useless.

It felt like a kick in the gut.

He sounded - just like Neltharion. Neltharion, who’d gone on to remake his own Flight and use his own kin like lackeys, dogs of war to be sacrificed for further gain or further chaos.

“I... “ He wilted. “I don’t know.”

Ebonhorn tilted his head. “I understand what you’re thinking. I’ve had ten-thousand years to think about the others. And I know that those with corruption… they don’t have much of a choice in anything. But you and I have seen the desperation here. The Old Gods don’t truly control their every movement. They’re not utter puppets.”

Wrathion had thought the same thing. If they were, they would have been killed on sight. And he remembered Furywing’s words: Don’t make them angry. As if they could be invoked. As if they weren’t always there. Like with Fahrad.

But how could they make their own destiny with such a curse looming over them? Their whole purpose had been warped. They lived to destroy Azeroth, not protect her. And if they even tried to protect her, he had no doubt - no doubt in the slightest - that would invoke Them, and they’d turn on Wrathion and the World Soul in an instant.

It was a circle, a snake eating its own tail. No answer. No solution.

And it … it wasn’t -

“It’s not up to me,” he said. “Is it?”

Ebonhorn studied him. Slowly, he put a hand, large as Wrathion’s head, on his shoulder. “No.”

No one had ever touched him like that: comforting, familial. Wrathion stared at him, a little dizzy. One of his own kind doing that.

He was suddenly aware he stood at another crossroad. Go one way, and let his own ambitions trump what Azeroth wanted. He would take the Hammer and purify who he could. In the end, Azeroth would be safer.

Go the other way, and he’d follow Azeroth’s guidance. Let him focus on the Legion and all the plans, all the manipulation and strength he needed, and let all other responsibility roll off his shoulders. He wouldn’t be like Father.

Trust me.

He decided he would.

“But she wanted someone else to take over what I proposed  to her. About our future. Maybe not purifying with the Hammer, don’t get all upset, but - somehow… somehow else! Or, I don’t know. Unify. You said that. Sounds much better that purify… even if gathering a bunch of corrupted dragons all in one space is sure to invoke the Old Gods.” He was talking so quickly even he didn’t know what he was saying. “It must be one of the dragons here. But none of them will listen to me. None of them even care about her. Not like I - we do. She didn’t give me any clues… but surely you must be one of the spheres she showed me?” The black and white one - the one with the antler-like ribbon. Of course.

Ebonhorn blinked slowly at him. “Slow down, boy. I agree, she sent me here to find all of you. But my sphere gave little else?”

He shook his head. “No. Just the black and white, with the antler ribbon. Mine was obvious.” Couldn’t she be a little more helpful?

Ebonhorn nodded slowly. “I’ll have to commune with her on my own time, then,” he mused.

“Isn’t that what you were doing with me?”

“No. I was making sure you were alright.”

Wrathion blinked, taken aback. “Oh,” he said awkwardly. “Thank you.”

“What do you want to do about this?”

Wrathion hesitated. He wasn’t used to planning with someone else, save for his Agents. And maybe Anduin once or twice. “I’ll have to think on this. I don’t want the others suspecting anything. And it must be one of them; she refused to show me where others might be. Hmm…”

“What if I’m supposed to do that?”

“What?”

“She wants me to do something. I’m a Spiritwalker. I can feel auras, visions, desires.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I can try to seek them out. It is a shallow duty, but one I am sure can only be the beginning.”

Wrathion blinked at him. Oh. Maybe.

“Right,” he said, albeit lamely. Well… he wanted to feel useful somehow. What was he supposed to do about the Legion down here?

Ebonhorn eyed him, and, as if sensing his hesitation, said: “And boy… I don’t think our purpose should be as rigid as you may be imagining it. It’s not supposed to be your single thing to do in life. We work together. We help one another with our responsibilities. I think that’s another way.” He smiled. “And it is not worth much, but… it felt good to commune with her with another of my kind. I never thought I’d be able to do that.”

Wrathion paused, then gave a wary smile back.

“Yes. Me, too.”

---

Pyria looked around without moving her head. She no longer had the dizzy, vague look in her eyes, though she did look confused.

“Pyria?” Sabellian pressed. As gently as he could manage, he put his hand on her arm.

Her eyes fluttered and she looked at him. She smiled, a hint of exhaustion in the curve of her mouth.

“Hey, Dad,” she said. “We still in the mountain? This doesn’t smell like home.”

He nodded and leaned back. “I’m afraid so,” he rumbled. “We’ve been waiting for you and your brother to recover.”

They both looked over at the other cot where Vaxian slept, and slept fitfully. He’d been cold the last time Sabellian had checked his temperature: maybe in the high ninetys. He worried the dragon might have been carrying around the virus that Nasandria had gotten (and had apparently passed to Wrathion after the light torture,) but it was so far past the incubation period. At least he thought it was. How long had he been away from home? It felt like years.

“Oh,” she said. She rubbed the back of her head. Slowly - slowly - she sat up in bed. “It’ll be nice to go back to Blade’s Edge! Did you find the nether-drakes?”

“No.” He’d hardly given them a second though.

“We can’t leave without them.”

“We’ll worry about that later,” he said. “Pyria: how did you find your way here?”

She blinked at him.

“Oh, well, that was easy. We stayed close when Samia and Vaxian were captured, so we knew they were going to the Vale. We stayed behind for a while… which ended up being pretty good, because we weren’t there when the thing exploded. We saw the smoke, though, and -” She stopped, and shuddered. “Such evil… two of the drakes went ahead and found Serinar with them. I guess they’d escaped in the explosion? Anyway Malfas overheard him talking about taking them to Blackrock to be safe. So we followed.” Sabellian nodded once, slowly. Logical. “At least you made the journey safely.”

“The nether-drakes were really worried about me after the explosion. But I kept telling them I wasn’t hearing crazy voices.” She smiled brightly. “And I was safe until those dragonkin knocked me upside the head. I just hope nothing bad happened to the others.”

She glanced at Vaxian again. “He’s going to be okay, though, right?”

Sabellian gave a curt nod. “Yes. Though he’s an infection. Seldarria’s been treating him, though her stores are running low.” He sighed, a dull rumble in his chest. “She said she’s been getting her herbs from Kyrak,” he said. “From Nefarian’s lair.” Saying the words aloud made an old and bitter anger bubble up within him.

He breathed it out. He didn’t have time to linger on things like his brother.

“Oh,” Pyria said. “That doesn’t sound too terrible.”

“Yes, because I never told you much about my brother’s fascinations. It’s best to say it will not be pleasant.”

Pyria tried to sit up, cringed, then lay back down. “I wish I could go,” she said. “I don’t feel very helpful sitting here like a lump.”

“You’re the injured one, Pyria,” he said with a sigh. “You  should just be worrying about how much sleep you’re getting.”

“You’re my dad. You should be worrying about that for me, right?”

He rumbled. “In theory.”

She laughed, but soon a sigh overtook the sound and she sagged back down in bed. She sat still for a moment, then smiled. “Father, there’s so many other dragons down here,” she said. “Like us! I know Furywing already, and I saw the tauren one but I would really like to speak to them.”

“Maybe when you can stand up on your own,” he said distractedly. He heard someone coming up the passage. “And don’t get too excited. When Vaxian is able, we’re leaving for the Dark Portal.”

She scratched the side of her face. “I do miss home,” she said. “But it has been so nice to see Azeroth. I forgot how big an ocean could be! I guess Zangarmash doesn’t count as one.”

“The ocean is rather magnificent, isn’t it?” Wrathion entered the room with a slide. “Though I hate flying over it. When I arrived in Pandaria, I flew on a gnomish machine.”

“What do you want?” Sabellian asked.

Wrathion eyed him sidelong. “I just came to pay my cousins a visit.”

Sabellian squinted at him. He didn’t like the look on the boy’s face. It was too enthusiastic.

“How generous,” he said. “Now go away.”

“Did I hear you were going to Nefarian’s lair?” Wrathion pressed forward. “I’d like to go.”

Eavesdropping snake. “Why?”

“I think it’d be interesting.”

“That’s what I said!” Pyria piped up. Sabellian growled at her. He looked back at Wrathion.

“Interesting,” he echoed.

Wrathion flashed a smile.

“I’ve just always heard about Nefarian’s machinations,” he said. “And to see them up close…”

“There won’t be much left down there but rot.”

“Maybe.”

He didn’t have the patience for this right now. “What do you really want?”

Wrathion sniffed. “I just said. I want to go see it. And I’ve seen all I’ve had to see in this cavern.”

Something told him that Wrathion couldn’t leave him alone unless he could come. And if he still said no, the boy would no doubt find a way to follow him. He rumbled in irritation, and didn’t bother to hide it from his face, either.

“Fine,” he snapped. “But we’re going there for herbs, and nothing else.”

Wrathion shrugged, but he did look pleased. “Wonderful. Don’t worry about me. I’m only there to observe.”

Pyria whispered. “Hey. Dad? Why is he still alive?”

The ex-Prince glanced at her and frowned.

Sabellian grunted. “I’ll explain later. Suffice to say he is no longer a threat.”

“Oh.” She thought about that, then shrugged. “Okay, well, bring me back a souvenir!”

---

He was not going to bring her back a souvenir.

The place already smelled like old blood and dirt - the kind of smell that clung to the clothes - and they hadn’t even gotten to the Lair yet.

“This is dreadful,” Wrathion said. “Like I’m walking through shadow!”

“You’re welcome to turn and leave,” Sabellian said. But the boy was right: the ruins of Blackwing exuded a darkness all their own, like a living evil.

Wrathion and Sabellian made their way down the main path. The ground was coated in dust. Cobwebs coiled in every corner, over fallen debris or metal or bones - bones so brittle they looked like  they could be turned to dust with only a hard look.

Together they made their way down the path leading to Blackrock Lair.

Sabellian led the way with Wrathion and Left close behind. He still wasn’t sure why he’d allowed the boy and his pet orc to come. Probably because Wrathion would have found a way to follow him anyway. Or maybe because this let him keep an eye on the whelp. He didn’t relish being alone and underground again with him, though. Even if he’d ensnared Wrathion in a vow, he couldn’t help but wonder if Wrathion was musing over ways to get around it. The boy was too clever.

“You’ve never been to Nefarian’s lair, have you?”

“No,” Sabellian said. “I was in Outland when Nefarian took Blackrock.”

