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wing-ed-thing · 4 years ago

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Fraternizing and Spineless (Kabuto x Reader, Part IV)

Synopsis: Kabuto has a fixation and you sometimes apologize to inanimate objects. Ever since one fateful day, you’ve been drawn to each other from opposite sides of the battlefield.

Word Count: 3,429

Warnings/Tags: @tiktoktheclockisticking Bullying, Language, ANGST CITY, Alcohol, Side Iruka x Reader, Fem!Reader

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Finale

Notes: I’m fully expecting to get messages in my inbox that range drastically in forcefulness. Perhaps a “how dare you” or two.

You stood outside of Shushu-ya, almost as if you expected to be told to come in. A silly notion. With a heavy sigh, you clenched the warped gift in your hands, starting to regret the shoes you wore among other things. But you know you couldn’t back out now. You couldn’t miss Iruka’s birthday. Your reluctant hand grasped the door and before you could chicken out, you heaved it open.

The group was easy to spot, even in Shushu-ya’s dim lighting. Everyone gathered around the bar. A few people sat in a large, open booth. The crowd made you nervous, but you couldn’t help but feel a semblance of relief. You weren’t the first one there. Iruka spotted you immediately and waved you over. You took a sharp inhale before forcing yourself across the restaurant with a smile. You were, at the very least, glad to see him.

Iruka got up from his spot at the end of the extensive, circular seating and greeted you warmly. Knowing him, he sat at the end just to see people come in the door. He extended his arms to you in a hug. You happily embraced him. It had been quite some time since you got to spend any quality time with your friend. You handed him his present.

“As usual, you’re always so thoughtful.” Iruka pursed his lips, a sentimental expression coming upon him. Even still, the corners of his lips turned upward into that classic Iruka grin. “You didn’t have to.”

“It’s your birthday, Iruka. Of course I’m going to get you something nice.”

Iruka motioned for you to sit down and carefully placed your gift in the pile he had accumulated. You took a seat among two ninjas who you only knew by name. Iruka sat down next to who you were fairly sure you recognized as Kakashi of the Sharingan. The mask made it difficult to tell. You took your place next to Might Guy, the Leaf’s Green, Taijutsu Beast. You looked over to Iruka and wondered how he made such powerful friends. You supposed it was hard to not be acquainted with any famous shinobi in Konoha. Perhaps that’s what happened when you weren’t afraid to talk to people. You spied a few more of your colleagues around the bar, including your teammates from the last mission you took. They didn’t seem particularly pleased about your presence, but no one was going to impulsively make a fuss in front of Iruka.

You kept your head down and that’s where it stayed. The conversation went, for the most part, without you. You ordered a water quietly. You weren’t the type to drink, especially when you were as on edge as you were in this particular setting. The waiter set down your glass, making a sort of a sour face. You stared at the clear liquid, supposing that not many ordered water from a bar.

“That’s all you’re going to get?” You looked up into Kakashi’s intense eye. “You know you’re not on the clock, right?” He chuckled and you nervously laughed with him.

“Don’t listen to him.” Iruka rolled his eyes before taking a sip of his own drink. His kind gaze found yours. “You can do whatever you want, just know that the tab is already taken care of.” He looked past you and waved towards the bar. The bartender waved back.

“No, no. I completely understand!” Guy wrapped an arm around you, holding you a bit too close for the volume of his voice. You immediately let go of your drink. Your eyes went wide as he shook you with every word. “You gotta watch out for that hangover! Very smart! I commend you!” Kakashi tsked, tilting his head towards Iruka.

“Such a bad host, letting her sit next to Guy like that.” Iruka laughed sheepishly.

“Sorry,” He scratched at the back of his neck. “I guess the seat was open for a reason.” Guy pouted at the discourse across the table, arm still wrapped around your shoulder.

“Nonsense! Tease me all you like but I just know that… uh…” He turned to you with an outstretched hand and as much embarrassment as Might Guy was capable of. “What was your name again?” You took his much larger hand in yours and spoke your name, realizing that you hadn’t prior. He immediately shouted your name as if to commit it to memory, shaking you even harder than before. His shout got the attention of the rest of the booth and you suddenly your self consciousness skyrocketed. “—and we’re going to be best friends by the time the night is over! What do you think? You down for a party?” And suddenly you were expected to respond. You glanced around nervously.

“Um, yeah. Sure thing… I just think it’s really nice how everyone’s together.” Despite your response, you still felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. Sweat began to bead on your brow and your palms. You crossed your legs. “I feel like everyone’s always on missions so it’s nice to be among friends. And um, I can drink to that.” You glanced around the table once more, to Guy, to Kakashi, and then Iruka. Iruka’s eyes fluttered shut.

“I couldn’t say it better myself.” You raised your water weakly.

“Happy Birthday, Iruka.” Iruka raised his glass of sake and a roar went around the booth and extended to the bar. Someone hastily ordered a round of shots for the whole group. They came quickly, likely due to whatever likely large tip Iruka gave to the bartender.

One slid across the hard surface over to you. You gripped it between your fingers. The alcohol went down your throat with a steady burn. You let out a gasp with a bat of your eyes. The aftertaste of the ethanol burned your nasal cavity. Kakashi let out a deep laugh. Guy patted you hard on the back causing you to cough. Iruka smiled, ordering another round. You took another shot. People filtered in the door. And as the night went on, the three of you took to greeting Iruka’s guests along with him. The party crew quickly overtook the bar. A dull roar overtook Shushu-ya.

More words spilled from your mouth than you thought ever would in one sitting. Your three colleagues listened to you intently, jovially, and exchanged stories of their own. A small crowd gathered around your booth, members flitting from the bar and back. And for once in your life, people actually listened to you. You told your stories animatedly, waving your hands in emphasis. You took in the smiles around you, tales of missions and edgy impressions flying from your lips. Distracted, you hardly noticed the looks exchanged by your old teammates as they leaned against the low back of the booth.

“And I said, ‘You don’t need a rag, you need a towel’!” All those gathered around you burst out in hysterics. You felt the low rumble of Guy next to you. Iruka couldn’t pick his head up from the table. Kakashi yanked him up by his collar, revealing Iruka’s red, cackling expression. Kakashi snorted, dropping the cloth under his hand to cover his own face as he mocked his longtime friend. Joyful tears were still welled in your eyes when a slender hand clamped onto your shoulder.

You looked behind you only to become face to face with the kunoichi from your team. Her ever prevalent scowl remained plastered to her lips but they swiftly upturned into a sickly sweet smile.

“Hey, why don’t you tell everyone about our last mission? Or should I say, your last mission.” Your eyes widened and a chill coursed down your spine, remembering her unforgiving grasp on your hair following your meeting with the Hokage. You clenched your fists underneath the table, balling up the fabric of your clothing. What did she want from you? She crinkled her nose at you smugly. “Shy all of the sudden? That’s okay, I can tell it.” You heard Kakashi clap his hands together. You jumped.

“I’m always down for a good mission story,” He admitted eagerly. You shook your head vigorously.

“No, this one’s not very interest—” Another hard slap on your shoulder. Her nails dug into your shoulder.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. I think they’ll all find this very interesting.” The kunoichi settled into her spot behind you, shifting her weight as she leaned forward. With a finger, she pointed out your two other team members. “See we were assigned with this one to find a scroll in a territory suspected of being owned by Orochimaru. ‘Cause she’s a wonder at blending in, right? That’s what we were told. And of course you know how these things go. Of course we find someone. Some bitch of Orochimaru—”

And as she described it, you could remember the scene vividly. Your teammates were reckless in their fighting and overall poor choices for a stealth mission. Flashy jutsu corrupted the frame of the underground system. The walls began to crack and shake. Your enemy had been caught off guard and outnumbered. Seeming to be already injured, there was only so much he could do to fight back. That was how you met Kabuto Yakushi.

“And so she doesn’t even warn us that the tunnel is, like, about to collapse. Some freak earthquake or something. So the enemy is knocked out cold and we’re running and running to try to find a way out and—”

You dove towards him. You didn’t know what drew you towards him in the first place but that’s what you did. As your team left without you, you tried your best to save the young ninja who had to only be as old as you. You tried to drag him but either you were too frail or he was too heavy. Your second option. Your hands ignited in healing jutsu, flickering on and off. You were by no means a healer, but your only thought in your panic was to get him awake. And as the maze of tunnels imploded around you, your world went black.

“So we don’t see her for days. You know, we think she’s dead. So in the meantime, we check out the other places on our list. Nada. We’re about to completely give up and then, wouldn’t you know, this one shows up having spent almost a week in enemy territory holding the exact thing we were looking for. Zero scratches and she apparently ‘doesn’t remember’ anything about it. Don’t you think that’s funny?” The kunoichi motions to your other teammates.

“I remember it being very funny,” One huffs, arms crossed. The small surrounding crown had gone silent. You dared to look across the table. Kakashi sat with his arms on the table, wordless. Iruka pursed his lips, equally expressionless. He cleared his throat. An awkward overtone laced the atmosphere.

“Well I think that’s enough of that—”

“Well, I wasn’t done. Almost there, though, I promise.” The kunoichi held up her hand. “‘Cause wouldn’t you know it? When we got back to the village, we found out that the scroll was a fake.”

“Well,” You squeaked, “Later we did find out that it was authentic after all—”

“But that was later,” She snapped. She ruffled your hair roughly, giving your head a slight push as she finally took her hands off of you. “Still doesn’t explain where you got it from.” She leaned in towards your ear. “Traitor.”

“Okay that’s enough.” Iruka stood from his seat. He extended his arm towards the door. “You three have clearly had too much to drink. I think it’s time for you to go home.” The kunoichi scoffed.

“We haven’t had too much of anything,” She snorted with a roll of her eyes and opened her mouth to say more. Guy turned with the most serious expression you had seen from him all night.

“He’s giving you an out. I suggest you take it.” He told her and apparently, that’s all it took for them to leave.

Iruka apologized for your team’s behavior but said nothing more about it for the rest of your time present. Most of the partygoers stuck to the bar now. Everything was off and you knew it would be as long as you were there. Your friends could hardly look you in the eye properly. You remained for a little while longer, starting to feel dreadfully sober. And when you thought you wouldn’t draw too much attention, you announced that you were leaving.

“Let me walk you out.” Guilt rattled around in your chest. It was Iruka’s birthday and you ruined it, just like you thought you would. And yet, he still offered to walk you out.

You allowed it, suddenly finding yourself standing outside of Shushu-ya, Iruka by your side. Even as the door closed behind you, you could hear the sound of Konoha’s nightlife. You waited for Iruka to speak, but the weight on your shoulders became unbearable.

“I’m not leaving because of you, you know. I had a good time. I really did, so go back in there and know that, okay?” You tried to read his face. He looked conflicted and the pounding of your heart only increased.

“I just want you to know that you have a friend. Eh, friends. No matter what.” You blinked at him a few times. You didn’t like how he said that last part.

“No matter what?” You let out a nervous laugh for the umpteenth time that night. Your eyes wandered erratically. “What do you mean by that?” You were expecting some reassurance, but none came. Your mind filled in the blanks. You took a step back. He took a step forward. “No matter if I sold out the Leaf? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I-I didn’t say that.” He stammered. Suddenly frantic. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Well, you’re not denying it.” You gripped onto your strap bag. Another step back. Another step forward.

“I don’t think you sold out the Leaf. Not on purpose.” The tail end of that sentence stung. You began to tremble. Another person who thought that you were a traitor. “Listen, I had a student once. He’s out of the Academy now but he was in your shoes once.” You couldn’t look at him. You focused on your shoes, the shoes you’ve regretted wearing. “I know how guys like that are. I know how manipulative they can be, how they can convince you into doing something that you know you don’t want to do.” Your head snapped up.

“I didn’t do anything wrong. I wasn’t convinced to do anything wrong by anyone.”

“I know how kind you are. I know that you had a good heart. No one’s going to blame you if someone took advantage of that. I don’t care what happened. We’ve known each other forever. I’ll always be here for you.” Iruka gently placed his hands on your shoulders and his forehead against yours. You became cognisant of how violently you quaked. You didn’t even register his confession. The sharp burning between your eyes threatened to spill over into tears.

“Iruka, please stop. Just tell me that you believe me.” You gripped onto his forearm, wanting to feel a semblance of comfort. “I’m not a traitor.”

“I do believe you.” Unconvincing. You looked into his eyes, salty droplets now silently streaming down your cheeks.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Iruka nodded against you without a word. A beat. You gulped. “And Kabuto didn’t either.”

He pulled away, trying to fight a frown from crossing his face. You could see it. The realization morphing his features. Iruka tried his best not to show any of his mixed emotions, but he was always one to wear his heart on his sleeve. The corners of his mouth twitched.

“Who? The bingo book ninja?” He shoved a hand in his pocket. He always did that when he was nervous. “No, I’m sure he didn’t. D-didn't do anything wrong.” Once again, unconvincing.

“I’m sorry, I don’t feel well. Please, uh, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” You didn’t look back. You ran home.

***

When you got to your apartment, you dropped to the floor. You scrambled for a kunai to pry open the floorboard. Throwing the plank aside, you plucked out the scroll. Unraveling it, you bit your finger, smearing your blood across the summoning symbol.

You were already starting to scurry off when Kabuto appeared. You walked right through the white cloud of smoke. He felt troubled, but that wasn’t something you picked up on. Kabuto immediately pulled out a scalpel in defense, ready for an emergency fight. You didn’t even tell him to lower his weapon. You didn’t blink twice. You stormed straight to your wardrobe, yanking out a large travel bag.