Wrathion grew quiet. Even though they could see fine in the dark, he carried a torch. The fire flickered and bounced off of the path, the already jagged walls growing more jagged still in the light. Sabellian suspected the torch was for the orc’s benefit; but really, what use was a rogue who couldn’t see in the dark?

“Well, I’m rather excited to see it,” Wrathion went on. “I’ve heard so many things about it. So many tantalizing stories. It’ll be interesting to see if they actually compare.”

“Accurately enough, I trust,” Sabellian rumbled. Even on Outland he’d heard the stories - most from mortals passing through, and prompted when they saw the dried out, impaled corpses up on Dragon’s End.

“Nefarian had dragons strung up like that,” a tauren had mentioned. “Up on the roof. In chains. No blacks ones, though.”

Of course he had. Even before his brother had taken Blackrock, Nefarian had still had his own lair where he’d practiced his twisted curiosities. Sabellian had been there before. He remembered walking in with news from Father to find a Bronze hanging upside-down from  the ceiling, looking for all the world like a butchered cow. Its throat had been slit, and the blood fell dripping into a vat below.

“It’s very thin blood,” Nefarian had said as he stood watching his kill bleed out. “I don’t think it’ll have much use at all.”

He then remembered how the Bronze had looked at him. They’d still been alive.

Sabellian blinked away the memory. He had no doubt he’d be seeing such reminders soon enough.

They turned a corner, where the path suddenly started in a steep incline. Both dragons sighed when they saw it.

But Sabellian still led the way forward. He wasn’t about to let on he was out of shape. So much so that had the old Lieutenant version of himself saw he’d spit in disgust.

It rose higher than expected, with the heat growing more and more intense, until at last they reached the crest of the path and it evened out before them.

No longer were they in a mountainous tunnel, but a large, crude cavern that, like much in Blackrock, had the feel of something dug out by dwarven hands. Some brickwork survived along parts of the floor and walls, but beyond that any form of Dwarven make had been scuffed away, whether intentionally or by the passing of time. At least in the cavern. A quick glance around showed that an archway led out to further recesses of the dungeon.

“We’re here,” Sabellian said. Wrathion crept up alongside him, looked around, and frowned.

“Very nice,” he said, then turned away and started toward the archway.

“Do you even know where you’re going?”

“Do you?” Wrathion called back without breaking stride. From behind him, the orc swallowed a sigh and followed.

Sabellian bristled and swept up to Wrathion’s side.

“Yes. Considering I was given directions to the herb stores.”

Wrathion smiled. “Of the two of us, I’m the only one willing to use the earth for directions,” he said. “I could most likely look through it right now and find the stores from our exact location.”

“Which is what my directions are for, prat.”

Wrathion turned up his face just enough for it to be annoying.

“But my way is much more fulfilling.”

Titans help him.

“Has the Spiritwalker stuffed your head with more nonsense already?”

They came to an entranceway antechamber now, fully built and paved, though the upkeep left much to be desired: the pavement and stonework lay cracked, ripples and shattermarks webbed through the columns, and skeletons littered the floor. Beyond the three, the corridor led to another section mirroring the one they had come from, though this one was dark enough that even Sabellian had trouble discerning what lay inside. He could only see large figures clumped together, but nothing more.

“This way,” Sabellian said, ignoring what seemed to be the entrance from the outside the mountain for a balcony that stretched to their left.

“I’d like to take a look around before we leave,” Wrathion said.

“This isn’t a field trip,” Sabellian said as he made his way to the balcony. Their steps scuffed into echoes of the darkness. The silence here didn’t feel malevolent. It felt… forgotten, or dead. “We get what we need and leave.”

They were on the balcony now, and Sabellian could imagine his brother’s glee at standing here with such a view.

The balcony wasn’t a balcony at all, but the ledge to wait for the ever-rising-and-falling elevator. The distant whir of whatever Dwarven machinery kept it operational hummed from somewhere down below.

And the elevator was no superfluous need. From where they stood the ledge dropped suddenly into a fall that would kill any mortal.

A drop that led into the heart of Blackwing Descent.

In the dark below waited a circular paved level, which from it sprouted brief flights of stairs leading into other areas of the Lair. In the very center lay a pit of darkness; he could just make out something white glinting like a shell in the feeble light.

Very feeble light. Sabellian lifted a hand and sent fire scattering in all directions. It jumped into lanterns caked with rust, into scones bolted into the walls shaped like dragons from all Flights except Black, bowing their chained heads in supplication as their offered palms held the flame, into gouges that encircled the entire chamber along the wall until multiple rings of flame danced along the stone.

It had been less malevolent in the pitched shadows. Now, the light illuminated the lingering scraps of Nefarian's curiosities.

Such as the dragons hanging from the ceiling.

Dragons, and parts of them. A foreleg missing two talons hung in chains, and suspended from below that, a wing, giving the effect of a morbid windchime. In other areas the chains hung empty, as if what had been there had been taken. Others were not su lucky: two dragons remained, though their scales were so rotted away and mummified that is was impossible to tell what Flight they were from. They and the other chains swayed slowly in a breeze that went unfelt.

The otherwise emptiness of the Descent made it all the eerier.

The elevator rumbled up and stopped at the edge. Gears clicked muffled from beyond the stone.

Sabellian sighed and stepped onto it.

“Are you coming?” he said when Wrathion didn’t follow. He looked back. The whelp stared up at the dragons, though his eyes were fixed on the chain full of parts.

“Boy,” he prodded. The orc nudged him and Wrathion jolted.

“Yes! Yes.” Wrathion jumped onto the elevator the rogue close behind, just as the elevators groaned into life and it stared down again.

“If we’re lucky, that’s all we’ll see,” Sabellian said.

“I’ve seen much worse things.”

“Oh really? Like what?”

Their eyes met. It might have been imagined, but Wrathion glanced down, for the barest of seconds, at Sabellian’s gut: right where the boy had stabbed him.

Wrathion gave a lazy shrug and looked away. “A swarm of Old God worshipping bugs wasn’t very pleasant. Wouldn’t you say, Left?”

Left raised her eyebrows as if surprised he’d included her in the conversation.

“Wasn’t my favorite assignment,” she grumbled.

The slab thundered and halted to however a temporary a stop. The party slipped off before it began to rise again.

“Seldarria said they were in the western chambers,” Sabellian said. Now that they were down here, he saw details he hadn’t noticed from above. Like the bodies. Nearby lay a skeleton crumpled in on itself and still armored in chainmail. Another one like it sat slumped near the elevator as if they had died waiting for it.

“Treasure hunters,” Left said with a sniff.

They moved around the skeletons. A rat peeked out from underneath one of their helmets and watched them as they passed.

“He isn’t stuffing my mind with anything. By the way.”

“What?”

“Ebyssian. Ebonhorn. Whatever.” Wrathion glanced at him sidelong. “You should really try giving him a chance.”

Sabellian took a long, deep breath, but he couldn’t stop the rough swell of anger crackling at his fingers.

“So, you meet a dragon and trust him at once for what he is?”

Wrathion’s eyes flickered; he understood the implications at once.

“It was a much different atmosphere then,” he said. “You and your brood were a surprise.”

“And now what? You’ve come to expect it?”

Wrathion swept back some of his hair falling in his face. “We just found two other dragons down here. Expect it? No… but I’m not as… hmm… flustered.” The boy had a distant look in his face, like he was holding back something, or thinking on the reality of his words in some way Sabellian didn’t understand. Yet.

“Oh? And what about safeguarding Azeroth from the corrupted?”

The look on Wrathion’s face grew stranger.

“That isn’t my charge.” But even as he said it Wrathion furrowed his eyebrows.

“I see. What a change of pace. How charming it only took the death of two of my children, the crippling of one, and the suffering of them all until you came to such a conclusion.”

Wrathion’s face grew hard. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Sabellian snorted, but he didn’t press it. The conversation would do no good, neither for Wrathion or for himself. It’d make him get angry, and it’d make Wrathion distracted. He needed both of them to keep a lookout for anything the Lair might still have lingering. And anyway: they’d said all they could say on the matter. Wrathion had even apologized.

Kind of. At least in his own way.

“At least,” Sabellian forced himself to say, in perhaps the angriest way possible, “you’ve come to your senses.”

Wrathion shot him a sidelong glare.

They crossed through the shadow of one of the dragon corpses. He was thankful for the lack of smell; the scent of rotting dragon had become much too familiar when his eldest clutch had decayed so close to their settlement.

“And anyway,” Wrathion hurdled on with a flourish of his hand, “Ebonhorn is very interesting to talk to! You should have joined us in the ritual.”

He’d forgotten all about that. “I’m sure it was very inspiring. Did Azeroth give you glowing praises?”

“You should come next time.”

Wrathion jabbered on, but it fell into background noise as Sabellian glanced into the pit in the center of the pavilion.

In the pit lay two bodies. The dragons were badly decomposed - mostly just bone and skin, now, with mummified pockets of flesh.

But despite all the rot and corrosion, he recognized them.

His brother and sister: Nefarian and Onyxia.

Sabellian froze. He stood, transfixed, on the edge of the pit, his gaze on his two clutch mates below.

He wasn’t sure what feeling consumed him in that moment. There lay his siblings, the ones their Father had favored, the ones who had tried to kill him when they were young and had fueled a rivalry among each other when they were older. Those that had risen to infamy while he had been forgotten and abandoned and -

“Sabellian?”

He flinched.

Wrathion came up to his side and looked down. He raised his eyebrows.

“... Are those really -”

“Yes,” Sabellian said, voice hollow. “They are.”

They stared down at them. Nefarian lay atop Onyixa. His head was half-way severed. Three of his talons were cut away. His eyes had rotted out. Great score marks littered his mummified hide. Onyxia’s maw was locked in an open position, and was utterly toothless. Tubes punctured her body from where Nefarian had installed shadowflame vents to reanimate her body. One of her wings had rotted off the joint, and now lay crumpled like a fallen flag beside the two of them.

There they were. Dead and rotting.

Just like he’d always imagined. And hoped for. And celebrated.

And yet -

“You loathed them, didn’t you? I seem to recall you telling me that.”

Wrathion’s voice felt far away.

“How could I not?” he replied distantly. “They took sibling rivalry to methods I would rather keep in the dark, even now.”

Wrathion hummed. He glanced at him sidelong, then raised an eyebrow. “You seem less… enthused than I imagined.”

“Yes,” Sabellian said. “I think so too.”

The broodfather frowned. He stared at them, at their still, destroyed bodies.

“I always fantasized about this,” he said suddenly, forcefully, as if admitting a personal sin. “Seeing their corpses. Being the last alive. Nefarian always said I would be pummeled, and Onyxia said I would be outmaneuvered.” He didn’t know why he was talking, especially to the boy, but somehow he couldn’t bear the silence.

This is your fate too, it seemed to say. One day he would die because of his madness, whether by his own hand or by the hands of someone like Wrathion or his mortal champions. One day he and all his children would be rotting and forgotten in some crevice, on Blade’s Edge or on Azeroth.

You can’t escape. Just like they couldn’t.

All that separated him from them now was a feeble charm, burning cold against his chest. Furywing had called him on it. How thin the line was. Was he really lying about who - what - he was to himself?

He knew what he was feeling.

Hollow.

“At least your last remaining sibling isn’t corrupted,” Wrathion said.

“He could have been,” Sabellian said. “If Father had grabbed Onyxia’s egg for stasis instead of Ebonhorn’s, then we’d be looking at your Spiritwalker’s body, and Onyxia may be some beloved figure like your tauren.”

“But that’s not what happened.”

“No. But it could have, easily enough.” He looked over Onyxia again, and could imagine Nefarian lovingly installing the tubes and wires into her corpse, making her into another one of his experiments.

He continued, filling the silence, talking perhaps not to Wrathion but to himself, to speak out what he was feeling.

“Once...once I was as terrible as they were. But here I stand, and there they lay, only because I went somewhere they did not. I sometime wondered what they would have really been like without…”

He shook his head. No use thinking of such things now.

“I guess we’ll never know,” Wrathion said, face creased thoughtfully.

“No. I guess not.” He pulled himself away. “Come. We have other things to do.”

Sabellian moved away and began his quiet walk. Wrathion lingered at the edge for a moment before following.

“Should we just leave them there?”

“What else should we do?”

“Burn them?”

Sabellian grunted. “No. Leave them. There is no one else to raise them for a third time.”

Silence fell between them, a new, heavy feeling settling between the party. A numbness, too, settled on him. After almost thirty years, he’d seen his hated siblings again. Corpses, but corpses with reminders.

One day this will be you, and all you love.

They went up one of the short flights of stairs and turned into a new chamber. Like the first room they’d come into, it was like a stone box, with dwarven architecture. A large corpse lay in the center near a cauldron as tall as kodo’s back.

“That must be Maloriak,” Wrathion said. “Those are such bizarre looking Dragonspawn.”

“I’m sure the creature looked more bizarre when it wasn’t a bag of bones,” Sabellian said distractedly. He tried to focuss. Seldarria had said a pit had been dug out in the wall to make room for Maloriak’s stores. The dragonspawn had been an alchemist, she’d told him, and it hadn’t surprised Sabellian much. Nefarian wasn’t stellar in alchemy, a fact which might surprise many. Biology, anatomy, magic? Of course. But alchemy - he had often relied on Sabellian’s advice for such things.

At last he spotted it, hidden and shadowed behind Maloriak’s body.

He made his way toward it. Inside, he could just make out rows upon rows of boxes and jars and vials. Some had been ransacked. Others lay plain in sight.

He crossed the archway into the room.

“Wait!” Sabellian glanced behind him just as Wrathion grabbed his shoulder and pulled him out of the room.

Right as an explosion erupted in front of his face.

[inhumansforever]

The Royals #5 Review

spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers

It’s judgement day as The Royals stand accused by Ronan,  From the creative team of Al Ewing, Thony Silas, Jim Charalampidis and José Villarrubia .  Full recap and review following the jump.

The following issue saw the Royal squad crash landing onto the scorched soils of dead planet, Hala.  Hala had been destroyed in the pages of the Black Vortex story event and Marvel Boy has led the Royals to this dead world with he promises of discovering the secrets of Terrigen.  Ronan The Accuser had been bestowed tremendous new powers by The Back Vortex and now stands sentry over his deadened world.  He was displeased by the prospect of visitors and attacked the Asterion, causing the ship to crash.  

The Royals survived, only to be besieged by Ronan’s new powers.  This power entails a psychic attack where each of The Royals are transplanted to a psychic plain where they are forced to re-experience feeling of past regret, eliciting such intense sensations of guilt and sorrow as to leave them immobilized.  Each except for Crystal, who was spared Ronan’s attack.  

Ronan and Crystal were once married.  It began as a political marriage meant to cement the bond between the Kree and Inhumans.  Although the marriage had been forced upon Crystal, she and Ronan ultimately fell very much in love and both were heartbroken when the politics between their peoples caused their union to be annulled.  Now Ronan sits before his former wife and proclaims that she stands accused of turning her back on true love and breaking his heart.  

Ronan’s recollections of the Inhumans’ rule over The Kree and his marriage to Crystal all took place in the pages of Jonathan Hickman’s seminal run on Fantastic Four.  Although how exactly Ronan choose to recall these events appear to be skewed by his grief and anger.  He accuses the Inhuman Royals of abandoning The Kree when they had grown bored, that Crystal had turned his back on him.  

In truth, Ronan had been intent on re-attaining Kree sovereignty and to this extent he engineered the creation of a new Supreme Intelligence to lead the Empire.  It was this new iteration of Supremor who forced the annulment of Ronan and Crystal’s marriage; and Crystal chose to leave him so to ensure the welfare of both their peoples.  

Crystal and Ronan discuss this is and it is very refreshing to see Crys elevated from wall flower status in this book.  Crystal has grown; she has emotionally matured a good deal since the two were together.  She stands up for herself and does not bend to his unfair accusations.  

Crystal’s refusal of Ronan’s accusations are sound and he knows it.  He realizes that his pain and bereavement has twisted his mind.  The hate has faded away, leaving behind the unbearable sorrow that his anger had acted to obscure.  It is too much for him and Ronan attempts to kill himslef, turning his weapon unto himself.  Crystal acts quickly, unwilling to allow her one-time love to go through with this desperate act.  She uses her elemental powers to restrain Ronan, preventing his attempt at self destruction.  

Elsewhere, Marvel Boy struggles in the psychic plain of guilt where he is lambasted by his former girlfriend, Kate Bishop.  The two had become an item when they both served on The Young Avengers.  Noh-Varr did indeed break up with her, but it is quite a stretch to suggest that he had broke her heart.  

She says things that Noh knows the real Kate Bishop would never say and it enables him to realize his predicament.  Ronan’s new psychic abilities are not altogether unlike his own pocket battlefield, a realm where the laws of psychics and reality can be manipulated.  Yet Noh has these powers himself and he uses his own pocket battlefield to escape.  

Upon escaping, Noh encounters Maximus.  Max has escaped as well; escaped by way of his own quasi-psychopathy.  Ronan’s psychic powers are fueled by guilt and feeling guilt is not an emotion that has all that much of an effect on Maximus.  As such, he was able to escape it quite easily and quickly.  

Medusa also escapes the guilt realm by fighting back against a manifestation of her former love, Black Bolt.  This vision of Black Bolt accuses Medusa of leaving him stranded in his prison, turning her back on their love.  Yet both have known the intense responsibility of leadership, of being the rulers of their people; love is a luxury and a ruler must choose duty over love.   

Medusa, Maximus and Noh-Varr convene and it is here that Noh’s ulterior motives become clear.  

For millennia, The Kree have been ruled by a Supreme Intelligence - a biological computer that becomes a repository of massive amounts of data, issuing forth commands based on raw logic.  Each version of the Supreme Intelligence begins with a seed and, when it dies, it leaves a new seed behind.  

Noh leads them to the antechamber where this seed lays doormat.  He begins the process of its regeneration by adding to it the remnants of The Plex Intelligence.

Plex was a benevolent artificial intelligence who came with Noh-Varr to this reality when his inter dimensional ship crashed.  Plex was eventually killed, but Noh held onto its remains and now uses it to fertilize the seed and create something new.  

Medusa expresses reservation, but Noh assures her she has no need to fear.  He heralds from a much more peaceful Kree Empire, an alternate version of The Kree that embraced the tenets of love and discovery over conquest and domination.  This new amalgam of the Plex and Supreme Intelligences will bring forth a new era of peace and prosperity to The Kree people…  This has been Noh-Varr’s intention all along.  And activated by the Supreme Intelligence seed, The Plex Intelligence can now illuminate them of the secrets of Terrigen.  

Ronan continues to struggle against Crystal’s elemental powers, yet he is stilled when he hears a disembodied voice.  It is the voice of the new Supreme Intelligence.  It sates that ‘the love of Hala is infinite; that you must accept it and forgive yourself.’  

Gorgon, Swain and Flint also hear this voice and it breaks them free from the psychic binds that had ensnared them.  

The information The Royals have sought out is relayed to Noh-Var and he tells the others what he has learned.  Eons ago, the Kree ventured to distant planets searching out a means to restart their own stagnant evolution.  They traveled to earth, experimenting on primitive humans and creating the Inhumans; and conducted similar experiments on the alien races known as the Kymellians, The Badoon, The Centurions and countless others.  Each were bestowed with a catalyst that would bring about their actualization.  The Inhumans of Earth were given Terrigen, The Kymellians were given Antigen, The Badoons Amphogen.  Each of these catalysts were derived from Primagen, the ‘prima materia’ that created the Kree in the first place.  

Yet who was it that created the Kree?  Who was it that bestowed this ancient race with the Primagen?  The knowledge is lost, but the answers can be found with the Sky Spears.

It is here that the narrative shifts some five thousand years into the future.  Maximus, the last Inhuman has sought out a Kree spacecraft that had crashed into the barren earth hundreds of years ago.  Within, Maximus wakes the Final Accuser, who is revealed to be an aged Noh-Varr.  Maximus has awoken Noh-Var The Accuser to warn him that ‘they’ are coming back… that the folly they committed so many years ago was once more returning to haunt them.   They aged Noh-Varr laments the idealism and naiveté of his younger self. 

 It was a mistake to search out those who engineered the Kree, the gods of their gods.  Doing so it would seem awoke a sleeping and destructive beast.  Those who had created the Kree are called The Progenitors and it would seem that they are not merciful gods.  Indeed it would seem that their younger selves efforts to seek out these Progenitors resulted in doom and death.  And there is nothing that the aged Maximus and Noh-Var can do but regret their past deeds and await The Progenitors return to finish them off.  