“What’s going on? I thought you were going out tonight.” Kabuto asked, but you ignored him, stuffing belongings inside the bag. You skittered frantically around the room, pulling sentimental belongings from your drawers and off your shelves. Kabuto looked on helplessly as you muttered to yourself. He could hardly catch you with how erratically you darted around your small living space. With enough calculation, he caught you, grabbing you by your wrists. You struggled against him. “Hey, hey, hey slow down. Tell me what happened.”

You looked up at him, rivulets still flowing from your eyes.

“Please, Kabuto,” You begged. “Let’s run away together.”

His immediate response was to let go of you, stumbling a bit backwards.

“What?” His mouth went dry.

“I—” You couldn’t even get your thoughts straight. You just spoke, everything spilling out of you. —“Please take me away from here.” Ever-suave, Kabuto found himself panicked.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve killed a lot of people for one thing—” You met his eyes, but in your haze you missed all that they told. You saw complete and utter rejection.

“Aren’t you the one who always tells me that you’re not my enemy? You’re all I have.” Betrayal. If Kabuto could name the expression that washed over your face that would be it. You wiped the wetness from your skin with your sleeve. “Please, you know I would be quiet. You could have any of my books. I don’t even care about shoes on my bed. I don’t even need a bed just please let’s go right now!”

And for all of his big talk, Kabuto was at a loss. He wanted to. More than anything he wanted to scoop you off of your feet then and there, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t an option. He couldn’t bring you to Orochimaru. You were supposed to be here in the Leaf. You belonged here in the Leaf. This was where you could be happiest, not on the run with him. He’s caused enough damage to your life.

“I can’t.” That was all he managed to make out without his voice cracking. And as he looked into your large, wet eyes, his heart shattered.

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“I-I can’t. I—” He kicked himself. —“You’ll be happier here.”

“I’ll be happier with you,” You pleaded. You balled up your hands in the front of his shirt. “Please, I love you.” Kabuto diverted his eyes from yours, clenching them shut.

“No, you don’t.” He placed his hands over yours, gingerly trying to remove you from him but you stood firm. “You’re drunk. I’m sure that if you go to bed you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I’m not drunk!” You argued, getting even more desperate than you already were. “You told me to gather up some nerve so here it is! I love you! Please let’s go, just you and me. We can start over—” And with a few quick hand signs, you fell asleep.

Kabuto’s hand hovered over your forehead. He could see your fear, feel it too. He caught you as you began to collapse and brought you over to the bed. Knowing your recovery speed, the jutsu wouldn’t last for long. Perhaps it would last a half hour, maybe less. Anyone else and he would have expected them to be out for the rest of the night. He covered you with your blanket and sat at the edge of the bed, ready to recast his spell when you began to come to for the rest of the night. He knew that if you kept talking, he would have done exactly what you asked. Kabuto buried his head in his hands and uncharacteristically, for the first time in years, began to sob.

Thank you to everyone who liked, reblogged, and followed. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

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soulmate-game · 4 years ago

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Okay, I’m not sure if what I was trying to say in my last post was said very well.

I completely understand the tagging situation from the First Wave with the DC fans. That’s discourse that is mostly solved and we can’t do anything about those who are forever gonna be bitter or lazy. I’m not talking about that stuff.

The stuff I want to prevent/limit is the hate that comes after our fandom deliberately. And yes, I know I can’t stop it. None of us can stop bitter, antagonistic people from being bitter and antagonistic. None of us can stop people who just want to be angry.

I’m not talking about stopping them, though.

I’m talking about what we can do to protect ourselves as creators and consumers in this fandom. As people who love and appreciate what the creations and people in this fandom have to offer. In simplistic form, I’m saying we need to learn how to shield ourselves from bullies. And there are methods we can use to make ourselves less of a target to the people who go after us, and methods to cut their attacks off short. None of these methods are fool-proof, but they will work to filter out a good majority of the shit we would otherwise be showered by, like a big umbrella against Assholery. Sure, the wind might still blow some in our face and we might splash in a puddle or two by accident, but at least we aren’t soaked.

So let me list the various things that can help you shield yourself from hate/harassment/antis who might just be out to get you.

1) leave the fandom.

The most effective, but least attractive method possible. This is limited to being a last ditch effort, if things have just gotten too hard to handle. I’m covering it first though, because we have to acknowledge that it is a viable method. If you feel trapped, hated, bullied, I’m sure all of us in this fandom would prefer you take a break and leave us for a while in the sake of your own health and safety then stay where you are miserable. This is less of a problem for us though, because mostly this option is gonna be for fandoms where the discourse and attacks are internal. Maribat is largely a peaceful and supportive/healthy environment once you’re inside our little bubble, the main discourse comes from outside in. So let’s focus on the main point of this post— how to keep our bubble from popping.

2) Make it apparent right away that you are Unapologetic.

Whenever you post content or are approached by someone about the topic of your fandom, don’t you DARE ever apologize for liking what you like or posting unproblematic content. You need to make it clear right off the bat that you are not gonna be swayed, bullied, or shamed out of your fandom. Stand with pride and make it clear, but don’t be verbose about it. A simple “Don’t like, don’t read” is classic but sometimes if you’re posting/talking during a more confrontational period of the fandom, you need to up your game to reflect that. The funny thing is, people can easily be intimidated by swearing if it isn’t directed at them or clearly antagonistic. If you’re swearing in a joking, casual or even in a manner that shows you’re not taking yourself too seriously, people will usually avoid picking fights with you. For this, my favorite lines to use on my work include;

“Don’t like, I don’t fucking care. I fell down the rabbit hole.”

“Don’t bother reading if you’re not into this, this shit bitch-slapped me and dragged me along on it’s adventure.”

“I’m addicted to this fandom, don’t bother trying to save me. If it bothers you, I don’t give a fuck. Save yourselves.”

3) Don’t approach or interact

Unless someone comes at you first, never try to persuade someone away from hating us. That just makes you a target in an empty field, for the vultures to surround and gang up on. If someone approaches you with provocative but not overly insulting or intelligent language— I.e; trying to start a fight, vague insults not always relating to the fandom itself, trying to insult your character/judgement— do not respond. Delete the message, block the account, and surround yourself with fluffy good stuff to forget the wanna-be harasser. These people are often not brave enough to outright start a fight, and want you to get defensive first so they know the weak points in your armor to exploit. Defensive statements declare your own insecurities, don’t get defensive. It gives them a way to win without having to defend themselves or feel vulnerable— it’s like exploiting type differences in Pokémon. You wait for an unfamiliar Pokémon to expose it’s type, then snipe it with the moves it’s weak to. Then, you have a near sure-fire win even with under leveled Pokémon on your team.

Don’t be a proud Infernape that gets sniped by a weak-ass level 5 Piplup. We’re strong, don’t show them the chinks in our armor.

4) Have a support network. Even if they don’t know they are your support network.

The fandom as a whole serves this purpose, and this is mostly gonna be a tactic you use when the discourse is inside the fandom, but there can be uses for this in discourse from outside the fandom as well. If someone tries to act like they like your story/art “but...” they passive aggressively state things they “would prefer” or they try to make it sound like you made stupid mistakes (a tactic to make you insecure about yourself) instead of kindly pointing out errors or offering constructive criticism (ex: “you know you put your trigger list somewhere where it’s useless right? Love your story though.)—THESE ARE ALL PROVOCATIONS. They are trying to make you insecure so that you change things about yourself, your work, or jump through hoops to try to “make it up” to them when you did nothing wrong and there are no problems to fix. Do not fall for it! Instead, politely as possible, bring the issue into a public space where you feel safe/trust the people in that space to keep the bullshit from escalating. For me, I straight up explain my reasoning for the placement of my trigger list as if I’m advertising a particularly boring but important product that I’m selling, then offer places for them to bring the issue into a discussion with others. I send them to a discoed group or right here to my tumblr, and I immediately make the issue into a big discussion (do YOU think there is anything to change? Let’s ALL talk about it) so that I am no longer isolated and easy for them to harass. They might refuse to join the discussion and further try to pressure you, but do not cave. Merely say that a public discussion has been started, and if they are actually, legitimately concerned about the way you do things then they can debate it in a public setting. This way, you have back up. 9/10 people who try to target you this way will back off and never enter the conversation you started.

5) Do not fight back.

This sounds counterintuitive, but a lot of the time once discourse gets this bad, arguing/defending/ trying to prove your point only fuels their rage more. I have found that people hate very little in this world more than they hate being wrong. And people who hate being wrong will fight to the bitter death about their opinions, no matter how invalid or hurtful they are, in the favor of their blissful ignorance. Remove yourself from harmful discussions or those that seem to be going in circles as soon as possible, and try to surround yourself in your support group. Never let people make you feel stupid, your opinions illegitimate, or your likes/dislikes invalid or evil.

6) Try to learn how to recognize bullies in disguise

It’s too much for me to try to cover here, but you need to PLEASE look into how to spot gaslighting. Tactics of gaslighting are often used to attack others and try to make them feel like their own opinions are invalid or their mindset untrustworthy. People will often approach you in the guise of friendship/support/ “I am not into this, but...” and while this is not always a red flag, we have to keep our eyes open for any signs of this person or their approach being rooted in anything other than legitimate curiosity or kindness. Not all suggestions that say they are out of concern actually ARE. Keep an eye out for warning signs, and cut off interaction once things seem like they may lead to an argument or you being in a vulnerable position if you continue interacting.

(Brief mention of s**cide and threats in the section below)

7) If all else fails, BLOCK THEM.

No hesitation, we don’t need this shit. They make a second account? Block that too. Don’t respond, only take screenshots or reblog if it is directly harmful information that can/should be documented (words that encourage suicide, threats, insults that seem a little too specific for comfort) and give the evidence to someone you trust to look out for you. A therapist, a family member, or even the authorities if you deem that necessary. Just don’t handle it alone.

We are not responsible for other people’s actions, opinions, or anger. Take the steps to protect yourself instead of trying to reconcile. Sometimes, reconciliation isn’t an option. Both parties have to be willing to reconcile, and it is clear they have nothing in mind but hurting us. So raise your shields and protect yourself and your friends, we’re not gonna lose a war to petty jerks.

#tw: harassment #bully prevention #bullying prevention #steps to protect yourself #maribat #ml x dc #mlb x dc

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versegm · 4 years ago

Note

Holy Grail War where Guda is their summoner's weird back-alley encounter one night, then ghosts them for two days straight without an explanation and then seamlessly sets themselves up in the next-door apartment. They never explain what a holy grail is, and they're human-passing if they take sufficient precautions, and five months in it's just them and one enemy servant left. Guda goes drinking with them every Tuesday.

The first time you meet your new neighbor, you almost have a heart attack.

“Ma’am! Do you need any help with that?”

Face mask, sunglasses, leather gloves. They stand hover above you, and it dawns on you that you’re about to get mugged.

“No, no, it’s fine.” You steel your spine and straighten your back- and immediately wince. Old age has not been kind to you. “I’m fine. Really.”

The youth chuckles- they sound genuinely amused. Since you can barely see their face at all, you can’t read any of their emotions. It’s unnerving. “Don’t be silly, ma’am.” They take hold of the heaviest of your grocery bags. “Where do you live? I’ll walk you there.”

And you can’t really do anything but agree, can you? Ah, it has been a good life, at least. You suppose there are worse ways to go than...

... actually guided home by a yakuza? Who bids you goodbye and just leaves?

... Wait, they were being honest with the offer to help?

The youth, you learn quickly (for there is no better intel than old lady gossip) goes by Ritsuka Fujimaru, is probably not part of any yakuza group, and works part-time at the okonomiyaki place down the street.

Their apartment is also two rooms away from yours, which is why you keep running into them.

“Ma’am!” They wave at you excitedly. Their face is still covered. Apparently, they’re just that allergic to showing any important patch of skin. “You shouldn’t stay around these parts, ma’am. Haven’t you heard? A pipeline exploded yesterday.”

Huh, really? There has been a lot of these kind of accidents lately. You didn’t know another one exploded in the area.

This city really needs to get it together. You remember another serie of accidents like this when you were a kid. You’d think in sixty years infrastructure would get better.

“Ma’am! Ah, it’s good to see you sticking to safe paths.”

“Ma’am! Ah, you really ought to check the news! The next street is closed up! It shouldn’t last long, but better safe than sorry, right?”

“Ma’am! Let’s walk home together! I just finished my shift. Are you coming back from the market?”

“Ma’am! This looks heavy, do you need help? Oh, this is new! How do you cook that?”

One day, you go out, and you don’t see them. You don’t bat an eye.

The next day, they’re still not here. It’s not the first time that happens.

The next day, still no Fujimaru. Now this is a little weird.

The next day, they’re still absent. You’re getting worried.

“They’re on sick leave.” The okonomiyaki place tells you. “They should be back by tomorrow.”

Sick?

You frown. They’re a weird folk, but you’ve grown to like the youngster. Do they even know how to take care of themself? You remember when you were just getting started into adulthood and boy that wasn’t pretty.

So, you walk determinedly to the youth’s apartment, and knock.

At first there is silence. Then a ruffled sound. Then, a voice. “One moment!”

So you wait.

... quite some time.

After what seems like an eternity, but most likely was only a minute, the door opens up. “Hi ma’am! What brings you here?” And you can’t help but flinch.

They look the same as usual. Sunglasses, face mask, and gloves. The same, no sicker, no healthier.

Three scars like slashes come across their right eye.

They have a sheepish laugh. “Ah, sorry. I didn’t have time to put on my make-up.”

Make-up? To cover the scars?

You look them over. Sunglasses, face mask, gloves. At first you’d assumed they were some kind of delinquent. At first you’d assumed they didn’t want to be recognized.