Another wild and weird sci-fi romp from Ewing and company.  I got the privilege to speak with Mr. Ewing for an interview for the Attilan Rising Podcast (you can hear the interview here).  There in Mr. Ewing spoke of his love for Hickman’s run on Fantastic Four.  This is quite evident in this issue with Ewing picking up and expanding many of the way cool outré concepts Hickman had put forth on FF.  And this looks to continue in subsequent issues as The Royals are set to cross paths with the other members of the Universal Inhumans.  

Tethering the whole matter to The Sky Spears is a very gratifying concept.  The Sky Spears were first introduced in Uncanny Inhumans #1 and the mystery of what exactly they are has been left unrevealed.  It would appear that the spears are connected to these Progenitors, a group of space gods that are rather formidable looking.  In the letters page of the issue, Ewing shares some of the concept art of The Progenitors produced by Javier Rodriguez.  They are extremely cool and are likely to become a welcome addition to Marvel’s pantheon of interstellar threats.  

A central theme throughout the issue is one of regret and fortitude in the face of one’s duty.  Each of the characters, Crystal, Ronan, Medusa and Noh-Varr have been forged by their regrets and hardened by their individual senses of duty.  Who they each feel they should be has acted to shape who they are.  They have each made themselves, which makes it ironic that they should end up seeking out their creators.  Seems to me they have already found them; and based on the older Maximus’ words it would seem that searching out their true source of creation may prove a deadly mistake.  

I was surprised to see Noh-Varr in the role of the final Accuser.  It made for an interesting twist, but beyond that his showing up five thousand years in the future takes him out of dead pool that Ewing has set up for the cast.  Ewing stated at the onset that a cast member would die before their mission’s end.  Maximus and now Noh-Varr have been removed from the possible candidates of who is to die, leaving Medusa, Gorgon, Crystal, Flint and Swain.  Gulp!

This issue is a bit thick, heavy on exposition and possibly difficult to penetrate for those who are unfamiliar with Hickman’;s Fantastic Four run.  Yet I very much enjoyed it and cannot wait until the next installment.  Definitely recommended, Three and a half out of five Lockjaws.  

[michellejayne]

First Constitutional Amendment proposal for Zimbabwe in 2002

In 2002 the first constitutional amendment for Zimbabwe was proposed and denied by the people. They denied the amendment because there was a clause in the amendment that allowed a political party ZANU PF to reform and take land to do as they bid. We could have changed the course the nation took, it was a great opportunity to change the situation. People made emotional decisions and failed to take charge of their destiny. Populists had good intentions but backfired in the long run because of principles and guideline of the land reform program that were abandoned. Land reform in Zimbabwe began in 1980 after independence as an effort to more equitably distribute land between black subsistence farmers and white Zimbabweans of European ancestry, who had traditionally enjoyed superior political and economic status. The reason for the placement of this amendment was because there was a widespread feeling in Zimbabwe that it was too heavily influenced by the country’s colonial past and that a new constitution written in the light of the experience of independence was desirable. White farmers were forcefully evicted from their plots/farms leaving the land barren and no form of production ever evolved after their eviction.

The results of the 2002 constitutional amendment proposal denial and evacuation of farmers may have been part of the cause of the economic crisis Zimbabwe has been going through for the past decade, from starvation to hyperinflation all this could’ve been avoided if emotional decisions were not made over the countries future. In 2001 farm workers and animals suffered, some were beaten, raped, killed and went through so much trauma that they lived in fear until the 2002 elections. Populists intentions were to restore what they had lost but eventually greed and power took control and they did not work under the same principles they had in the beginning. They took more than they needed and had no remorse or content for the people.

Under the British rule the best farmland was reserved for the white people, blacks worked on the farms as low paid laborers. The land reform aimed to take land from white rich farmers and redistribute it to poor and landless blacks. The land however was unfairly handed out to Mugabe’s political allies and supporters, most who had no to little knowledge on farming/farming experience. By 2008 there was a food shortage and hyperinflation. Severe drought and tough weather conditions have plagued the country since following the collapse of the economy, 3,1 million Zimbabweans have fled overseas. The educational system in Zimbabwe which was once regarded as among the best in Africa, has gone into crisis because of the country’s economic meltdown. The high school exam system unraveled in 2007, in January 2007 thousands of pupils received no marks for subjects they had entered, while others were deemed "excellent" in subjects they had not sat.

Intimidation and violence in certain areas of Zimbabwe were the hallmark of the pre-election period. After the 2002 elections and violence fiasco the commonwealth suspended Zimbabwe, EU imposed sanctions on the certain individuals including the president in Zimbabwe but locally Zimbabweans were told the entire country was under sanctions, no one wanted to invest in Zimbabwe or assist in any of the problems Zimbabweans faced.

In 2017 there was a military coup imposed by Emmerson Munangagwa because former president Robert Mugabes wife had imposed her rule on the country if Mugabe was to pass on, she began a tyrannous rule which caused an uproar among the people and the politicians themselves as they were now being unfairly dismissed by the wife of the president. Since then Mugabe has stepped down and a new electoral president had been appointed and Zimbabweans looked forward to a brighter future.

In 2019, inflation and prices are on the rise, there is a shortage of foreign exchange and supplies of fuel, food and pharmaceuticals are drying up. The opposition is calling for a transitional government to resolve the worsening economic and political crisis hitting Zimbabwe. President Emmerson Mnangagwa is increasingly under pressure to act swiftly.

On Monday, Mnangagwa met with the country’s business community. specified. The president assured them that he was “working day and night to stabilize the economy.” Signs in Zimbabwe are pointing to a possible rerun of the massive crisis that engulfed the country about a decade ago. The situation was acknowledged by President Mnangagwa: “The fear to lose wealth and savings as happened during the 2008 economic meltdown is current but unnecessary. I greatly appreciate and understand all your concerns and anxieties,” he told the business community.

The 76-year-old leader said that Zimbabwe would continue using the multi-currency system which the country adopted in 2009 after abandoning its worthless currency. But the hard currencies – mainly the US dollar and South African rand -, making up the system together with government issued so called bond notes, have been hard to find lately on the formal market. And many in Zimbabwe believe that the time has come to scrap bond notes altogether. Economist John Robertson explains why it is a mistake not to: “The existence of the bond notes caused the US dollar to go out of circulation.” An end to the bond notes would bring back in the US dollar, which would be good for the economy.

Bond notes, a currency Zimbabwe started printing about two years ago to ease cash shortages and help fight hyperinflation, have been losing value lately. They were supposed to trade at par with the US dollar, but are now almost four against the greenback.

Some aspects of Monday’s meeting displeased the business community. Sifelani Jabangwe, president of the Confederation of Zimbabwe Industries, was upset by Mnangagwa’s claims that manufacturers are hoarding stock so as to be able to increase prices. “If anyone is holding back his stock, it is probably because they are waiting to understand the direction (of the economy),”. Jabangwe went on to explain that many companies have run out of raw materials themselves. “And the panic buying did not affect only customers, it also affected industrialists. Just recently, there was panic buying even of cars.”

Zimbabwe is yet again in a crisis after having hopes raised in 2017, Zimbabweans continue to hope and pray for a better future.

[kpop-muses]

Frustration (A/F) - Min Yoongi

Y/N: This is an original idea because I’m angsty and lonely lol. Also, I need more Min Yoongi in my life. And I’m Yoonseok trash. Please enjoy -Admin Grace

Summary: Yoongi invites you to his studio for the first time, but you make a mistake and he snaps at you. It takes Hoseok sitting him down and talking some sense into him to make him realize just how much you matter to him before he goes to apologize.

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort

Length: 2.4k+

From your place on the heavily cushioned black couch, you watched your boyfriend Yoongi work, fluttering around his workspace in his rolling chair. He’d play a few notes on his keyboard, jot them down in one of his many music notebooks, try the keys again, maybe changing it up a bit, then hit record to capture the tiny piece of music that may or may not find its way into a hit song. You imagined the way you felt was similar to how someone might feel watching an artist painting a beautiful scene upon a fresh canvas. It was exhilarating in a strange way to watch music be made, especially because you knew how much of himself Yoongi put into his music.

He had been working for a few hours, only noting your presence every once in awhile with a small smile your way or asking you grab him this or that. You didn’t mind it one bit, happy to be helping him in a way in which he had helped you countless times when he would come over to your apartment to help you study. Yoongi was always helping you organize and color-code your notes, bookmark specific places in your textbook, talk through certain topics as you wrote essays fueled by numerous cups of coffee, which Yoongi also helped supply. One of your favorite parts of your relationship with Yoongi was how equally give-and-take it was: and this was another way for you to give.

“Want something to drink?” You spoke up, already sliding the textbook you had been reading off your lap. He muttered a response, too immersed in his music to fully hear what you had said. However, you knew he would certainly be thirsty and that we would probably get so caught up in his work that he would forget to eat or drink. At least this way you could actually make him do so, rather than texting him to tell him to eat and drink something every hour when he told you that we would be in the studio all night.

Jumping up from your seat, you left the studio room and made your way to the small kitchen in the building. You pulled down a clean mug from the cabinet and filled it with water, deciding it would be healthier than adding to the extreme amounts of coffee he had pretty much inhaled throughout the evening.

A smile was on your face as you walked quietly back to the studio, happy that Yoongi had finally let you visit his studio. You knew he was sharing a lot of himself by doing so, and that it wasn’t any small thing for him to let you visit. He trusted you enough to let you into his heart in this new and exciting way, and you couldn’t be happier. Yoongi didn’t often voice his true emotions, except through song, and this action, despite how small it might seem, said a lot.

You made sure not to make too much noise when you opened the door and let yourself in. Yoongi didn’t even glance back at the sound of the door clicking shut, probably to immerse to have realized that you had left and come back.

Carefully you crossed the small space and went to place the glass of water on a clear spot on his large corner desk. Just as the ceramic mug was about to come in contact with the sleek black table, Yoongi jumped in his seat beside you, surprised by your sudden closeness.

Reflexively you jumped as well, and in an instant a quarter of the water that had been in the cup was washing across the notebook he had been writing in, smudging the black ink until it was unintelligible.

“Y/N!” Yoongi nearly shouted, pushing himself away from the desk before water would get on him as well. He was frantically trying to wipe the excess water from the page, however it only made its state worse and covered his hand in ink. “You ruined my notebook!”

“I-I’m sorry, Yoongi, I was just-”

“Just what?!” He stared up at you angrily, his eyes flashing. You shrank under his gaze, guilt twisting your stomach. You glanced at the mess you had made, the spilled water threatening to touch any one of the expensive pieces of technology littering his desk.

“I was just getting you a drink,” You replied quietly, “Here, let me help-”

“Stop! Y/N, just-” Yoongi grumbled, swatting your hands away from where you were trying to help, “Just leave!”

You froze in your place, watching as he grabbed a nearby sweatshirt and starting drying his desk.

“Yoongi, I’m sorry-”

“Just. Leave”

He didn’t turn around again, ignoring you as you stood like a statue, your stomach twisting and turning. You hoped he would stop what he was doing and take back his words, but he didn’t. He just kept soaking up the water with the probably ruined fabric, leaving the air painfully silent. At least, it was painful to you.

Suddenly you set the cup of water down on the ground beside the couch, piled your textbook, notes, and purse into your arms, and flew out the door, all in a matter of moments. You didn’t even pause to put on a jacket to keep the crisp fall air from scratching at your skin. You walked quickly to your car, jumped in the driver’s seat, threw your stuff onto the passenger seat, and left.

The ride to your apartment was long, but by the time you arrived home your throat was raw and your face was red from trying to swipe away the tears that threatened to fall. You knew it was your fault. You knew that you ruined some of his music, some of what means the most to him. You also knew that he didn’t have to be so rude to you and could’ve let you help clean up, but that wasn’t any consolation.

The tears finally fell once you got inside your apartment. You stood numbly in your living room, guilt knotting your stomach, your face wet with saltwater, and hoped he would forgive you.

The BTS guys figured something was wrong when Yoongi returned to the dorm at a reasonable hour, when they had expected him not to return until the next morning. They wanted to be happy and hope that he had come back early to eat a proper meal and get a good night’s sleep, but after one glance at his expression, they knew something was wrong.

“Hyung?” Jungkook asked, eyebrows frowning as he paused his video game when Yoongi stomped through the living room and past the television towards his room.

“Yoongi, what happ-”

The slam of Yoongi’s bedroom door cut off Jin’s question. The six men glanced between each other, all asking the silent question of what happened and who should go check on him.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Hoseok said, standing from his spot on the couch and making his way down the hall to see to one of his best friends.

Surprisingly, the door wasn’t locked, so Hoseok let himself. Yoongi muttered something about how no one ever knocks, but Hoseok didn’t pay any mind to it as he sat down beside Yoongi on his bed.

For a moment Hoseok watched as his older friend aggressively untied his shoes, hands fumbling as he struggled with the simple task. Something must be really wrong.

“What happened, Yoongi-hyung?” Hoseok asked softly.

“Nothing.” Yoongi grumbled, finally yanking off one of his shoes.

“Don’t lie to me, hyung. I know something’s wrong. Please talk to me about it.”

Any other day, with any other topic, it probably would have taken much longer for Yoongi’s resolve to break down. But this was about you. You, his best friend, the girl he loved, the girl who made him smile every day with her mere existence, even if he would be hard pressed to admit it out loud. And with Hoseok’s gentle voice asking him what was wrong, and the thought of where you were and what you were thinking in that moment, Yoongi spoke.

“I invited Y/N to come to the studio.”

“That’s great,” Hoseok smiled a bit, knowing that this was a big step for Yoongi, but even more worried about what had happened.

“She spilled water all over my desk and on one of my notebooks and it ruined a bunch of progress I had made on this song,” Yoongi said, rubbing his hands roughly against his face in frustration.

“Oh. I see,” Hobi said, reaching over to rub relaxing circles over his friend’s back. “But you know she didn’t mean to. Y/N knows how much your music means to you.”

“I know, I know. I’m not really mad at her anymore, I know it was an accident.”

“Then why are you still so angry?”

“I’m angry at myself,” Yoongi burst, finally looking up at Hoseok, who saw the glassiness in his hyung’s eyes, “I snapped at her. I didn’t mean to, but she ruined my work, and I was frustrated and I told her to leave, and-”

“Wait,” Hoseok froze, “You told her to leave?”

“Yeah…” Yoongi said, not liking the tone of his friend’s voice.

“And she left?”

“Yeah, she just grabbed her stuff and left.”

It was Hoseok’s turned to let out a small frustrated groan.

“Hyung, why did you do that!”

“It wasn’t my fault! She just put a glass of water down on my desk without a warning and I-”

“Yoongi.”

He froze and looked Hoseok straight in the eyes, knowing that if his constantly cheery friend had such a serious expression, he should listen.

“I understand that it was a heat of the moment thing and you didn’t mean to snap at her, but you shouldn’t have told her to leave and you sure as hell shouldn’t have let her listen to you.”

“I know, Hoseok, I-”

“Sh. Just listen. Yoongi, we both know she didn’t mean to do it, and we both know that she’s very sorry. But you have to understand how this must feel for her too. Sure, you lost a little bit of music, but I know Y/N and I’m sure that right now she’s feeling ten times as guilty for what happened than you’re feeling disappointed at the loss. And imagine how you would feel if she actually did leave, for good.”

Hoseok paused for a moment, letting Yoongi sit in the silence for just a second. Hoseok’s last few words turned over in Yoongi’s mind, knotting his stomach as the realization dawned on him, how it must have sounded to you when he angrily told you to leave. His friend was right- he would be heartbroken if you ever really left.

“Now, before either of you get hurt any more, get the hell over your pride and go apologize. Manager-hyung still thinks you’re at the studio, so he won’t know if you’re with her instead.”

Without hesitation, Yoongi threw his shoes back on, not even stopping to tie the laces.

“Thank you Hoseok,” He said, looking his friend in the eyes. Yoongi would forever be grateful to have Hoseok in his life. He didn’t even complain when his younger friend pulled him in for a hug before letting him go and telling him to hurry.

Yoongi didn’t shout a goodbye as he raced out the door, surprising the five confused guys who had never seen their lazy friend move so fast.

You were sitting quietly on your living room couch with a cup of hot tea in your hands when loud knocking on your front door pulled you from your reverie. You could feel that your eyes were still red and puffy, but you didn’t really care as you set down the warm mug and made your way to the door.

You swung it open to find your boyfriend standing there, his hair a mess and his eyes pleading.

“Yoongi, what-”

“I’m sorry,” He said quietly.

You opened the door wider to let him in and he walked past you, only to turn back around to look you in the eyes.

“Yoongi, I’m the one that should be sorry.”

“No. I am. Y/N, I-” Yoongi paused, not sure how to articulate how he was feeling. He was always so frustrated with how he could use music to voice his emotions but rarely his words, and rarely when he needed to most.

Yoongi reached out and wrapped his arms gently around your waist, pulling you closer to him before he finished speaking.

“I’m sorry, Y/N I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I know that you were only trying to help and you didn’t mean to spill water on my notes.”

“But I did, and I ruined some of your music,” You interrupted him, you throat starting to get choked up in anger at yourself. “I know how much your music and your lyrics mean to you and I’m so so sorry that I messed them up like I mess everything up-”

“Shh, shh,” Yoongi murmured, calming you down. “You don’t mess up anything. It was an accident, and accidents happen.”

Yoongi’s heart clenched when he looked down and saw the tears in your eyes, threatening to spill over. He hated that he was the reason for your tears.

“I’m sorry that I told you to leave,” Yoongi began, subconsciously tightening his arms around your waist, “I was just mad and frustrated, but I didn’t mean any of it. And sure, a page or two of my lyrics are gone, but without you most of them wouldn’t be written anyway. You’re my inspiration, Y/N. You’re one of the reasons I work so hard. So many of the words I write are because I love you, and the only way I know how to express that it through my music. I know I don’t say it nearly enough, but I love you. I love you with all my heart. If you were ever to really leave, I don’t know what I would do with myself. I’m so, so sorry.”

You stared up at him, at his expression filled with love and apologies and so many other emotions that you couldn’t name.

“I’m not going anywhere, silly,” You replied, wiping at a tear that had spilled from Yoongi’s eye onto his cheek. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Yoongi choked out a small laugh and pulled you into his chest. He buried his face in your neck, squeezing you tighter.

“Promise me you won’t leave, even though I’m dumb and I have a temper and I don’t deserve all of your patience?”

“I promise,” You chuckled, “I promise.”

[candlewisps]

Frostbite883's Question: What would happen if Luke Skywalker died while he was getting fried by Darth Sidious/Palpatine in The Return of The Jedi?

 Let’s start with the dry, technical bits.

For starters I am just going to assume that Palps and/orVader have the chance to make it off the Death Star before Lando blows it tosmithereens, otherwise there wouldn’t be much to hypothesize. This in and ofitself can play out two different ways: either a) Palps gives up having theEmpire Fleet toy with the Rebel Fleet in order to mess with Luke’s head andfinally orders his forces to simply destroy them, ending the battle with theDeath Star intact, or b) Lando still blows the thing, but Palps and/or Vaderescape its destruction like Luke was able to.

Option A means the Empire is in a position to take prisoners(chiefly, Leia, Han and Co. down on Endor), and we start off more or lessscrewed in the Hope Department. It’s doubtful our heroes would be able toescape the moon-planet, and I imagine the Emperor would have them all executedin a timely fashion (there’s no need to play coy for the non-existentImperial Senate anymore, so he can execute who he wishes without consequence).There’s the possibility of him letting Leia live, as another try for areplacement apprentice, but more on that later. What I’m saying is Option Aends with everyone screwed.

Option B means the Rebel Alliance has the ~relative~ upperhand for now, but the head of the Empire is still intact and the Rebellionsadvantage won’t last for long (especially with them minus the only trainedForce user capable of taking on the Sith, as Leia remains untrained). While theEmpire retreats to lick its wounds, the Alliance has a chance to regroup andrecruit additional forces to their cause, and there may be some sort of hope inthe “Jedi” department when it comes to Leia; however, I’m extremely doubtful(more on this later). So Option B is like a 50/50 that anything can happen, butonly under certain circumstances and personal choices.

Now. Everything laid out is subject to drastic change whenyou take into account the most important variables—the characters themselves.Namely, Leia and Vader.

We’ll start with Vader, since his choices would affect thestoryline first.

If we go with the old Star Wars narrative, pre-Disney/TFA,then the generally accepted Vader mindset was that he was apathetic andresigned towards his fate as the Emperor’s loyal servant; as in, if Luke haddied then Vader would’ve more or less continued on this path, sealing his fateforevermore with no hope of redemption. If this were to be the case, then aForce-trained-Jedi-Leia definitely would not have any hope of “saving” him, asopposed to Luke. Luke used love, hope, and faith to save his father. This waswhat was required to save Anakin’s soul. Leia would not have chosen the paththat Luke did to defeating the Sith. She would’ve gone in, guns, hate, and furyblazing. Whether or not this kind of Leia would’ve been able to defeat thecombined forces of Sidious and Vader is another question.