Ah, sorry. I didn’t have time to put on my make-up.

Ah.

You think you understand now.

“... Would you like to have dinner with me?” Originally, you wanted to bring them some chicken soup and be done with it, but what little of their apartment you can see behind them seems... unfit to host people. You wonder how they manage to live in it. It’s just... so full. Toys and tools and papers as if they could barely focus on one task at once. Where did they even fit their bed?

“Ah.” They click their tongue. “That’s very nice, ma’am, but I don’t think-”

“I’ll look the other way while you eat.” You say. “If you really don’t want me to see your face.”

They stay silent. For a few seconds, you can’t even hear them breathe.

“...Okay.”

It starts with chicken soup on a sick day. Then it turns into a small chat every two week. Then a meal every week.

After two months, you’ve gotten into the habit of hosting Fujimaru over twice a week.

They’re comfortable enough to remove their sunglasses when you’re the only one here, now. One of their eye is blank. The other one rarely ever focuses on you when you speak to them.

Weirdly enough, their eye is about the least interesting thing about Fujimaru.

"And there! That’s how you make mocassins.” They’re beaming. You can’t see their mouth, but you’re sure they’re smiling. “Friend of mine taught me how to make these.”

“You seem to have a lot of odd friends.”

“Oh, definitely. But that’s just how life is, y’know?”

Somehow, you get the feeling that their life isn’t exactly what you’d call “average.”

It takes another month for them to take off the face mask.

... Huh.

“Hyperdontia.” That’s the only explanation they give you. You don’t press them. Not about their teeth, not about their eye, not about their soot-like skin under their gloves. From what you’ve seen, it’s a miracle that Fujimaru ended up somewhat functional despite whatever stacked that many scars on them.

“Say, ma’am,” they ask between two bites of food, “if you could have any wish fulfilled, what would you want?”

“A wish?” You raise an eyebrow. “I’m a little old to believe in genies, don’t you think?”

“Humor me.” They set their chin on their palm. “Any wish at all. What would you wish for?”

Any wish...

A few months back, you’d probably have answered ‘a friend,’ or something cheesy like that. Life can be... lonely, when one is as old as you, with no kid or nephew to speak of.

But now, well...

“... no, I can’t think of anything. I’m good.”

They blink. Evidently, they were not expecting that answer.

“... You’re a good person, you know that?”

Their teeth are long and sharp. Somehow, it doesn’t stop their smile from being incredibly sweet.

Fujimaru has a friend.

Well, multiple, obviously. Fujimaru looks kind of scary at first, but give them the occasion to chat you up, and they will not let you leave unfriended. But what you mean by that is that Fujimaru has a friend.

“I saw Caster the other day!” They always look giddy talking about Caster. You’re hesitant to call it puppy love, but evidently, this person means a lot to them.

Here’s what you know about Caster:

- They act like an old man

- They look young enough that Fujimaru has to be the one to buy alcohol when they hang out

- They’ve got Opinion on writing

“So, you write too, Fujimaru?” You ask, after the third time they retell you about some writing discourse or another.

“Mh? Oh, yeah. sometimes.” They rub the back of their neck. “Well, not really. There’s just this one thing I’ve been writing over and over again, so.”

(They do that a lot. Repetitive things, you mean. Sometimes, they repeat something they’ve just told you. Sometimes, they do the same action twice, thrice in a row, as if they’d forgotten they’d already done it.)

(The scars on their face looks deep. You think they might have some mild brain damage, but again, this isn’t your place to ask.)

“What is it about?” You ask, because you’re genuinely interested.

They look down, and seem suddenly very interested in scratching the underneath of their nails.

“... It’s a little silly.” They finally say. “I had this friend, you see.”

You nod. Do go on. For all the time you’ve spent with Fujimaru, you know surprisingly little about their past.

“He was great. Incredible! He knew so much. And he was kind! And resourceful. He could always get someone out of a bind even when himself had next to nothing to work with. I owe him a lot.”

“He sounds pretty great.”

They nod excitedly. “That’s who I’m writing about. My friend.” They pause, for a second, as if unsure if they should continue. When they speak again, their voice is a little lower, as if telling a secret.

“There is power in stories, you know? If it’s written down, then it’s real. In a way. Not real real. But real in a way that matters. Once a story is weaved, you can’t unmake it. Even if no one knows of it. Even if it gets burned down afterwards. There is power in stories.”

It’s a good thing that they don’t ask you if you’ve understood, because you certainly hadn’t. But they go on.

“That’s what I’m writing about. My friend. I’m writing a story about him. Some meaningless slice of life thing. A regular day at work. Getting coffee in the morning. Saying hi to his daughter. Feeling the wind on his face. That’s what I’m writing. Normal life stuff.”

They tilt their head back, look at your roof.

“... It’s the least I can give to him. It’s the only thing I can give to him. A story in which he lives.”

It’s been six months since you’ve met Fujimaru, when they ask you with the utmost seriousness: “Do you believe in lucky charms?”

“As much as the next person.” You shrug. It’s very much a maybe maybe not to you. You don’t care all that much.

“Okay. That’s good.” Fujimaru smiles. It’s weird, how used you’ve become to these teeth. How comforting the sight of scars can become. “See, there’s this one lucky charm I wanted to give you. Something of a spell if you ever need me and I’m not here.”

? Well, why not. It wouldn’t be the strangest of Fujimaru’s quirks.

“Okay, listen up. Don’t repeat what I’m going to say. You can only say it one day where you really mean it, okay?” They lean towards you and cup their hands around your ear. Their breath is almost anormaly warm. “It goes something like this. By the power of my Command Spell, I ask of you...”

#fate #fate grand order #fgo #ritsuka fujimaru #guda #my writing #WELL.#THAT WENT WILDLY OUT OF HANDS.#MY BAD.#Anonymous

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ursie · 4 years ago

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So the thing is generally speaking I try not to let the anons bother me-I used to have a different blog-and not a small one-and the anon hate got very intense and I was young-11-13?14? I couldn’t handle it so I deleted. It was over pjo stuff I tried to point out the ableism then-it barely plays better now. I miss that blog-it got so so bad I blocked all of it out of my head-I can’t tell you the url if you held a gun to my head-but I had friends, fics, posts, meta, works, ect all gone because anons got too bad and they just wouldn’t stop so I ran away.

Usually the anons don’t bother me-whatever line they had one of them crossed today-to call what they said and submitted deplorable would be an understatement. To be quite honest I don’t know where to go from here. I spent years trying to build a better relationship with fandom and blogging after that trauma-I avoided discourse to an embarrassing extent-I let “fandom moms” tell me what to say or do-I played into cliques-I did everything to avoid being put into that position again until a discourse started I just..couldn’t be apathetic to. And anons were sent-cliques were disbanded-but I could live with myself and I started again this time as someone with opinions-this time as someone who knew their worth-who learned the hard way that just a little kindness can save a life-and little by little I got there-I’m unrecognizable from my younger self-but recently I’ve noticed a change-I’m not happy with it. I don’t have the option to just blog about things that make me happy-I’m disabled I’m gay-ect, generally speaking most media is biased against me-and I don’t mind making my disabled posts, they’re important to me, but it is disconcerting seeing which ones get traction and which ones don’t-which ones start a conversation which ones don’t, I’m running uphill constantly-and I’m starting to trip. For every discourse I’ve been involved in within the last few years a couple anons have stayed-and they’ve harassed me to varying effects. I still have some from the Christian bat discourse-apparently half the S0langelos vague me half the time I still see it in the tag whenever I look-though it’s mostly moved to Twitter, then there’s terfs, transmeds, the a03 discourse, ect some of these are years old-some of them won’t end I’ve been in like a dozen pjo discourses honestly it’s getting old. And they’re still there. I like discourse I like the conversations and debates it opens-but I can’t keep on collecting anons especially when my newest one is..like that. I don’t want to turn off anon-I know how important anon is to people who need it I don’t want to punish anyone because a few people won’t stop-I know how much I need anon on my bad days. I don’t wanna delete-I miss my old blog-I’d hate to miss this one too. Truth be told I just don’t know where to go from here. Usually I’d switch fandoms but that doesn’t work anymore. Usually I’d just go offline but I’m disabled and frankly online is the only social interactions I’m getting rn-I’m getting worse and this is becoming my new normal-I want it to be a positive one. I’ve reported to tumblr I’ve blocked it just hasn’t stopped. Usually I could handle it but..this new anon just crossed a line. There’s a lot of negativity tied into this blog and a lot of people would like to see me delete but there’s so much positivity too. I’d hate for a few anons to ruin that but they are succeeding. I’d love to learn to love this blog again-but I’m not 14 anymore my health..just isn’t the same, I don’t have another big personal journey in me. I just don’t know what to do

#to delete #idk I’m just trying to figure it out #I babble #ask to tag

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ben-barnes-is-my-husband · 4 years ago

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It Takes Two Chapter 2

again, gorgeous pic set by @mynameisnoneya1991

Sleeping the day away cured Sansa’s headache and settled her stomach, but it did not cure her broken heart. When she blinks her eyes open that Sunday she knows two things.

1. She wants out of this apartment that reminds her of her life with Jon. He can have it. She wants to start fresh. And that brought her to…

2.She was going to have to move in with her parents for a few months, just to build up her savings to get a place of her own.

So that means she’s going to have to tell her parents about the break-up and then ask to stay with them for a while. She knows that won’t be a problem. Her mother had made it clear that her kids were always welcome home any time they needed.

She doesn't think her father quite feels the same way based on the look he gave his wife after her declaration, but Ned Stark is a softy and she is Daddy’s Little Girl.

It’s just...she doesn’t want to have to tell them about the break up. She doesn’t want to have to say the words “Jon fucked someone else” (though she would have to clean that up a bit), and she doesn’t want to deal with their feelings over it. She’s having a hard enough time processing this herself.

Also, in order to move out that means she is going to have to tell Jon. Part of her just wants to have Robb relay the messages to him. He’s an attorney; he could do it. But then the nagging voice in her head tells her that would be immature and she is a grown woman of twenty-seven and has to do it herself.

First though, her parents.

So, after dragging herself out of bed and texting Arya to let her know she was awake and felt better at least physically, she started the process of making coffee.

Jon’s mug was in its usual spot next to hers on the counter next to the coffee pot and she wants to hurl it against the wall. Instead, she picks it up and shoves it in a cabinet.

She goes to the fridge to get the creamer and ignores the funny magnets she and Jon had collected over the years. Her favorite is “It’s better to have loved and lost than to live with that psycho for the rest of your life”, but now she’s leaning towards the once popular Happy Bunny that says “is ass your real name?”

While the coffee percolates, she busies herself with moving all the magnets to the outer corners of the fridge so they made a kind of wide circle around the magnet.

She smiles, thinking of Jon’s face when he sees it and feels only marginally better.

She considers dumping the salt out of the salt shaker and replacing it with sugar, and replacing the sugar in the sugar bowl with salt, but then decides that’s immature and discards the idea.

Coffee made, first sips taken, Sansa ambles into the living room and sits down on the love seat and places her coffee cup on the distressed wooden coffee table. She sits back and picks up her phone.

She has over fifty messages from Jon and has the audacity to think that’s it? There would be no end to her pettiness now, she figures, so she might as well lean into it.

Catelyn, her mother, answers on the first ring. “Hello, baby girl.”

The corner of her mouth turns up into a sad attempt at a smile. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. Your father is snoring already in his chair and I’m trying to make a lot of noise in the kitchen to wake him up. You know, the usual.”

Sansa sputters out a laugh and then grimaces. “So, Jon and I broke up.”

Silence. Then, “What?!”

“Yeah, we had a big fight, I told him I thought we needed a break and then he slept with another woman, I kicked him and here we are.”

“Jon slept with another woman?!”

Sansa sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yep.”

“Oh my God, Sansa, I’m so sorry. I can’t - I can’t believe it! I mean…Jon.”

“Yeah, Jon,” Sansa says bitterly. “He’s such a good fucking guy.”

“Language.”

“Mom, I’m twenty-seven. I can say fuck.”

“Jesus Christ, Sansa, I hate that word.”

“Ok, I didn’t call to get into a discourse about your delicate sensibilities. I want out of this apartment, Mom. Can I move in for a while? And I mean, for a short while just until I can save some money for a place. I can’t stay here. I can’t see his stuff…”

“You could make <i>him</i> move out.”

“I could, but I still can’t do it.” God. She’d have to get in that shower where she and Jon had shared many a shower together.

“I can get your old room ready. It’s not a problem. You know you can always come home.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Ned! Wake up! Your daughter is moving back home. Jon cheated on her!”

Sansa flinches at the words. Hearing them out loud...that word. Cheated. Cheat. Cheats.

She has been cheated on. Jon cheated on her. Jon is a cheat who cheats.

“Mom, I gotta go. I’m about to cry and I want to do that off the phone.”

“Oh, baby,” Catelyn croons. “My poor baby girl. Let me know when you’re ready and your father and I will come over and help you pack. Then we can have some tea and you can tell me all about it. We’ll watch Anne of Green Gables.”

“The one with Megan Follows.”

“Of course.”

Sansa sniffs. “Okay. I’ll call you.”

She hangs up and manages to keep herself under control.

She takes another few sips of her coffee, her mind a jumble of things she has to do to move out, of Jon cheating on her, and how she really needs a shower when there is a knock at the door.

Her eyes narrow, wondering if it’s Jon come home with his tail between his legs. Though, would he knock? He would if he wasn’t sure he was welcome which he is very much not.

Sansa gets up and goes to the door and looks through the peephole.

Yup. Jon.