However, if we go with the newly established canon (and old,according to who you ask) that Vader hated the Emperor with everything he had andwas looking for a plan to overthrow him at first chance, then things getinteresting. I’m going to go with the assumption that Luke died because Vaderfailed to intervene, either out of internal conflict or on purpose.

If we assume the latter, then standing back and allowingLuke to die would indicate that, while neither apathetic nor resigned, Vader’shate for the Emperor and desire to see him dead was stronger than hisconflicting emotions/love for his son. This would imply that he let Luke diebecause Luke was too weak (i.e., not embracing the power of the Dark Side) tohelp him in his quest, and now that he knows a second opportunity for saidrevenge exists (in the form of Leia), there is no point in dragging out hissons fate. He could repeat his method of attempting to recruit Leia to the DarkSide like he did Luke, only he would probably go in with higher hopes becauseLeia was already closer to the Dark then Luke ever was. So going with this,Vader would continue to play along with the Emperors wishes until such as timeas he was in a position to get to Leia. If we assume that the Rebel Fleet wasdestroyed and the Death Star intact, that would be more or less immediately, asLeia would be a captive down on Endor. If the Empire was forced to flee withits tail between its legs, it would’ve taken much longer. Either possibility isirrelevant, because Leia would never join the man who helped destroy herplanet, tortured her and the man she loves, and participated in the death ofher twin. Not gonna happen.

If we propose that Luke died simply because Vader took toolong to decide where he was going to throw in the towel, we have even morepossibilities. Option A: once he finally comes to and realizes what he hasallowed to happen, he actively loses it and attacks the Emperor with the intentto kill, still injured, but now fueled with greater rage to aid him. Dependingon if Sidious has his head back in the game or not, Vader might have theopportunity of a surprise kill (slam-dunking him down the shaft anyways) overraw power. If he succeeds, then he either claims the Empire for his own to dowhatever he would with it, or the enormity of what has happened, what he hasallowed to happen, and what he has lost come crashing down and he buckles underthe weight of it all, giving up the will to live and dying right there. Vader’swill and hatred was keeping him alive just as much as the suit was, and it’sdifficult to imagine him finding the drive to live just to seek out hisdaughter and rectify his mistakes.

Now on to Leia. One of the biggest questions in the fandomwas always “what would happen if Leia had to take on Luke’s role as the ‘lasthope’”, and the general line of thought was always that she would, indeed, takeon the mantle of Jedi and undergo the training necessary. I’ve never seen itmyself, mainly because other people don’t really seem to take Leia’s actualcharacter into account. It’s not that I don’t believe Leia would be the bombdot com as a light-side Force user, she’s more than capable, but I don’t thinkLeia would actually agree to become a Jedi in the first place—at least, not atfirst (and even then very begrudgingly).

Reason #1 she would not become the Jedi people assume: Carriehas stated that, though it wasn’t always obvious on screen, Leia was alwaysvery, very angry, and that her anger more or less fueled her despite hercollected demeanor. For me this is one of the key pieces of information we getthat tells us that Leia is truly Anakin’s daughter, whereas Luke always tookmore after Padme. In Bloodline she even says, “Sometimes I felt as if the only thing that kept me going in theaftermath of Alderaan was the strength of my hatred for Vader.” Basically,Leia lacks the ability to let go, which is not a problem or a flaw, but it is aproblem for a potential Jedi under the tutelage of Force ghosts.

Reason #2: We are operating under the assumption that Leiawould even be able to see Yoda/Obi-Wan’s Force ghosts to begin with. Somepeople put forth that one has to be both Force sensitive and Force trained tosee Force ghosts. If that were true, then Leia couldn’t undergo instructionwith them anyways as she lacks the training to see them.

Reason #3: If we assume that one needs only to beForce-sensitive, and that it is the ghosts themselves who choose who they canappear to (as I believe), then she can presumably communicate with them becausethey will eventually come to her withthe “our last hope” schpeel. And honestly? I imagine her first reaction wouldbe to tell them to fuck off, because their “guidance” and “destiny” bit justgot her brother killed (and also because she now knows that Obi-Wan trained,and was there, when Anakin underwent his journey to the Dark Side and shewouldn’t be likely to trust him knowing this). I think the only way she wouldgive them a chance, at first, is if Luke’s Force Ghost was there to convinceher to do what must be done; however, one must undergo training to become aghost, and Luke never did, so this option is highly unlikely.

Reason #4: Given everything terrible that has happened toLeia and the people she loves as a result of the Force, I imagine she wouldwant to do everything in her power to destroy the Empire/Sith her ownway before all else—which basically means continuing on with what she hasalready done (being a key leader in the Rebellion, using any political sway shemight have, etc.). While the Rebellion might eventually be victorious againstthe Empire’s forces this way, it is not going to be enough to defeatSidious/Vader. Probably only after a great many years, deep thought, andmeditating on her priorities would Leia come to see that she has to embracethis “part” of herself if she wants to see the galaxy free.

I also imagine she would’ve wanted to do anything in herpower to avoid doing something that would draw any parallels between her andher father. She would’ve wanted to stray as far as possible from doing anythingeven remotely similar to him.

All in all, I think the role of a Jedi is something Leiawould want to stay as far away from as possible. The path of Jedi led her bestfriend and newly discovered twin to his death and it started her biologicalfather on a path that destroyed not only himself, but his family and many partsof the galaxy. Misuse of the ~Force~ in general also led to the premature deathof her biological mother (via Sidious’ sinister powers) and the eventual demiseof Alderaan. When all of the personal things one knows of the Force end withdeath and destruction, one would probably give the Force the middle finger., Carrie style.

We have canon evidence to support Leia’s priorities topolitics over the Force as well. In Bloodline, we get this very delightfulconversation (one of my favorites in the whole book, actually) between Leia anda fellow Senator/friend, Tai-Lin Garr, where he actually addresses this verything. He asks her why she had chosen not to follow in her brothers footstepsand train in the ways of the Force, and questions if she ever would in thefuture. This is the excerpt:

“Did you neverconsider following in your brothers path and becoming a Jedi?”

Leia found herselfcaught short. “Why do you ask?”

“They say on my worldthat the Force sometimes runs strong in certain families…()…If that is true,then you might have the potential, just like your brother…()…If you have thatability, then I cannot imagine why you would not become a Jedi as well. SurelyI’ve known few people who would make a finer Jedi knight than you.”

Leia inclined her headin gratitude for the compliment, but she could not answer right away, becauseshe could not tell the full truth. The Force was too important a subject to beshared lightly, even with Tai-Lin, her ally and friend.

Her safe, sensible,and, as far as it went, honestreply: “My duty has always been here, in the work of creating a new and bettergovernment.”

He sighed, as if inregret. “You alone can determine your rightful destiny.”

In addition to this, we get another throwaway line whereLeia does, in fact, reminisce briefly on the fact that Luke mentored her insome meditating/focusing techniques, but that they never went beyond that. Keepin mind here that her current attitude regarding her tutelage in the Force isafter she knew that her father had become Anakin once more, and Luke is still alive, so she wouldn’t have any particularantipathy towards walking near the path of the Force. Her feelings toward theForce appear more or less neutral, but this would not be the case had Luke died,and had Vader been in any way a participant. Leia stayed away from Jeditraining because she chose to do so.

There are just far too many possibilities to this question,and every single choice leads to even more endless possibilities. But to answeryour question, “What would happen if Luke died”, in the most succinct waypossible: everything would suck, always, because a world without Luke Skywalkeris a world I would nope out of at the drop of a pin.

@frostbite883 thanks for the ask!!

[bearingwater]

March Forecast for Aquarius

Steady as she goes! Now that your birthday season is behind you, you’re ready to roll up your cashmere sleeves and get down to business. Take those ambitious ventures one step at a time, Aquarius. Until March 20, the Sun is in Pisces and your grounded second house of work and daily routines. Before you squander your precious productivity, make sure you’ve got a realistic plan in place. Crafting a budget or timeline might seem like a drag, but your path to success will be paved by simple and sober daily actions, not a wild adrenaline-fueled burst that ends with a crash.

Another reason to regulate your energy output: Expansive Jupiter, which is in Libra and your ninth house of excess, is already spreading you thin this March. Jupiter will turn retrograde from February 6 to June 9 and tangle with rebellious Uranus (your cosmic ruler) and power-monger Pluto. These tense aspects could wildly disrupt the balance in both personal and political arenas. Over the course of a year, Jupiter will have three rounds of these celestial clashes. The last two came in November and December 2016, so expect another round of whatever came up over the holidays. Hopefully this midpoint will bring more resolution than revolution—but it’s likely to be a mix of those two at best.

On March 3, Jupiter locks into a tense opposition (http://astrostyle.com/aspects/opposite/) to shock-jock Uranus, which is in Aries and your third house of communication. Surprising news could find you scrambling to adjust your plans. A big work project might suddenly veer off in a new direction, creating chaos in the process. Don’t get too set in your ways now, Aquarius—flexibility saves the day. A normally reliable colleague, sibling or friend could act unpredictably. Vacation plans may also evaporate, since global Jupiter is in your travel house (and retrograde from February 6 to June 9). Above all, guard against your sign’s tendency to hold in your feelings then explode with an earth-scorching verbal lightning bolt. Those words, once uttered, can be (possibly) forgiven, but never forgotten. Do. Not. Go. THERE.

Jupiter and Uranus only face off this way every 14 years, and this major moment can either burn a bridge or inspire a life-transforming dialogue. Between December 2016 and September 2017, there will be three such oppositions. The first was on December 26, 2016, and the next is September 28, 2017. Is it time to try a new communication style? Intense reactions—even backlash—could pinpoint a need to change your approach. Be open and seek ways to convey your message more effectively. After all, the point is to inspire people, not alienate them. Just know that this will require a degree of impulse control (and checking your ego at the door), because these hotheaded planets will tempt you to act rashly.

Control is a key theme again on March 12, when the Virgo full moon illuminates your eighth house of intimacy, power and joint ventures. Where have you been oversharing and where could you stand to drop your mysterious mask? If you post every mundane event on Facebook (the washing machine broke, your date was a dud) but clam up like a seafood special when a close friend asks how you honestly feel, it’s time to flip that script. Dare to be more transparent about the issues that matter instead of dodging them with faux-intimate reveals. The “much ado about nothing” shtick only keeps people at arm’s length.

And if you DO let ’em in, get ready! This merger-minded moon could accelerate plans to move in together or bring a proposal or news of a pregnancy. In business, the Virgo full moon can herald an exciting shared opportunity or investment. Focus on ways you can pool your talents and resources for a win-win.

Lightness returns after March 20, when the Sun kicks off a monthlong tour of Aries and your communicative third house. You’ve had your nose (mostly) to the grindstone, and now it’s time to reconnect with your fanbase. Set up coffee dates, pitch meetings and social outings. Use this intellectually #woke time to brainstorm big projects or revive an abandoned hobby. Kindred spirits pop up everywhere, so watch your friends list and followers multiply as you share your colorful ideas. Ah, this is more like it!

An amazing day to express yourself arrives on March 27, when the Aries new moon is joined by the charismatic Sun, clever Mercury, magnetic Venus and innovative Uranus—all beaming into your interpersonal third house. Capture those strokes of genius and bits o’ brilliant dialogue. You could have the makings of an Emmy-worthy screenplay or a clever marketing campaign. (Or maybe just an amazing joke that you belly-laugh about for years to come!) With romantic Venus here, conversations can spark a simmering attraction. A friend might look startlingly hot after a mind-blowing talk—who knew you had so much in common? Workwise, you could test your synergy by teaming up on a small project. If things go well, this might just turn into an official dynamic duo over the coming six months.

Just as you’re riding high on the feel-good vibes, wily Jupiter gets into its second cosmic kerfuffle on March 30. The red-spotted sphere locks into a conflicted square (www.astrostyle.com/aspects/square) with power-monger Pluto in Capricorn and your twelfth house of hidden agendas. Talk about oil and water: Outspoken Jupiter in your blunt ninth house is ready to publish a tell-all memoir, while secretive Pluto wants to bury the lead…and the rest of the story! Figuring how much to share and how much to keep under wraps could be an epic struggle. Honesty can get brutal today, as truth-telling is laced with passive-aggressive intensity. If you need to get something off your chest, be direct. Wrapping your resentment in a “joke” will surely backfire. You might also feel an unspoken hostility, especially if you share your enthusiasm. Perhaps someone is jealous or threatened by your newfound freedom? Curbing your excitement feels fake, but choose your audience carefully. It’s too soon to let the haters poke holes in your balloon.

Jupiter and Pluto make three squares between November 2016 and August 2017. This is the second installment—the first was on November 24, Thanksgiving Day in the U.S. If you experienced tension around the turkey table, another wave of this is nigh. Learn from your earlier mistakes and don’t take the bait. Avoid toxic energy vampires like the plague, and distance yourself from drama.

Love & Romance

Open mouth, insert slip-on sneaker? This month, innocent flirtations and “harmless” banter could go awry as love planet Venus, the cosmic peacekeeper, turns retrograde (backward) from March 4 to April 15. Venus goes retrograde every 18 months, a tricky transit that can disrupt the harmony of even the most rock-solid relationships. Brace yourself, Water Bearer: Your cool and collected ways will be tested.

Until April 2, Venus will backtrack through Aries and your third house of communication. Old resentments and arguments could resurface for coupled Aquarians. Since retrogrades bring back the past, don’t be surprised if an ex pings you with a suggestive Snapchat or a tantalizing text. But do you really want to reopen that door? Sparks could fly with a pal, colleague or neighbor while Venus is here. Proceed with caution—if at all. Experimenting in your own backyard is risky business, especially if things go south. You could wind up a persona non grata at your favorite cafe, bar or music venue, or create awkward friction in your circle. Maybe you DON’T need to discover whether your snarky coffee-cart buddy or favorite bartender is a good kisser, Aquarius.

Venus will slip into Pisces and your second house of self-worth from April 2 on, which could provoke a confidence crisis at the end of the retrograde. Ramp up the self-care this month with massages and plenty of downtime. Another reason to nurture numero uno? Intense Mars will visit Taurus and your emotional, domestic fourth house from March 9 to April 21. You could be extra-sensitive and quick to snap at the slightest hint of criticism. Raw feelings could rise to the surface. Deal with them straightforwardly instead of pushing them away. Your willingness to be vulnerable, however uncomfortable, can lead to a breakthrough in your relationships. But watch the tension at home—you could easily take stress out on relatives, roommates or your significant other. With virile Mars in this family-friendly zone, a pregnancy or adoption may be in the cards. You might also decide to move in with a partner or buy property. Speedy Mars will ensure that the action happens fast, so stay on your toes.

Opportunity Days

March 12: Virgo Full Moon Smoldering! The full moon in your eighth house of seduction and intimacy could consummate a simmering sexual attraction. A commitment can move into permanent status—or you might decide to call the whole thing off. Since the eighth house governs extremes, you’re either in or you’re out. There’s no room for gray area under these do-or-die skies. Caution: Emotions you’ve repressed could erupt like a no-longer-dormant volcano. While it’s good that this is coming up, be careful about unleashing a torrent on an unsuspecting love interest. Try to give them the benefit of the doubt!

Challenge Days

March 3: Jupiter-Uranus Opposition Watch your words, Aquarius. Cheeky Jupiter and rebellious Uranus face off against each other, calling forth your inner provocateur. You might push someone’s buttons just to get a reaction, or drop some “honesty” that’s laced with cruel intentions. Remember that your words DO stick around in people’s memories. If you need to have “the talk,” don’t just spring it on someone. Make sure they’re in a clear-headed space, able to calmly listen and share. While you’re at it, make sure that YOU are, too!

March 30: Jupiter-Pluto Square Passive-aggressive is SO not a good look for you, Aquarius. Today’s tense square between Jupiter in your blunt ninth house and underhanded Pluto could find you throwing veiled punches at someone. Pouting, brooding or being sarcastic are not effective ways of letting someone know you feel hurt. In fact, it only serves to alienate you more. Shadowy Pluto can stir up fears and paranoia; you might even get hooked into some hearsay about your amour du jour. Confirm the facts before you react. And if you doubt someone's intentions, better to say so than snoop!

Money & Career

Taking care of business! With the Sun in Pisces and your industrious second house, your fiscal focus is razor-sharp. Until March 20, el Sol will burn the midnight oil here, helping you make substantial headway on a project or monetary goal. They key is to organize yourself and not get scattered, as your curious sign tends to do. Pick one or two big dreams and build on them with consistent daily action. Focus DOES take discipline—and that might mean saying “no” to tempting distractions. But by the time April rolls around, you’ll be amazed at your progress.

Negotiations could heat up during the first week of March while assertive Mars finishes a six-week foray through Aries and your communication house. If you’ve been going back and forth, you could finally settle on a compromise and seal the deal. But don’t rush: Harmonious Venus will be retrograde in Aries until April 2, then in Pisces and your money house from April 2 to 15. If something still feels “off” between you and a potential partner or client, take the time to resolve that. And if you can’t, better to find out before you get too deeply enmeshed.

From March 9 to April 21, Mars will visit Taurus and your domestic fourth house. A cottage industry could take off, or you might be inspired to create an inspiring home office. Real estate opportunities can move quickly under this influence. Is it time to buy or sell property or upgrade your living situation? You may feel pressure from a family member or personal situation—deal with it directly and don’t let it affect your productivity.

Opportunity Days

March 2: Sun-Neptune Meetup With the charismatic Sun and manifestation planet Neptune synced up in your money house, you could attract an exciting client or profitably opportunity. Use creative visualization to picture your desired outcome.

March 5: Mars-Saturn Trine Rally the troops for decisive action! Motivator Mars forms a golden angle to leadership-driven Saturn in your teamwork house. Get everyone inspired by reminding them of your shared mission. Outline a realistic plan, one that taps people’s talents and allows them to shine. A meeting or dialogue could get you fired up to change the world, or at least your corner of it. Put your heads together and you just might.

March 12: Virgo Full Moon Payday! The full moon in your eighth house of wealth and joint ventures could bring a hefty lump sum your way. If you’ve been waiting to seal a deal or make a real estate move, this cosmic energy burst can help push things to the finish line. Legal settlements, commissions and debt paydowns could be in the spotlight. For couples and business partners who are splitting up, this can assist you in dividing up assets equitably. Try to play nice so you can both move on, especially since the eighth house can awaken a vengeful streak.

March 27: Aries New Moon Loosen your tongue! The new moon in your third house of communication could plant the seeds of an exciting collaboration. Events will unfold over the coming six months, since new moons can take up to a half-year to fully manifest. With clever Mercury, innovator Uranus, the bold Sun and magnetic Venus also in Aries today, you can be a powerful force in meetings, on social media and in productive dialogue. A local opportunity could be the start of something big. You could also click with a kindred spirit type. Test-run an idea on a smaller scale. If your chemistry translates well, this could turn into a powerful collaboration!

Challenge Days

March 3: Jupiter-Uranus Opposition Surprising news could shake up business as usual. Here you thought you were going in one direction only to have a curveball thrown at you. Watch what you repeat, given the proliferation of “alternative facts” these days. Verify before you share! Someone may try to push your buttons, and with hotheaded Uranus opposing blustery Jupiter, you could easily take the bait. Instead, view this button-pusher as a teacher of sorts. Ask yourself what a challenging relationship is revealing about YOUR life and where you need to make a radical change?

March 17: Sun-Saturn Square Even making a simple plan feels like an uphill battle. Challenging Saturn in your teamwork house could stymie a group effort. Everyone has a different agenda, or you may have to jump through a zillion bureaucratic hoops. Don’t give up, but don’t waste your time. Go back to the drawing board and make a stronger case, then present it again under better cosmic conditions. Avoid loaning money to friends (or borrowing from them). It will introduce an awkward power dynamic that’s best avoided. If you’re asked to recommend someone for a job, make sure you are truly comfortable vouching for them because this WILL reflect back on you.

March 24: Mercury-Jupiter-Pluto T-Square Know-it-all alert! There are ten opinions for every person at today’s confounding three-way cosmic clash. While everyone seems to have an “answer,” there’s no actual plan. Before you turn your life into a scale model of the White House administration, pause and gather facts and figures. Don’t take a single step forward without a solid agenda!