“Go away,” she says through the door.

“San, please, can we talk?” he begs.

“I don’t want to talk to you, cheater.”

Silence, then, “Please don’t call me that.” He sounds pained.

“It’s what you are.”

“Sansa, please, baby--”

“You don’t get to call me that anymore, dick.”

She hears him sigh. “I do have a key.”

“I do have a bat. And righteous anger.”

“We have to talk at some point, Sansa. So you pick when.”

“How about half past never? I’m moving out and moving in with my parents so--”

“You’re moving out? San, you can stay here. I can stay with Sam for a while--”

“No. I’m going. I don’t want to stay here. Look, I need to go out and get some boxes later. I’ll let you know when I’m leaving and you can come back and get some of your stuff. It’s probably going to take me a while to move.” She bites her lip. She is going to have to put some of her things in storage unless there is room in that space above the garage.

“I don’t want you to go,” he sounds...she isn’t quite sure how to describe it, but he doesn’t sound well. “If you leave that means you want us over. Sansa, please, please, let me in. Let me talk to you. I can’t lose you.”

His voice cracks at the end and she hears him crying. Her eyes sting.

How fucked up was it that the man that hurt her more than anything can make her cry for wanting to leave him after he cheated on her?

It makes her angry at herself and him so she slams her hand against the door and shouts, “You did this. You put your dick in someone else’s cunt and now you expect me to feel sorry for you?”

“No, San--”

“Fuck you! Just go away. And in case you’re not quite sure what this means, it means we are done. Over. Finished.”

She stomps away and heads to the bedroom to start gathering her clothes. The shower could wait; she wants to angry pack.

“I don’t accept.”

Sansa jumps a mile and whirls around to find Jon in the doorway. He looks like hell. He looks like he hasn’t showered in a couple days, or slept. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt and he looks pale and just…sad.

It’s hard not to take some joy in it. He looks how she feels...and looks.

“What the hell are you doing?” she shouts. “I told you I didn’t want to see you!”

He straightens his shoulders and stares her down. “And I’m not letting you go.”

#jonsa #jon x sansa #jonsa fanfiction #i have no idea what i'm doing

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shizzlinghotbrason · 4 years ago

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ok so nearly everyone in the fandom is doing this and as sad as it is that we need to remind these simple things to people, I feel the need to talk about this too.

I won't make this too painfully long because I know y'all most likely already know this and I just wanna put out a basic list of shit you should always follow in the fandom. But for those who don't, a lot of fan content creators, be it artists or writers or just general fans trying to enjoy their time, have been leaving/quitting the fandom.

Why are they leaving, you ask? Toxicity. Toxicity nearly everywhere. People can't hold respectful debates or discourses on interesting topics regarding characters/the books/ships anymore without someone toxicly stating that only their opinion is correct, and going off on anyone who has different opinions carried with a lot of aggressive, rude and shallow behaviour. Fanartists have gotten death threats and are scared of drawing art for the Riordanverse without getting anxious af.

Now the thing is, having done those (eXcepT for the death threats) doesn't automatically make u an entirely shitty person. Maybe you made a mistake and came off as rude without rlly meaning to. That's okay. Here's how to identify if u ever did so, and to change that behaviour. Again, it's okay to make mistakes, but we rn as a fandom srsly need to try to turn things around.

Some basic shit you should remember being a part of the fandom:

• NO NSFW STUFF WITH MINORS!!! That means fanarts, fanfics etc. But here's the shocking thing- when someone does this, you can actually hold them accountable WITHOUT SENDING DEATH THREATS AND CROSSING THE BOUNDARIES! Cuz doing that only makes YOU stoop just as low. Pl e a s e remember that always and be respectful whatever you do.

• That being said, ppl are allowed to write nsfw stuff IF said characters are aged up, aka 18+. Ofc, it's a must that they put a content warning beforehand because many people may not want to read that. BUT, if you don't want to read it and if they've aged up the characters so nothing's morally wrong or gross, then please do NOT hate the author in the comments, do NOT report their post/account. Seriously dude, they gave warnings, if you don't want to read it just scroll past it's not that hard. Unless it's with minors, you shouldn't be reporting innocent ppl's accounts like that.

• one thing that I've seen a lack of in the fandom are trigger warnings. I've seen several fics whose covers are literally of blood. And entire chapters were written with intricate graphic descriptions yet with no trigger warnings or a tw wayyy down in the caption. you never know what may be triggering to someone if a lot of ppl see ur content but the least u can do is put trigger warnings on the most common stuff. I get that it may look aesthetically matching if it's a murder mystery sorta fic but isn't the well being of people more important?

• look I'm not saying you're not allowed to have opinions, but the problem is when you start treating your opinions like facts. I can't count the times I've seen someone state their opinion like it's facts and then trash on other's for having a different opinion. PEOPLE ARE ALLOWED TO HAVE DIFFERENT OPINIONS. Stop attacking people for liking Jason more than Percy or vice versa, there's no rule that you absolutely have to like one or the other, ppl can like who they want. When you're stating UR opinion, it would be nice if you used stuff like "I personally think that..." or "... that's just my opinion" because again, Ur opinion is just that, not a fact.

• if you can't have discourses or discussions about certain topics respectfully and nicely then don't have them. if someone's done nothing wrong but state their opinions and you don't like it, don't go attacking them. if you don't have anything good to say, shut up and just scroll past. it's not that hard. we don't need any more negativity in the fandom. If you feel like you're about to snap, mute or block the account you don't like and move on with life. But for the love of GOD don't go out of your way to be agresive or hateful to ppl. They have feelings too and run fan accounts for fun, not to get upset and hurt.

• when a fan account owner has made a post saying what they think of a certain topic, and you comment saying you think they're wrong and they reply that you didn't get the point of their post, then chances are you most probably actually did not understand what they were saying. when this happens, pls don't go on forcing ur opinion onto them as if you got what they meant when you didn't. Maybe next time when someone says you didn't get what they were saying, ask them nicely to explain it to you instead of going off like that?

• firstly, shame on you if you've ever run a hate account. just why? how much more negativity do you want to add? if you come across a hate account please please report it and block it and tell your friends to do the same. if you're targeted in a hate post, I'm so sorry, please know that they're shallow ppl just trying to make you feel shitty, you're dont have a trashy fan account; what they say is false and done purely to spite. report and block them.

• I know Rick has written a lot of racist bullcrap and hasn't batted an eye when we complained about them, but that still doesn't give you the right to send him death threats. Again, no death threats to anyone, yikes.

• don't use fanart that's racist. don't repost them either. Piper has feathers in it? don't repost it. also if you can't exactly and properly credit artists, don't repost their art saying "credits to the artist". I've done that before too but now I understand that's not right.

• also, while we're at it, can we all please universally agree on non-racist fanon stuff and get rid of racist canon stuff? like Piper and feathers, and piper & hazel with colourful and golden eyes, Piper's stupid not like other girls behaviour, and all the other bullshit Rick has put into the books. We as a fandom don't accept it and pretend they do not exist, no racism in this place 🥰‼️

• ppl are allowed to have their own headcannons, it doesn't matter what's cannon. Don't go "but in the books it's.." because in the books there's a lot of shit, and besides, if someone wants to headcannon Percy as brown? black? totally alright! they're allowed to do so! don't go bUt pErCy iSnT pOc iN tHe bOoKs. same goes with sexualities and etc headcannons. as long as they're not erasing the already representation of a minority, it's okay to have headcannons of your own. Like Hazel is canonically black and we should respect that and bring out the best of that, yk what I mean?

That's all I have to say for now. I'm usually a very light-hearted cursed meme account on here but things are getting out of hand. I was wanting to make my 8 yr old brother get into the Riordanverse fandom but seeing the situation of the fandom rn scares me. We need to think about the kids in the future who'll be in this fandom, whose lives will be changed and shaped by these books. Surely, the older people in the fandom before us would be utterly disappointed at what it's become and it's our job to constantly look out for the fandom.

If you're leaving/have left the fandom, I'm so sorry that it got to that point, but ur wellbeing comes first, do what you feel is necessary to feel better, all of us send lots of positive vibes towards your way! and to the peeps who've still decided to stay in the fandom and use their account to talk about this issue, I cannot express how thankful I am of you for doing such an important thing right now. And to everyone - as Harry Styles once said - treat people with kindness.

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hushonline · 5 years ago

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【Dettlaff/Regis】 the Clouds in Beauclair

Relationships : Dettlaff/regis ; Geralt/Yennefer; Ciri/Avalla’ch

Warning:

#Characters DEATH!!!【Dettlaff and Dutches sisters】

#ALL ABOUT REGIS’s Ring.IN THE Beginning of B&W story,Dettlaf tried to find it thorugh a Bruxae.When regis killed him,Regis was wearing this humanist ring.Both of them put the ring on their ring finger.

#I mainly use a translate app to work on this article[Cuz English is my second language].So it maybe full of mistakes,for my horrible grammer.

Summary: When Ciri's second child was born, she returned to the Corvo Bianco vineyard ,and met Regis by chance.

Wednesday afternoon, 2:00 p.m. , clear sky without rain. Ciri dismounted and took her horse's bridle,asked Baba to tie the horse next to Roach. The servants said that Yennefer had gone out after lunch, in order to collect some special herbs. She glanced at the white building .She saw two Bony Crows sunning themselves on the hot eaves. In front of the door , a gray man waved at her from a short distance, and the green leaves on the sacs swayed in the wind.

"Uncle Regis! "

She pounced cheerfully, gave him a bear hug and chose to ignore his comment that she was "much softer as a mother" . The exile in Nilfgaard had left the vampire with a dusty and weariness smell.Shouting that no one should look down on her fertile flesh, Ciri took him by the arm and dragged him into the room.

Geralt hugged her, too. Then she eagerly announced the name of the newborn child to the others.

"We decided to call him DEADRAT. The name is derived from the ancient elvish word for 'descendant of the Elder blood’ , the same as the fifth ancient king of Alen Elle world, “ she said. “Geralt, if you want to argue with Avalla’ch,just do it,I won't stop you. “

"Witchers can't breed, so I do not have any discourse power in naming aftrer newborns, " said Geralt, "Fortunately, you're an exception. Besides, I won't argue with Avalla’ch,.I'll give him an Aard attack , let him to get the hell out of my vineyard smoothly. "

Toussaint's wind is as warm as ever, It reminded her of her second son's blue elvish eyes.Ciri smiled and laid her hand on Geralt's shoulder.

"I am sure he will make you like Alvalla’ch half-a-Oren more than before. "

"Well, I'm quite sure he'll have a dark hair as a Hedgehog.Look at Emhyr, " he said. He glanced at Regis and shut his mouth at once.

Regis was stranger than whenever he was.The Higher Vampire's face had turned pale from the moment she instituted her child, up to now it finally falling into a trance state. A unseen shadow enveloped him, laid him in anxious , as if he had met a stubborn patient.

"UNCLE? " Asked Ciri doubtfully.

"For a faerie son,that ‘s the most appropriate gift, but not for ...... the vampires . "

Geralt pushed the glass up to him, considered it for a moment. "It's about the pronunciation, isn't it? " His golden pupils flashed, rarely . Regis smiled placidly, and Ciri tasted something bitter though it.

"You're a guest today,Regis, just get drunk and take it for granted, " she heard Geralt say, "It. ". Her keen intuition linked this word to Regis's reason of leaving Toussaint, the evil beast which Geralt described in a few words, with the strange talk which had been going on in the alleys, trying hard to piece them together for a fragmentary image. She is a willing learner ,whom kept eager on learning form Geralt ,including the Higher Vampire principle, four murders and the massacre. But the white-haired witcher seemed unwilling to mention a word about it, he poured the wine down his throat as if he would swallow his lungs. She urges him on, and he skipped straight to his honours ceremony: He would rather told her the death of dutchess sisters than any exploit he did. "Regis sacrificed a lot. " he retorted.He looked like a Griffin in a iron cage, claws flattened, eyes were as old as his whiskers. She pessimistic belief that Regis would die in the wasteland ,the misperception hadn’t been corrected until she met the wandering vampire in Nilfgaard last year.

"I'd love to, " Regis said, pointing to his backpack. "I suppose you won’t mind if I took some reborn potion? "

He took the leather water bag and mixed the liquid into his glass. The acrid smell of the alchemical filled the room at once. The Voice of Gerlott falls to the ground like a broken rake. “R--E--G--I--S--,You, a vampire, add black blood to your potion? SUPERIOR Black Blood? "

Regis remained a Poker Face. "Like human’s peppery wine, a slight tingling can help me stay awake ,and stay away from nightmares at the same time. Forgive me, I do not want to dream any more, my dear old friend. " He tapped his finger on the table, on the ring finger of his right hand, a ring of silver sparkles.

Gerlart responded with the same indifference, as he fingered himself -- Ciri knew he was counting the ingredients, using a pair of hands instead of one. At last, he raised his palm to Regis. "Give it to me. Yen and I will make you a new one,harmless,andfor vampire only. All Right, I think Yen's enough. "

The herbalist pinched the strap of his knapsack and rejected his offer like rejecting a brainless gargoyle. "Come on, you look much worse than last year."

Then he asked Regis why , Regis gave him little more than a runaround. They mentioned a male’s name, most of the time was referred as "he",with the duchess's dead sister .It seemed to be a royal scandal.Ciri listened attentively, arms folded, watching their quarrel as a spectator. At last, when their words faded away, she was able to say a complete sentence .

"Who is Dettlaff? " She asked. For a time, no one answered her, only the clouds flew endlessly in the sky . Her muscles were as stiff as marble, and brain cells whirled beneath them, trying hard to speak as usual instead of open a portal and slip away.