March 30: Jupiter-Pluto Square Go with your gut? Not so fast. Today’s tense square between Jupiter in your risk-loving ninth house and Pluto in your intuitive twelfth house sends conflicting signals. Your head is saying one thing while your inner voice is saying another. One part of you wants to leap in feet first, preferably without a net. But Pluto sends a panicky S.O.S. that MIGHT be paranoia…or it might be your protective instincts. Until you’re clear, don’t make any irreversible moves. A fast-talking person could be making promises they can’t keep. Don’t buy any non-refundable snake oil, Aquarius, as excited as you may be about what they’re pitching.

[gingermcl]

Being your authentic self

Being authentic means you act in ways that show your true self and how you feel. Rather than showing people only a particular side of yourself, you express yourself genuinely. To succeed in being authentic you first have to know who your true self actually is. Knowing yourself requires self awareness, mindfulness, self acceptance, and self love.

It can be harder for some individuals to be his true self in today’s technology age. We are constantly bombarded with media and other programming that tells us what to be, what to want, and how we “should” express ourselves. Programming inhibits our ability to be our authentic self over time.

When you are being someone you are not, you are telling yourself that who you actually are isn’t okay. Hiding or suppressing who you really are can end up leaving you feeling lonely, isolated from others, hopeless, and even worthless.

I have personally known too many people that cannot live authentically. They don’t know who they are. They’re like chameleons; these individuals change their entire belief system depending on what crowd they’re hanging around. I’ve seen people crippled by the fear of judgment from others. The truth is humans are very self-centered creatures. Humans are normally thinking about themselves. The people in the room are not judging you; odds are the others in the room are sitting there wondering if they’re being judged by others too. The authentic person is the one not concerned with what another thinks.

We are constantly balancing inner and outer aspects of ourselves in order to better fit in, to become more successful, or to find love. We are driven to find “our place” in society and we want to be respected for who we truly are and what we have to contribute. Many of us are have further desires to know and live our purpose, to find deeper meaning in our lives, and to feel the fulfillment that comes with becoming an authentic person.

Unfortunately we live in a society that values superficial and materialistic attitudes, that implies the need for perfection, and defines success as by the dollars in our bank account and not by how well we live morally. In a society such as this being ones authentic self is likely to go against the mold. We were molded as children by our parents, teachers, religions, peers, and society to "fit in." As a result, we developed beliefs, thoughts, emotions, and behaviors that keep us acting in the ways we were taught to act—not in ways that make us feel like our authentic selves.

This version of ourselves can be called the "Adaptive Self.” The adaptive self is the self that prioritizes fitting in, getting along, and generally doing what we're told. This self is not without value and purpose—it helps us be functioning members of society. However if you're feeling inauthentic, the adaptive self is running your life. To reclaim your authenticity, you need to discover your “Authentic Self.” The Authentic Self is the self that prioritizes living according to your values, fighting for the causes you care about, and pursuing your purpose. For most of us, our authentic self is buried deep in our subconscious and can be difficult to identify. 

Ways to develop authenticity:

1 Love yourself and have compassion for others developing authenticity. It takes self-love for our authentic self to emerge. Recognize that developing authenticity takes time. Examining our true self is a process—perhaps a life-long process—because we are ever-evolving beings. It takes quite a while to throw out and overcome beliefs and behaviors that no longer serve you and replace them with more authentic actions. With effort you'll soon find yourself in genuine alignment with your true self. 

2 Release patterns and beliefs that no longer serve you. When you come across a thought, emotion, or action that doesn't represent your authentic self, work on letting it go. Visualization is a good tool for this. You can place the thought, emotion, or action within a bubble and let it rise until it disappears. If you are hands-on, you can write it on a piece of paper, crumple up the paper and/or burn it—a physical action helps your subconscious understand your intentions.

Ask yourself what you truly believe. Another approach is to start with pad and paper (or it can be a mental exercise) and begin listing your beliefs about yourself, beliefs like "I am not good enough" or "Nobody loves me" or "I'm stupid, fat, ugly, etc." Then examine each one, expand upon it, and think back to how and when you acquired that belief, who gave it to you, why you continue to hold on to it, and whether it represents "the authentic you" that you want to be today. Create positive alternatives to these negative beliefs, such as "I am good enough," or "I am perfectly imperfect just as I am.” Repeat these positive beliefs as positive affirmations to get them to stick. 

3 Take it slow when developing your authenticity. Sometimes we are shocked by what we discover within our subconscious that has been hidden. Such sudden new raw awareness can disrupt our lives in unexpected ways and take time to process. Use moderation and proceed cautiously when uncovering trauma. You don’t have to rush. When you discover a belief or memory has been disruptive to your authenticity, allow a few days to adjust to your new realizations and view them with self-compassion, love, and acceptance.

4 Examine your family belief systems. Most people were raised in some sort of "family-style" environment during their earliest and most vulnerable years. Think back to episodes in your childhood, episodes that led you to stop being your authentic self and instead you adopted another way of existing in this world. By examining where our behaviors came from, we can learn a lot about ourselves.

5 Open a dialogue between the Adaptive Self(how you’ve been taught and told to behave) and the Authentic Self. Invite the two aspects of yourself to have a discussion as part of a mediation thought exercise. Invite each part of yourself to share. Mentally ask a question, urge each side to express itself fully, and then listen patiently to the responses. Try to be open to what both sides have to say, as they may reveal things you're not expecting. For example, your authentic self may be afraid of rejection and therefore afraid to come forward. Your adaptive self may be caretaking, trying to protect you from feeling hurt in ways you've been hurt in the past. These parts of ourselves are running our lives for a reason. In this exercise, try to figure out what those reasons are. This may help you understand why you act the way you do, so you can decide if you truly want to act differently. 

6 Identify discrepancies to develop authenticity. Try to become aware of discrepancies between your actions and your beliefs. If you catch yourself making a racist, sexist, or otherwise hurtful remark, ask yourself whether you really believe the words you speak. Are you just saying these things because someone else taught you to?

Remember, the adaptive self just wants to fit in. It can often act in ways that are inconsistent with our authentic selves and this is normal. If we want to be more authentic, we have to notice and address the discrepancies between our beliefs and our actions. If you acknowledge what is true for you, then you can better live your life according to the needs of your authentic self. This kind of authenticity requires self awareness and self honesty.

7. Examine your doubts to develop authenticity. When exploring your authentic self, you may feel unsure of how to go about it. You may question whether it's even possible to change what feels so deeply ingrained within you or is invisible to you. Keep an eye out for feelings of doubt. If you doubt something—a thought, behavior, emotion, experience—reflect for a moment to find whatever is underneath. Is your Authentic Self trying to tell you to "stop it?"

8. Develop the courage to face your fears. Humans tend to be most comfortable with what is familiar. The unfamiliar is often challenging, at least at first. Examining your core inner beliefs can be like exploring an unfamiliar foreign landscape. When you touch upon a disconnect between your adaptive and authentic selves, your heart may race or your hands might get clammy. You may naturally feel afraid to look too deeply into yourself for fear of what you might find.

Our authentic self often has a lot of fear, sadness, and anger. The adaptive self took over becauseour true selves were hurt. It is the difficult secrets we hide from ourselves that make us who we are. As much as you can you need to courageously explore the truth of what makes you who you are. Take as much time as you need to do this. Identifying, experiencing, accepting, and letting go of our buried emotions is exactly what fuels our authentic selves.

9. Explore your values. Integrity, ethics, and living our values is an effective way to live authentically. Trouble comes when we are so far from our authentic selves that we do not even know what our values are. Explore your values and figure out ways to start living them.

10. Make telling the truth a habit. This is such a simple suggestion yet it may not be as easy as it sounds for some individuals. It is easy to fall into a pattern of lying for convenience's sake, to further some agenda, to cover up embarrassment, hide a mistake, or to save face. These may seem like "little white lies" that don’t hurt anything. However, the more lies we tell, little or big, the less we are accepting our authentic self, which a self that is flawed. By being honest, we tell our subconscious that our imperfections are acceptable, therefore we are acceptable.

11. Make statements and decisions consciously. In this hectic world, we are constantly making decisions. Unfortunately a lot of these decisions are made hastily in the moment with no forethought. We need to slow down and make sure each of our decisions support our authentic selves. Don’t let anyone push you into making a decision before you are ready.

12. Speak your truth. When you speak your truth, authentically, you show others that you are responsible, you can be trusted, and you trust others enough to show your genuine, vulnerable self. The response from others is often positive, which helps make it easier for one to continue being authentic.

13. Develop yourself in authentic ways. I can't tell you how many times I've been given advice for how to advance in my life- advice that was not suited to my authentic self. Whenever I’ve followed this advice, ignoring my Authentic Self, I have ended up with regret and in bad situations. Your gut will always leads you the correct way....listen!

Your goals may fail to fit the typical "career ladder" or “normal lifestyle” promoted by society. As you pursue your goals, pause and ask yourself if you are pursuing the right goal, in the right way, and for you? If not, you'll likely have a hard time enjoying either the process or the outcome. It is so important when looking for a job that we enjoy the field that we choose. If you hate food then restaurant work is not where you should be.

14. Become self aware. If we can keep a behind-the-scenes monitor that remains self-aware at all times, we will be in a position to catch those "off moments" when we veer away from our authentic self. Even if we have no time to examine what's going on at the moment, we can jot it down to review later, when we have time.

15. Strive to improve yourself. If you want to make progress, you will need to develop a growth mindset and learn from each lesson presented to you. If you do not do your homework of paying attention what life tries to teach you, you will continue to get the same lessons over and over until you learn them. By being open minded and willing to learn new methods and information, you can grow quicker and find the best routes for you to achieve sustained authenticity. 

16. Listen to your intuition. People call this inner voice many things—the soul, god, intuition, Tao, and more. Following your inner guide is key to discovering the authentic self. It is only when our adaptive self silences our inner guidance that we lose track of who we are. Try to keep an open mind and listen for the guidance that you hold within you.

17. Find your life purpose. Authenticity and purpose are closely linked: A deep sense of purpose can help you to express your authenticity, while developing authenticity will often help you discover your purpose! You may discover the courage of your convictions, and want to burst forward with passion to accomplish some worthy goal that moves you deeply enough to champion some particular sort of positive change. You may have an invention you want to promote, a company you want to develop, or vision you want to see come true. Open yourself up to living authentically, and your purpose is likely to become more clear.

If you want to become a more authentic person you can do it. Are you have to do is commit to a little time and effort and start the process. Now is always a great time to start. Being authentic is a much freer way to live.