It was almost half a century before two centenarians -- one man, one vampire -- noticed her question. "My savior, " Regis replied.

The atmosphere in the room was not relieved at all, but several times heavier then before. So she raised her glass and began a toast ,trying hard to end the subject.

"To his fortunate,and health. " she said.

The mask smile reappeared on Regis's face. "It seems that you still haven't told Cilia, my friend, " he spoke softly.

Geralt struggled to reply. "I did. And only the part about the beast, because she was hurry to date a elf. "

Ciri looked away--he was telling the truth. Across the wooden table, Regis sipped his wine. "It's my duty to end it. " he whispered.

"Yes. And what's done is done. Let's have a drink, " Geraldt said. "I know you won't slaughter the city in a rage. "

They talked about the Corvo Bianco vineyard. When a bottle of Est Est ran out, Geralt opened the Mandrake wine, and Regis's words began to increase guadually. Ciri tried to find out the key to the mystery, but she filled, as if an invisible membrane separates her from the truth.a deep dark river rippling sliently, she saw the water covered with the trackless haze of Regis's side, his dark red tired eyes.A torrent of flood tore him asunder, leaving him dangling in air,helplessly,desperately.

Unwilling to see this vision of the future,Ciri turned the conversation to the wild hunt, talking loudly about the gates of the downworld, Mist Island, and, of course, Uma (her husband, actually) , ignored that Geralt was rolling his eyes.Before I gave him my love, he had burned all the pictures of Lara, she quickly gestured. When our first child was born, Avalla’ch did nothing but take care of us and paint our portraits.Less than half a month, the charcoal dust had stained our study.That was quite Nilfgaardian, after all they admired black, and perhaps I should have suggested him to paint a golden Sun up on it. She blinked her green eyes ,smiling like a sly silver Fox.

"Damn it,He IS definitely drawing Lara. " Geralt retorted.

Ciri raised her scarred eyebrow. "Lara would never be a witcher. "

Regis seemed better,he was nearly in a good mood, and the haze left him briefly.Alcohol made his face ruddy. "I... knew an amateur painter ,who... used to draw me when I was sick, " he said intermittently. "Well, at that time I couldn't even walk. He was my feet. "

Ciri took his words as a metaphor.

"You still have it, " said Geralt. He pointed to the moth brooch on Regis's chest. Regis adjusted the brooch gently to the right angle, beneath the sunlight, it seemed so alive .

"It was supposed to be mine. "

He said. As he got up to get the wine, he knocked over the cups, and the bright red liquid spilled all over the place like a spring.Ciri felt nothing but irritable. She had totally no idea what had been going wrong.Perhaps it was the Mandrake wine, or the clumsiness of her tongue----as clumsy as Geralt, turn the joyful scene into a mangled black fairy tale.She said to herself, realized the truths of the fairy tales were far more brutal than this awkward meeting.Ciri regretted that she did not have the same talent as Dandelion.

Geralt could not take it any more ,so did Ciri.The owner of the vineyard immediately decided to show Regis his underground laboratory. They walked down the hall, past the Marble steps, walk down to the wine cellar.All the daylights pulverized at their feet.

"I miss Beauclair's cloud more and more each day after I left.Because it always turns into a bat’s shape , " he said, spent a moment on inspecting the display on the shelf. As he took down a bottle of white wine ,he was bending his lips imperceptibly. "I mean, once up on a time Dettlaff got drunk, he thought the cloud was a young Katakan.He turned into smoke ,flew up, and tried to save it. "

Geralt smiled, too.

"Can't imagine his...childishness. After all, I know nothing of your vampire logic. "

Regis was intrigued. "Tell me al about it, " he made a lightly gestured to Geraldt, "I've always wanted to hear about differences between races. "

To her surprise, Gerlott froze immediantely, his lips parted like a fish in boiling water. "The body of Count De La Croix."

"Dett... Syanna murdered him. " Regis changed his tune. “SO,What is the news?”

Geralt's smile faded away , replaced by a puzzled look. "His body was laid in this cellar. In that day I killed a Bruxae.She tried to take the hand away, well, Dettlaff’s hand. Later he told me he is the one who asked her to come . "

"To tell you the truth, I don't know what Dettlaff would do with his drying hand... recycling? Or some Toussaint nobles would pay for it as a collection, a world wonder? " He said, pointing to the open iron door .

Regis's face suddenly became painful.

"For God sake, no. "

"What is it? " Ciri asked.

"He's torturing me, " Regis said. He started to drink again. Ciri looked at him through the light of the torch: As she breathed, her nostrils filled with the old stench from the depths of cellar.

She saw a thin figure on Regis’s body, black hair, wounds dried;his blood floated like a mass of red clouds , wrapped around his naked body.The clouds were more real than he was. It attached to Regis,the elder blood had pointed out his metaphorical vision of the past: this shallow man,his endless suffering.

The iron door at the top of the cellar creaked, Yennefer came in a hurry .

"The Bruxaes are coming for us, Geralt, and my barrier could only keep them out of the vineyard, " she said, crossing her waist. Regis tried to say something, but Geralt stopped him. "Yen and I will take care of everything. Let Ciri send you to Nilfgaard ."

He took the silver sword from the rack ，then he left.

Ciri slammed the door, took Regis by his hand, ran into the bottom of cellar directly. She found an empty corner. When she was managed to gather her natural power ,Regis looked at her with a sense of guilty.

"Oh, Celia, I'm sorry for my gaffe." he said, "As compensation, I'd like to tell you one more secret.You don't have to keep it for me. From this moment , it belongs to you. "

So Ciri stopped. Regis wiped his face , traced the shape of a wardrobe with his index finger. Then his voice became more and more audible.

"I fantasized about a kind of life, which my lover loves me as much as he loves Mandrake wine. When the sun-shadow flew away and the grapes withered, we will stay in a mountain cabin and lit a fire. The stove is filled with the ashes of the old paintings , and we dip the Squirrel's tail in the ashes to paint a new one. We will live happy ever after,that’s how fairy tales end."

His words filled with white-hot spotlight. Ciri opened the portal, a shade of deep-blue covers two of them.

"You... will meet her,in some day." she said, absent-mindedly thinking of her elf ,and the laboratory she had smashed all around for once.Now it had been renovated, a portrait of the female-witcher handing side by side with the bearded Elf, which seemed comical but sweet.

Regis bit his lip as if chewing on the pieces of nightmare. “One day I woke with a heavy rain,it was then he came. Even through The Raindrops , his eyes still overcomed me. He said, 'Rise up, and come away.For the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.’ But Beaclair is sunny all year round, with no rain or firestove,"he said, smiling like a cruel dream. “Soon I realized fantacy always last in vain,and I will woke up ,sooner or later ."

“I should have told it earlier.”

Ciri held him carefully, her head was in a jungle. Regis' ambiguous words puzzled her a lot, and she thought that the secret was too common to named it as a ‘secret’ ,It is far more like Yennefer’s perfume, which she could mix a dozen of it whenever she needed it, place the bitter-sweet rhyme on her raven-colored hair, or Geralt’s arms .

I'm leaving, and before I leave,I have to ask you a question, Regis said. Are you afraid of death? To leave before your lover.

Ciri scratched her hair, and her face showed innocent bewilderment.

"Well, I've been running away from it all the time. After all,elves own an immotal life. " She responded quickly. "But I'll forgive him . What about you? "

Regis shook his head.

"May he treasures you as his blood, Celia. " he crooned. His ring was dull, and there was no trace of tear on his face.

When she returned to the drawing room, Geralt was polishing his silver blade. Ciri open her hand to him. A small music box was rolling slowly on her palm.Yennefer signed in a low voice.

"Regis left it to you? " She asked. Ciri nodded for a approval. Geralt stepped forward, too, stared curiously at this tiny toy.

"I think I've heard this song before, but I can't remember where . " Said Geralt .

"Is he married? "Ciri asked suddenly,"I mean, uncle Regis. "

Geralt insisted that it was impossible for regis to deny if he trurly did. Ciri shrugged , held the toy up for an examination. The Melody of the music box was lying in the Corvo Bainco Vineyard’s floating dust without moldy smell.It’s old but clean, reflected a strange luster in the sunlight .

Where did you get this ring,She asked Regis in silcence, why did you put it on the ring finger. Have you lost your lover?You look so melancholy, as if a traveller mourned day and night,to ran after the mists which is fainter than a dream, a moth with broken wings, a phantom of death, a wandering cloud drifting all alone under Beauclair’s cloudless sky.

fin.

#Mentrake wine: The kind of alcohol drink which geralt and regis drunk upon the grave. I don't know if it is correct.

#the italics in the passage are from《the songs of solomon》

#the witcher3 #god damm it #what a piece of shit #yes，i wrote it #me and my broken fanfic #dettlaff #emiel regis #dettlaff van der eretein #dettlaff/regis #ciri #avallac'h #geralt #yennefer

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ajax-b1ue · 6 years ago

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Doubt Thou the Stars Are Fire

Summary: ‘Why on Earth was Logan in his room at this time of night? Scratch that— why was Logan reciting Act 2, Scene 2 of Romeo and Juliet, in Roman’s room, at midnight??’

Warnings: Mild anxiety, self-deprecation... excessive fluff? Pairings: Logince (can be read as either platonic or romantic) WC: 2946 AO3

@5-crofters-jams It was only supposed to be a short little fluffy thing, but then it turned into... well, this. :’)

Roman was dimly aware of being in that half-asleep state where he was technically conscious, but not yet truly awake.

There was a feeling, however, of something being out of place— something not quite right, nagging at his mind to rouse and pay attention.

“Soft!”

Roman’s eyes snapped open, thoughts sharpening into focus.

“What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Roman is the sun.”

Pushing himself up on his hands, Roman searched until his eyes fell on a figure standing in front of the open bay doors that led into Thomas’s imagination, silhouetted against the moonlight, a gentle breeze fluttering the curtains on either side of them.

And just as quickly, Roman’s thoughts stalled out.

“…Logan?”

Roman was definitely still asleep. There was no way that Thomas’s logical side was standing in his bedroom, reciting Shakespeare. He had to be dreaming.

Logan went on as though he hadn’t heard. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief.” He gestured vaguely in Roman’s direction. “That thou her maid art far more fair than she.”

…Or maybe he was hallucinating.

Roman stared, not quite sure what to make of it. Why on Earth was Logan in his room at this time of night? Scratch that— why was Logan reciting Act 2, Scene 2 of Romeo and Juliet, in Roman’s room, at midnight??

Roman was very confused, and somewhat concerned.

“Logan… what’s going on?” He slowly stood up from the edge of his bed, never letting his eyes leave Logan. “Are you feeling all right?”

Perhaps Logan was sick? Roman edged forward, reaching for the other side’s forehead to check if he was feverish. Instead of answering, Logan skirted a few steps away, evading Roman’s outstretched hand.

“Be not her maid since she is envious,” was the only response he offered. “Her vestal livery is but sick and green, and none but fools do wear it. Cast it off!”

The creative side was now more than somewhat concerned, quickly turning into alarmed. Something was clearly not right. And now Roman was struck by a new, worrying thought:

What if being in Roman’s room was affecting Logan? Making him act like… this?

“Logan, I don’t think you’re feeling quite like yourself, right now,” Roman said, keeping his voice soft and high and hopefully non-threatening. “Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll set you to rights?”

Again Roman tried to reach out, this time to take Logan’s hand, with the intention of gently steering the other side back out of his room and into a more neutral space. But Logan continued to back away from him, shifting from Romeo and Juliet into Sonnet 106: “When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, and beauty making beautiful old rhyme in prose of ladies dead, and lovely knights…”

As the words fell from Logan’s lips, he backed all the way through the still-open doors, into the imagination proper; Roman froze.

The imagination was the absolute last place Logan should be wandering around, with the state he was in.

“Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,” Logan murmured. “Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow…”

Part of Roman wanted to leap forward, to grab the other side and yank him back— but he also worried that if he moved too suddenly, Logan might bolt. He knew he should probably go get the help of the others, but Roman didn’t trust that Logan wouldn’t wander off on his own.

Even as he stood there, debating over what to do, Logan drifted a few steps further, saying, “I see their antique pen would have expressed even such a beauty as you master now.”

Roman was left with little choice but to follow.

And so it went: Logan reciting, Roman following, every so often trying to entreat Logan to stop or to come to him— trying to slip closer when he thought Logan might not notice.

And yet Logan wouldn’t allow Roman to reach him. He continued to retreat, dancing away from Roman’s grasp, and never once losing his iambic meter.

“So all their praises are but prophecies of this our time, all you prefiguring,” Logan declared, circling around a tree, as Roman tried very hard not to let out a sound of aggravation. “And, for they looked but with divining eyes, they had not skill enough your worth to sing.”

“Yes, thank you, Logan, I do appreciate the compliment.” Why hadn’t Roman had the sense to change his outfit from pajamas into his usual regal attire when he had the chance? He couldn’t exactly focus enough at the moment, not that Logan was really giving him an opportunity. “I would appreciate it more if you would stay in one spot.”

“For we, which now behold these present days, had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise,” Logan replied.

“Mmmmmmhhh…”

By now, they were well and truly entrenched in the imagination, deep within the woods that were the realm’s usual default state. Roman was growing increasingly frustrated, as well as determined to stop Logan— who, oddly enough, seemed to grow increasingly anxious, even desperate to evade Roman’s attempts to interrupt his recitation.

“Logan, come on.” Roman was jogging at this point, and exceedingly aware of how barefooted he was. “Can you please stop and think about what you’re doing right now? Emphasis on the stop part of that??” He fumbled for a few steps, hissing at whatever it was that had just stabbed into his foot. “Logan!”

Surprisingly, Logan did hesitate, pausing long enough to turn and glimpse back at Roman. “He speaks yet he says nothing: what of that?” he wondered aloud. “His eye discourses; I will answer it.”

Roman grimaced back at him.

“I am too bold, ‘tis not to me he speaks,” Logan concluded hastily, spinning back around. “Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat his eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return!”

At this point, Logan was running outright, with Roman chasing after.

Perhaps most bizarrely, Logan never stopped reciting lines, although now they were punctuated with sharp breaths as he fled through Thomas’s imagination, Roman hot on his heels.

“But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, feed’st they lightest flame with self-substantial fuel,” he gasped, faking left then dashing right; Roman cursed behind him. “Making a famine where abundance lies, thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel!”

Roman lunged; Logan dodged.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temper— oof!!”

Roman launched himself at Logan, tackling him to the ground.

The two of them tumbled into the dirt in a heap; Roman recovered first, and before the other side could slip away, Roman sat on him— his knees straddling Logan’s legs, and his hands pinning Logan’s shoulders.

That, it seemed, was enough to get through to him.

“Roman!”

Now, finally, Logan actually addressed Roman— and was very flustered as he did. “You— what— get off of me!” His voice had gone high, and he pushed ineffectually at Roman’s arms.

“What in the world is going on??” Roman demanded instead, ignoring Logan’s protests. He tried to feel the logical side’s forehead; Logan irritably batted Roman’s hand away.

“I’m not sick!”

“Your face is bright red,” Roman pointed out in a deadpan, earning a grimace in return. “And do you mean to tell me that you’re wandering around Thomas’s imagination, reciting Shakespeare, and you’re not delirious?”

“Let me up,” Logan insisted, evading the question as he tried again to shove Roman off of him. By now even his ears were turning scarlet.

Roman didn’t budge. “How do I know you aren’t going to run off, spouting the First Folio?”

“I am fully possessed of all of my faculties, thank you,” Logan retorted, growing more irritated by the second, especially as his efforts to dislodge Roman continued to prove fruitless.

Roman at least relented enough to lean back, taking his hands from Logan’s shoulders. “Well, if that’s the case—” He swept one arm out to the side, incredulous. “Care to explain what this was all about??”

Logan’s face screwed up, until he half blurted, half shouted, “It was for your birthday!”

“…What?”

Whatever Roman had been expecting, that wasn’t it. In fact, it took him a full four seconds to process what the other side had even said, before belatedly realizing that he was still sitting on top of Logan. Roman clambered to one side, and Logan quickly righted himself.

The awkward silence continued, until at last Logan spoke, though reluctantly, embarrassed, and avoiding eye contact at all costs. “I wanted to do something special… for your birthday.”

“But it’s not even my birthday until tomorrow!” Roman protested, before doing some mental math. “Oh! I mean— I guess, by this time of night—” He caught himself, then coughed. “Sorry, not really important, I suppose. …Continue?” He gestured to Logan, trying not to wince.

Logan folded his arms in front of him, still staring at the ground. “You always know exactly what to do for everyone else on their birthday.”

“Well, I do kind of have a leg up on that one. I am the idea guy…” Roman realized a half second too late, that may not have been helpful, or tactful for that matter; Logan hunched further in on himself. Roman hastily protested, “Hey, no, you get good presents for each of us!”

Logan scoffed. “Certainly, I knows things that appeal to each of you.”

“What’s wrong with getting people things they like?”

“Nothing. It’s just— in the end, that’s what they are. Things.” Logan fiddled with some blades of grass in front of him. “When you give one of us a present, it’s heartfelt. It has meaning. I wanted…” He scrunched his eyes shut; his forehead creased. “I wanted to be able to do something like that for you.”

Roman’s expression flickered with pained understanding. “Logan…”

“I brainstormed multiple potential presents— different ideas—“ Logan caught himself short on that one, and grimaced again. “But everything I could come up with just seemed…” He glanced away. “Inadequate.”

Roman said nothing, watching Logan with wide eyes.

“…So…” Logan started again, uncharacteristically quiet, and pointedly avoiding Roman’s gaze. “I instead asked myself, what I thought you would do, given the same circumstances.” He tilted his head in Roman’s direction. “You would make a grand gesture— something important to the other person. Something personal. This seemed…” He ducked his face, still refusing to make eye contact, but Roman could see him flushing again. “It seemed like a better idea at the time,” he finished in a small voice.

Again, Roman was left trying to process— and more importantly, trying to figure out what to say that wasn’t going to make Logan feel worse than he already did.

They sat in silence for a long minute, while Roman tried to marshal his words. Then, the creative side took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

“Logan,” he started.

Roman kept a careful eye on Logan as he spoke, and also made sure to keep his voice gentle.

“I do adore the theater,” he went on after a moment. “And the fact that you would go to such lengths to try to give me a special birthday means more than words can say. But…” He gestured to their surroundings. “Shakespeare in the Park? That’s not you.”

“That was rather the point,” Logan mumbled.

Such a sentiment made Roman instinctively want to clasp a hand to his chest, pained that Logan would regard himself in such a way. Instead, Roman reached slowly for Logan’s arm; this time, the logical side didn’t pull away, but he was tense and stiff under Roman’s touch.

“Logan,” Roman chided softly, “being heartfelt means, coming from the heart—”

“I do not need an etymology lesson,” Logan said, a defensive note creeping into his tone.

“From your heart,” Roman finished, cutting off Logan’s complaint. “It’s special because it’s uniquely yours.”

Logan’s expression and tone went flat. “Mine? What can Logic offer that would make a birthday special?” He finally met Roman’s eyes— only to fix him with a droll look. “Historical events that correspond to that particular day on the Gregorian Calendar? The exact position of the stars over Gainesville the night Thomas posted your first Vine? A critique of the concept of ‘birthdays’ for mental projections with no corporeal existence—”

“What— wait, do you know that?” Roman interrupted. “The stars one, I mean. Not the one with the existential dread.”

Logan gave him another look and gestured impatiently with one hand. “Yes. Obviously.”

“Yes,” Roman answered immediately.

“Yes— what?”

“Yes, that.” At Logan’s baffled look, Roman waved to the sky overhead. “The position of the stars!”

Logan looked even more confused. “I… could make you a star chart, I suppose—”

“No, here!” Roman insisted, gesturing above them again. “Look, just—” He leaned forward, taking hold of Logan’s hand and grasping it tightly, ignoring Logan’s stammered protests. “Focus on what it’s supposed to look like. Every detail, every bit of information.”

Logan’s expression was dubious, but, after a few seconds (and another reassuring squeeze from Roman), he exhaled, and closed his eyes.

Roman watched his fellow side for several moments— the way his lips pulled to one side, the way his forehead wrinkled, the focus etched into every line of his face. But then Roman could feel the knowledge welling within Logan, like an undercurrent of sound, thrumming just below audible range, and the creative side closed his eyes as well.

He reached inside himself, for that spark that lived within him— similar to what he was feeling from Logan, and yet, wholly different. Then, his mind reached for Logan’s.

The instant they met, Roman could feel it— all of the information Logan was bringing to the surface— and let it translate through him. He felt the imagination shift around them, but didn’t open his eyes at first.

It wasn’t until he heard Logan’s gasp that Roman finally looked.

Then his mouth hung open, all powers of speech gone.

The night sky glimmered brilliantly overhead, a million facets of light sparkling like so many fairy lights. The moon was gone, and the sky was clear, without a trace of clouds or haze. Roman had allowed their imaginary stars to shine far brighter and more vibrantly than they would have actually been, with the Milky Way clearly visible as it stretched from horizon to horizon. To call the image above them ‘breathtaking’, while certainly accurate, seemed grossly understated, and both Roman and Logan stared heavenward for a long minute in appreciative silence.

“…Tell me what we’re looking at,” Roman said at last in an entreating whisper.

It took only a little coaxing on Roman’s part to convince Logan to break his reverie, and describe the various stars and constellations and planets above them. Before long, they were both laying on the ground on their backs, pointed in opposite directions but with their heads resting next to one another, as Logan pointed out the constellation Gemini.

“According Greek myth,” Logan elaborated, “the twins it depicts are specifically Castor and Pollux—”

“Brave warriors both!” Roman interjected, gesturing excitedly. “They sailed on the Argo— joined the hunt for the Calydonian Boar— and they rescued their sister, Helen of Troy, from none other than Theseus himself! And of course,” he sighed, letting one hand fall back to his chest, the other reaching wistfully to constellation in question. “What they are most famous for. Pollux, the immortal demigod son of Zeus, sacrificing half of his immortality to his dying half-brother, Castor.” Roman let out a longer sigh, resting both of his hands over his heart.

“…Yes,” Logan murmured, glancing sideways with a look of faint bemusement. Then he returned his gaze to the view above. “Thus, securing them their position among the stars,” he finished quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Roman look over at him, and though he couldn’t be sure, Logan didn’t think he imagined the smile that graced the other side’s face.

They went on in this fashion for the better part of the night: Logan describing the various celestial bodies and myths associated with them, and Roman filling in the rest of their stories in his own dramatic fashion.

In one quiet moment, when Logan was searching for the next constellation, Roman took the opportunity to take in the sky altogether, eyes roaming across every star and galaxy. Then his gaze drifted downwards and to the side, where they fell on Logan, who wore a look of intense concentration. Flecks of light reflected off the lenses of his glasses.

“Logan?”

“Mm?”

“This is perfect. Thank you.”

Roman twisted his head, and pressed a kiss to Logan’s temple. Logan, who hadn’t drawn his gaze away from the sky before, immediately snapped his head around, once again flustered and red-faced, not knowing what to say.

“I— ah— I-I… I don’t…”

“Just say, ‘happy birthday’,” Roman prompted with a small smile.

It took several seconds, but at last, Logan managed a quiet and earnest, “Happy birthday, Roman.”

“It is,” Roman agreed, nestling his head into the crook between Logan’s neck and shoulder. He was pleased to note that Logan didn’t shy away; after a moment, he even rested his own head against Roman’s jaw.

They stayed that way for the next few hours, even after they ran out of constellations and stars to name.

They were simply content to lay there, together, and take in the sky.

#ts fanfiction #sanders sides #logince #roman sanders #logan sanders #fluff #stayed up way later than i should have writing this #but the last few days have hit pretty hard #and everything just came easily tonight #tbh i needed to be in this fluffy headspace for a while #so i'm happy with it #tired #but happy

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willkavas-blog · 6 years ago

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HOW TO BE REFRESH WITH YOGA IN RISHIKESH WITH KIDS

When I first decided to spend my maternity leave in Rishikesh at Anand Prakash Yoga Ashram with my first-born daughter, Uma, I must say I was concerned. What if she got sick? How would we fill the days together? I wondered if I’d meet other mothers who were trying to live and do yoga in India with young children. We say that motherhood is very Zen in that the days are long and the years are short. I would say that living in Rishikesh by the swift yet stilling Ganges River enhanced my experience of living in the moment and being present for the multiple micro-experiences of the day with an infant or toddler. In fact, I gained a lot of parenting and yoga insights by travelling to Rishikesh with kids.

Safety and Food

As a breast-feeding mom, actually it turned out to be one of the safest times to be in India with my child. As she was drinking only my own milk, she did not need any water and so was not exposed to any bacteria or amoebas. And in winter in India, I was able to get nutritious fresh picked fruit for her first foods. All I had to do was make sure to peel the fruit (like bananas) or wash and peel (apples). I had a small plug-in pot style kettle to make her fresh apple sauce. I also mushed bananas and chikku (a soft peel-able fruit that tastes like brown sugar and is rich in iron) and mixed them with powdered oatmeal I had brought that was specifically for infants.

Time to Just Be Together

In India, I found there was time for my baby and I to just be together and yet not be alone or cooped up at home as is often the experience of first time mothers, in particular in winter, in Western countries. I could be out in the open air and just sitting looking at the mountains or walking by the Ganges with Uma in my Ergo backpack, surrounded by others who were also just walking, enjoying nature and or sitting enjoying time not doing anything. As a new mom in Canada, I noticed that everyone else in the society was busily doing something. It felt like I was on my own in this infant-mother experience of just being, walking with a baby in the sling, sitting in a café breastfeeding for long periods or watching the baby sleep. In Rishikesh, just being by the river or in the laneways surrounding the Ashrams is a normal way of life. Being on retreat means learning to be happy without being constantly occupied. The same learning curve of the new mom. I was in good company.

Family Friendly Spaces

India is kid-friendly, to say the least! In fact, it revolves around children and my daughter was often handed from woman to woman while I ate or showered. There were always helping hands around. And I found I could take my daughter to satsang and or lead kirtan with my daughter in my arms! In those days, I went at 10AM to a discourse on yoga as is common in Rishikesh. I wondered if my baby would disturb the quiet of the meditation or cry and prevent people from hearing the talk. But, in calm yoga spaces, babies often just drop into the ethos of the room. Also, there are usually mats put down either at the front or the back of the hall for children and so you can lay the baby down with a toy and be in the meditative space where children are welcomed! I cherished those moments that I was able to nourish myself with inspirational wisdom while Uma puttered with a rattle and no one batted an eye when I popped my top and gave her a nip of milk.

Being Alone, Together

One the memories that stands out in my mind is an afternoon we spent on the white sand beach between the two bridges in Rishikesh. There is a quiet place you can get to by clambering over the rocks at the river’s bend. After taking my time to stroll there with the increasing weight of a toddler on my back, now in my second winter in India, we flopped down and just watched the Ganges go by. We were alone on the beach except for another man I knew to have lived in town for several years. He lay on the beach in a sarong and every half hour or so, he walked into the river holding the sarong above his head. His movements were graceful and fluid as he unfurled the cloth and walked steadily into the current. After some time, as the water is glacial, he would come out and re-wrap the cloth and lay again on the beach. We did not speak much, but I felt that we were sharing the space and that moment with someone else in the timelessness and stillness of the landscape of rural India.

It’s All About the Animals

Another wonderful thing about being in Rishikesh with kids is all of the animals. Cows wander around the streets with their fluffy calves. Lunger monkeys jump through the trees, their long tails and graceful limbs making them seem almost to float between the branches. Peacocks call out in the early morning mist. Ponies trot through the alleys carrying sand to building sites. Not to mention the man who dresses as Hanuman near Laxman Jhoola circle offering to put a red tilak on your forehead for a small fee. There is always something for kids to look at and engage with.

Ritual is Real for Children

Time in India is often spaced by the practice of daily rituals. This is also the way with days with young children in terms of regular meals and snacks and the rituals of story time and bath time and walks. In India, there is the added aspect of rituals that are interesting for children and often meaningful for aspiring yogis. Every morning at Anand Prakash Yoga Ashram we perform fire puja or Agni Hotra before breakfast. I wanted to attend fire puja and to expose my child to the sound of the chants and the ways of honouring the elements. But I was not sure how it would work out. My daughter delighted in taking the offering herbs in her fingers and throwing them into the flames, simply copying the repeated movements of the circle of participants. She even learned to anticipate the timing of the herb offering with the intoned ‘swaha’ or ‘let it be so’. Seeing her at this elemental ritual reminded me of how children play with sticks in the dirt, it was a very organic, tactile and experiential spiritual practice that was absolutely translatable and enjoyable for even a very young child. As soon as she could talk, my daughter was repeating the Gayatri mantra which was chanted several times during the puja.

She also learned to bang the drums and sing at kirtan, the evening gathering. Young children, unlike school-aged kids, often stay up late since they nap, and have a last feeding around 10PM. So, I had thought I would not be able to participate in the evening melodies. But, I was wrong! Kiirtan was a great place for children as it is loud and celebratory and there are lots of different instruments that are not delicate, such as rattles and cymbals. I remember my daughter drifting off towards the more lyrical, ballads at the end of the evenings, nestled in my crossed legs.

And so, although I often did not attend yoga posture class in those days after sleepless nights of multiple feedings, I felt that the rituals, song and practice of presence I experienced with both an infant and a toddler in Rishikesh was a very profound teaching of adapting the practice for motherhood and dropping into the yoga of beingness.

If you are considering travelling to Rishikesh with kids, I’d be happy to chat with you about it. You can connect with me at [email protected].

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everything-jeronica-blog · 6 years ago

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"Look!" Fangs' mouth is right at his ear. Jughead doesn't even need to back away, because the volume's just right. "The black-haired one, right at the front. Apparently, she's part veela."

(A Jeronica Hogwarts AU)

----

Jughead scans the field.

It’s instinctual, the way his eyes lock onto the golden glint right beside the hoops. Everything else blurs away. His muscles tighten, and he flies, jaw locked in concentration.

There is wind in his face. He feels free. The sky is the limit. Warming, in its spring embers. He is burdenless. He is flying, he is at peace -

Then there’s the familiar whizzing of a bludger. Thank Salazar he’s had years of practice. Good ears, lightning reflexes, but even then, sometimes it wasn’t enough. He veers sharply to the left, gripping onto his Firebolt for dear life - and turns around just in time to see the bludger pass him. Inches away from his face.

“Fangs Fogarty!”

There is laughter ringing from the field. Jughead stares. Fixes Fangs Fogarty with his trademark glare, because he’d almost got his head cracked open. Again.

“Why do you always think it’s me?” Fangs pouts. “It could be Sweet Pea, you know.” He points at the taller boy on his left. “He’s the better beater.”

“Hey!” Sweet Pea swings his bat at Fangs, who dodges swiftly. He blinks. “Wait. Of course, I’m the better beater, is that even up for discourse?” and punctuates it with an overdramatic hair-flip. With his bat. In clear Sweet Pea-fashion, he flips a little too much, and his bat goes flying. Straight into Fangs’ eye.

“Ouch!”

Jughead rolls his eyes. He’d lost the snitch. Again.

This is the Slytherin Quidditch team. He has no idea how they’d managed to snag the House Cup (thank Merlin for their chasers).

—

“They’re here!” Archie yells, bursting through the doors of the great hall in a flurry of red and gold.

Jughead side-eyes the other boy. His smile is threatening to swallow up his entire face. It’s mildly terrifying, and so he returns his attention to the charms essay that was due in less than twenty-four hours. It’s pre-midterms week, which means deadlines and everything, and he can’t be bothered to give a damn about what Archie meant -

“Oh my God,” Betty squeals. Snaps her potions textbook shut and jumps up. “Did you see them?”

“Yeah. Professor Johnson’s giving them the official tour,” Archie is still smiling. Then pauses, because everyone’s eyes are on him. He puts on his prefect face, puffs out his chest and clears his throat. “They’re at the courtyard if anyone’s interested.”

The great hall falls silent and then on cue, erupts into chaos. There is screaming and yelling. Some stand up immediately, running out - mostly a bunch of scrawny Gryffindors. Second-years, maybe. The worst of the lot. Jughead sighs in defeat. Puts his quill down, because there was no way he was going to finish this essay right now.

“Who’s here?”

The look Archie gives him is scandalized. Betty only snorts, before smacking the back of his head.

“What kind of Quidditch captain are you?” Betty shakes her head. “I’m not even in Quidditch, and I know. Archie’s not captain, and he knows.”

Jughead hisses in pain. “Well, I’ve been trying to keep up with my deadlines,” he gestures to the mess that is his half-done essay. “Will one of you tell me, before I decide that this bottle of ink looks better on your face?”

They exchange a look. Jughead wants to strangle them. It’s always a big mood. Sometimes he wonders how they’d even become friends - seeing as they were all from different houses, and were so, so different. Betty with her brains, Archie with his crazy, and Jughead with his… ambition. Maybe.

“The Beauxbatons quidditch team, dumbass.” Archie rolls his eyes. “They’re here for the joint training, remember?”

“Oh.” Oh. Right.

Sweet Pea’d probably told him about it. Something about pretty girls and Quidditch, Jughead thinks. Because Sweet Pea only talks about pretty girls. They would be training with all four teams, as part of bettering inter-school ties, and a final official match with the recent champions - them. Oh Merlin.

“Are they any good?” he asks. This is ridiculous. Training, after the Quidditch Cup? They have Newts, for fuck’s sake. Plus, weren’t they just a bunch of stuck up snobs? Like that stupid girl from the Triwizard Tournament a few years back who couldn’t even disarm her opponent. “They’re probably just a bunch of airheads, anyway.”

“Oh honey,” Betty coos. “You have no idea.”

---

Dinner is always a grand affair because this school is too damn rich for its own good. Fangs and Sweet Pea are bickering, again, and Jughead just wants Headmaster Weatherbee to give his dinner address right there and then because his head hurts. Also, food.

He clears his throat. Taps his spoon against the side of his goblet, and the great hall falls silent. Jughead finds himself staring at the ceiling. At the floating candles - the fascination is never-ending, even after six years. The naive first-year he’d buried underneath responsibilities a long time ago always manages to find his way back out at times like this: with low blood-sugar levels, and a semi-conscious state of mind.

He remembers the first Christmas feast they had. Remembers Archie, Betty and himself eating so much turkey they all got sick after. Remembers puking his guts out. Remembers how they ended up in the hospital wing for the whole weekend. The stories are infinite. Each different, but familiar. It’s home.

Then there’s a nudge right at his ribs, and the pain snaps Jughead out of it. Sweet Pea is positively vibrating in his seat. He’s pointing to the entrance. Fangs yells something he can’t make out over the roar of the crowd. It’s distracting at best, and Jughead has no choice but to give in.

It’s the Beauxbatons quidditch team. They walk in like they own the place, blue robes swishing - Jughead hates it. Like how their noses are always in the air. All seven of them, with their backs ramrod straight. The perfect posture. He wonders what they feed their students to make all of them clones. Maybe it’s some sort of dark magic. He shudders.

“Look!” Fangs’ mouth is right at his ear. Jughead doesn’t even need to back away, because the volume’s just right. “The black-haired one, right at the front. Apparently, she’s part veela.”

He turns. Doesn’t even bother questioning Fangs’ knowledge. Ignores Sweet Pea’s fingers digging into his arm. The light from the enchanted candles hits the girl’s raven hair at the right angle, and it’s striking. Cascades down in perfect waves, complimenting her skin, and Jughead thinks the girl might be glowing. It’s ethereal. The others fade into the background.

Maybe it’s the veela thing, but he finds herself unable to look away. The air in his lungs disappear, and his mouth dries, because the girl is staring, right back at him with her big brown eyes. And she winks.

Jughead blinks. The magic fizzles out. He gets it together in time to close his mouth as the girl continues her strut forward because drooling over girls is definitely something beneath him. He’s Jughead Jones, a pureblooded Slytherin, and is definitely classier than that. Only now does he register Sweet Pea’s death grip on his arm, and yanks his hand away. Fangs squeals. They’re screaming, because Did you see that? and I can’t believe she winked at you, Jughead Jones and Jughead just wants to die.

He swallows. Then looks up to see Betty smirking right at him, all the way from the Ravenclaw table.

Fuck.

—-

As luck would have it, the Beauxbatons quidditch team were going to be staying in their common room. Something about extending their courtesy as the most recent House Cup champions. Fangs has promised to swear off butterbeer for the next thirty days if Sweet Pea bags one of them. Sweet Pea accepts with no hesitation, and Jughead wonders why he’s friends with such snakes (right, they’re Slytherins).

The common room is abuzz. They’re at their usual spot, right by the fireplace. The training schedules are out, and they’re due to play with the Beauxbatons in three days. The perfectionist in Jughead has gathered the team to discuss strategies despite the earlier sandbagging because he’s not about to lose to some unknown snobs when their pride is at stake.

“I think it’s better to start defensive,” Sweet Pea pitches. “We’ve got to sound them out first, since we don’t know how they usually play.”

Fangs nods. Jughead likes how they can go from joking to dead serious in the blink of an eye. It makes him proud and happy. They talk formations and then what they’re most familiar with - the home ground advantage would definitely help, and Jughead goes on and on for a while before he notices that Sweet Pea’s eyes are unfocused, and Fangs looks weirdly uncomfortable. They’re looking at something over his shoulder -

“Are you listening?” he snaps, and the team instantly refocuses on him. Jughead rolls his eyes. It’s not like them to get distracted during meetings, and he’s about to repeat whatever he’s been saying for the past five minutes when there is a hand on his shoulder and -

“Discussing strategies?”

The air turns icy. Slytherins are highly competitive in nature, and it’s evident in the way he feels the team stiffen up. Collectively. the voice is unfamiliar, and Jughead just hopes to Salazar that it’s not who he thinks it is.

He turns around. The girl’s black hair looks even softer under the dim light of the common room. There is the urge to run his fingers through it. Jughead feels the magnetic pull sucking him in, and tears his eyes away with difficulty - the girl seems to notice and blinks in response.

“Y-yeah,” Jughead croaks. “Uh, it’s kind of private, so - ”

The girl giggles. No one says anything. Only now does Jughead notice that he’s in his sweatpants. The one with a burn mark at the left pant leg, courtesy of the trick wand he’d bought on a whim from the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, while the raven-haired girl is still all dolled up. The self-consciousness eats at his gut.

“I’m Veronica,” she extends her hand. “Veronica Lodge, captain of the Beauxbatons quidditch team. It’s nice to meet you,“ she smiles.

He feels the ice melt. Fangs’ shoulders lose some of its tension. This Veronica person has eyes that twinkle with no abandon. It’s infectious, and Jughead feels his lips tug upwards of their own accord. He feels lighter. His body is suddenly on autopilot.

"Jughead Jones,” he takes the offered hand. “Slytherin captain.”

Handshakes are telling. Or rather, enough for an educated guess. Veronica’s handshake is firm. Just the right amount of pressure. Borderline honesty, maybe. A willing introduction. Dainty fingers, soft and smooth skin - high maintenance, no doubt. Not far off from the stereotype, really. But it’s genuine, and that’s something Jughead appreciates.

Veronica Lodge doesn’t let go. Continues staring right at him, oblivious to everyone and everything else - Jughead is stuck between pulling away and doing nothing because one: he is powerless to the magnetic pull, and two: handshakes shouldn’t last more than three seconds. It’s starting to feel more like a trap. His smile freezes.

But just when he’s about to pull away (it’s the enemy, for fuck’s sake - what if his hand start corroding), he feels Veronica’s fingers dig just slightly into the back of his hand - and then he’s being hauled forward. Right into the girl’s embrace. Jughead thinks he feels lips against his left cheek, as the girl tiptoes. There’s a goodnight whispered right at his ear. Maybe he stops breathing.

As quickly as it happens, it’s gone - and all that’s left is to stare at Veronica’s retreating form. Or rather, the sway of her hips. Reality is unforgiving, in the form of Fangs’ maniacal laughter. Jughead tries his best to school his face into something presentable.

“Holy shit,” Fangs wheezes. “She’s wild.” The mirth is reflected in Sweet Pea’s eyes, and Jughead has never wanted to hex the both of them so badly. But detention is out of the question, and so he settles for whipping out his wand threateningly.

"Don’t,” he deadpans. points the eleven-inched ebony beauty right at Fangs, whose smile disappears for the entirety of one second. Then resumes his high-pitched cackling. Again.

Jughead hates them all.

—

He meets Toni on the way to charms. It’s a pleasant surprise. They’re climbing the last set of stairs to the classroom when it decides to move. Jughead blames it on the pink haired girl.

“It’s all your fault,“ he jokingly accuses the girl. "You have really bad luck, Toni.” Then flops down, because it’s going to be awhile. The stairs change every five minutes if you were lucky, and ten if you weren’t.

“It's your fault,” Toni pouts, sitting down. “If I hadn’t bumped into you I’d actually be on time for once.”

Jughead laughs. Reaches forward to adjust Toni’s tie, because Toni never ties it properly. It’s always lopsided, the red and gold making a statement Jughead always ignores.

“Oh right,” the girl starts. “Have you met the Beauxbatons team? We trained with them yesterday.” Her lips quiver the slightest bit, and Jughead sighs. Gives the tie a final tug. Then shoves Toni away with a little more strength than necessary, because he’s pretty sure Fangs and Sweet Pea had already told Toni everything.

“I think you already know,” he narrows his eyes. Toni bursts out laughing, and Jughead can only sulk.

“But seriously,” her voice turns serious. “They’re good. We barely won by ten points, thanks to my lucky saves.”

Jughead is a skeptic but Toni is reliable, and she never sugarcoats, so maybe it’s a fair warning. Or the truth.

“Really?” Jughead raises an eyebrow. “Those airheads?”

“Believe me, I know,” Toni sighs. “We were caught off guard. They scored in the first five seconds. And their seeker? The black-haired one? She’s crazy good.

Oh.

"That’s… new.” He’s taken aback. Their training is in four hours, and Jughead knows there’s no time for a strategy change. They’re going to have to improvise. Fall back on their skills. It’s unsettling.

But before he can go into full panic mode, the stairs start moving. Toni jumps up, pulling Jughead along. The second bell rings, and it’s enough to send both of them into a full sprint because no one has time for detention when you have Newts.

He forgets about the game, at that moment, because they have approximately sixty seconds to get to class, and Toni’s laughter still rings in his ears when they settle into their seats.

—

Jughead tugs on his gloves. It’s frayed at the edges, but he doesn’t care. It’s snug. It’s what got them to the House Cup, and he’s a closet sentimental sap. The emerald is empowering. It’s like the world, in the palm of his hands. Literally.

Sweet Pea pulls him into a hug. Fangs joins in, and soon it’s a team huddle - their pre-game tradition. It’s times like these he’s thankful to the team, for following him despite his shitty leadership.

Six years and the pre-game jitters still get to him Professor Clayton releases the bludgers and the snitch. Yells for fair play, but no one is listening and reminds them that it’s technically a training, a friendly match. The quaffle is in his hands. Jughead grips his firebolt tighter in an attempt to stop his hands from shaking.

The Beauxbatons Quidditch team stand in formation. They still have their noses in the air, and Jughead accidentally makes eye contact with Veronica. Her raven hair is still impeccable, and Toni’s words echo in his mind. She’s smiling, but Jughead thinks it’s a facade.

Sure enough, when the quaffle is tossed into the air, Veronica’s smile drops. They fly. The scuffle is real. Jughead finally understands what Toni means, when one of the Beauxbatons chasers swoops in from nowhere and intercepts the quaffle effortlessly. Their teamwork is flawless, and before he can blink the quaffle soars through their hoop, and they’re zero to ten.

His shock is reflected in Fangs and Sweet Pea’s eyes. Jughead’d told them earlier, about Toni’s warning, and they were cautious. But this? This is nothing like what Toni said. He sees the resolve hardening in their eyes, and knows, trusts that they have to bring their a game. In other words, he has to catch the damn snitch. As soon as possible

Jughead watches. Does his best to avoid bludgers, while keeping an eye out for Veronica. The half-veela is hovering near the stands, keeping him at a distance, and it’s safe to say that none of them have spotted the snitch. The glint in her eyes throws Jughead off guard because it’s nothing like the one back at the common room. It’s hard. Predatory.

They’re now twenty to ninety. The Beauxbatons keeper is probably a god. He sees the frustration in his chasers, in the way their passes get sloppier. They’re getting desperate. Fangs and Sweet Pea are clobbing bludgers with terrifying accuracy. The only time Jughead’d cracked a smile was when one of the Beauxbatons chasers halted his pursuit of the quaffle because of a bludger sent by one Fangs Fogarty.

Then suddenly Veronica makes a sharp dive to the right. Jughead is on high alert. He follows immediately, hot on the small girl’s heels. The evening sun is not helping. He squints.

He sees it, finally. It’s fast. Zips around in random directions, unpredictable at best. He puts all his effort into accelerating, legs locking around his Firebolt. Veronica doesn’t fall behind. The competition is real.

But the snitch accelerates right to the ground. It’s almost a ninety-degree drop, the most dangerous maneuvers to ever be done. The highest rate of injuries and casualties. Jughead side-eyes Veronica, who shows no sign of slowing down. What the hell. His hesitation costs him the lead, and Veronica pulls ahead.

Jughead grits his teeth. Accelerates a second later, but it’s not enough. He’s one foot behind Veronica now, and goes as fast as he can -

There is the familiar whizzing of the bludger. He spares it a glance. It’s heading straight for him. But if he swerves now, Veronica’s going to catch the snitch, and there is no way he’s letting that happen.

They approach the snitch and the ground is coming up at their faces. Jughead sticks a hand out and sees that Veronica is doing the same. Five meters, four meters, three meters -

There is a loud crack. He hears it, over the roar of the wind. His left arm goes numb. The impact pushes him forward. It’s enough to make him lose his balance, and he almost falls off her broom. It takes everything in him to not let go of his Firebolt and start braking because the battle is lost. He’s not stupid enough to put all of his eggs in the same damn basket when the basket already has a hole at the bottom.

The pain sets in just when he touches the ground. Someone’s helping him onto the stretcher. The medics are on the scene. Jughead swats their hands away, craning his neck, ignoring the jolt of pain through his shoulder. The snitch is in Veronica’s hand, obedient and still, and she’s smiling. It’s triumphant.

The pain explodes. Veronica’s smile burns into the back of his eyelids. It’s the last thing he remembers before everything goes black.

—

Defeat is a bitter pill to swallow.

Fangs sighs. The hospital wing is silent, save for the humming of the fan. Madam Pomfrey had kicked the entire team out, save for him, only because his accident-prone ass has made him a regular. Visiting hours were long over.

It’s a broken shoulder. Nothing some skele-gro can’t fix, but the damage is already done. Jughead looks smaller in the hospital bed. He’d woken up earlier to eat, and Fangs is not sure what to do about the empty look he’d saw in Jughead’s eyes.

“Hey.”

He jumps. His wand is out, defensive. Finds himself face to face with Kevin, who has both hands up. “It’s just me, babe.”

Fangs visibly relaxes. Pockets his wand, and lets himself melt in Kevin’s embrace. The only place he lowers his guard. “I missed you,” he murmurs, into the pale column of Kevin’s neck. There’s a hand on his head, stroking soft comfort, and he feels his worries dissipating.

“What happened?” Kevin asks and kisses his hair. “Archie called it World War Z.”

He snorts, “Of course he would say that.” He breaks the embrace only to push Kevin down into the bedside chair and settles on his lap. “You should have seen him, Kev. He risked himself for the snitch. It was crazy.”

Fangs take a deep breath. “I mean, he saw the bludger going straight for him, and didn’t avoid it because that would mean that the other seeker would catch the snitch.”

Kevin hums. Fangs’ eyes are shifty. There’s more, and Kevin knows Fangs well enough to know that it’s only a matter of time before the dam breaks. So he waits, rubbing circles into the other boy’s arm.

“I - I saw it, you know. Sweet Pea and I,” Fangs continues. His voice wavers. “How the Beauxbatons beater went for him. Sweet Pea was screaming. We - I - I could have - ”

“Could have what?” Kevin cuts in. “Stopped it? It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.” He thumbs away a stray tear. “Things happen. He made a decision, and there’s that. Besides, Jughead’s okay now, right?”

Fangs sniffles an acknowledgment, and Kevin cringes. “You’re really ugly when you cry,” then cries out in faux pain when Fangs thumps his back painfully. The audacity.

But then Kevin is smiling and it’s all sunshine, and Fangs feels the cavity in his chest close. As annoying as he is, Kevin Keller is still his favorite person. He kisses the dark haired boy’s cheek because he doesn’t want to think about what he’d do if they’d never met. If he hadn’t sat next to this stupid boy on the Hogwarts Express, who ate all of his chocolate frogs that day and made him cry, and spent the next two weeks sitting beside him during lunch just to make up for it.

“Let’s go,” Kevin whispers. “It’s getting late. Don’t you have classes tomorrow?” he tugs on Fangs’ hand. He bends to kiss Jughead goodbye, and Kevin does the same. Whispers promises to visit again tomorrow, after giving the blanket a final tuck. Their fingers tangle, and he lets himself be led out of the hospital wing, only to stop short at the entrance - there’s a silhouette he doesn’t want to deal with right now.

“You’re still here?” Fangs asks is in disbelieve. The raven-haired girl turns around and Kevin raises his eyebrows.

Veronica nods. “Please let me see him.” She’s begging. The night always brings out the most desperate sides of people or rather, the truest ones. “I have to see him, even if he doesn’t want to see me.”

There’s the briefest flash of lightning, and Fangs thinks he catches a glimpse of the cracks in Veronica’s eyes. Something is threatening to overflow, and a part of him is ashamed of himself for denying Veronica entry. But Jughead had taken one look at Veronica and asked her to get out, and there wasn’t really anything Fangs could do.

He sighs. Suddenly there are flashbacks to the game when he’d witnessed Jughead’s legs give out the moment he landed on the ground. Remembers how Veronica had tried to approach an unconscious Jughead on the stretcher but was obviously blocked by their team. He doesn’t remember the details, but somehow Sweet Pea’s rational thinking had convinced the team that it was ridiculous to put the blame on the opposing team, and they’d caved. Only to be proven otherwise by Jughead Jones himself.

“Go,” he says. Kevin squeezes his hand.

There is a pause before Veronica’s eyes widen. “Thank you,” she says. It’s sincere. “Thank you so much.”

She smiles, and even in the dim lighting Fangs feels the full impact of the half-veela’s smile. But it lasts for only a second before the black-haired girl rushes inside, and Fangs is left to stare blankly at the wall.

“Wow,” is all Kevin says. “She’s hot.”

Fangs makes sure to dig his heels into Kevin’s foot on his way out. The resulting yell he gets is satisfying.

—

“You can’t avoid her forever, you know.”

Jughead jumps. Then glares at Sweet Pea, who’s currently perched on his bench like it’s his home. Technically, it might be, since his family was (is still) notorious potion masters, and the dungeons were where they thrived. Just like the Jones, but with different specialties. Last he checked, he was sitting all alone, trying to finish up his veritaserum as quickly as possible. Potions is always a bore because really, all there is to it is to chop up ingredients, and brew it - how difficult can it get?

“Stop creeping up on me. I’m busy,” he stirs his cauldron. The mixture is a clear liquid, and Jughead thinks he’s going to be done in another five minutes. Professor Johnson has given up on watching him and Sweet Pea a long time ago because they never fail to top his class, and Sweet Pea always sweet talks him into letting them go early.

"It’s almost a week, Jughead. You know it’s not her fault.” Sweet Pea snatches the ladle out of his hands, and Jughead is forced to stare at his own reflection in the cauldron.

A week. A week, since the modern-day apocalypse, as Archie had called it. It’s his third day after being given the all clear by Madam Pomfrey, and his shoulder is as good as new. There were some scratches on his firebolt he’d already polished off, but the incision on his pride is deep and still hurting.

“For the record, Josie tells me Veronica scolded them right after they brought you off the field. When she had no reason to,” Sweet Pea continues. Then looks around conspicuously, before pulling a small vial out of his pocket. Jughead doesn’t bat an eyelash.

“Who’s Josie?” he asks, frowning. Raises his hand to call the professor over, and takes pleasure in the way Sweet Pea panics. Just a little. Hides the vial in the sleeves of his robes. The professor gives him a nod of approval, and that’s it. He’s done while the rest of the class is still struggling, and only in advanced potions is Jughead thankful for his bloodline.

Someone yells. There’s a horrid stench. Jughead spares the commotion a glance - some Gryffindor boy had knocked over his cauldron, and Professor Johnson rushes over. Sweet Pea makes use of this window to dip the vial in his cauldron. Jughead rolls his eyes.

“Josie? Oh, my new girlfriend,” Sweet Pea pockets the vial. “The Beauxbatons keeper?”

Jughead stops short, in the middle of packing. Gets a good look at Sweet Pea, and thinks about hexing the smugness off his face. What a little shit.

“Wait. The god-like one?” He slaps his textbook shut. “Merlin,” then huffs when Sweet Pea’s face explodes into a shit-eating grin.

“Yeah. Turns out she’s god-like in bed, too,” Sweet Pea laughs. Again, Jughead considers hexing Sweet Pea, and leaving his body here right in the dungeons.

“Gross. I can’t believe you’re fraternizing with the enemy,“ he picks up his book bag. "Whatever happened to loyalty?”

Sweet Pea blocks his path. “Don’t you dare question my loyalty, Jones.” Jughead finds himself staring right back at Sweet Pea’s finger. “It’s a friendly match, and so what if we lost? Your shoulder’s definitely more important than some stupid game. Besides, like I said Veronica scolded the team for playing rough. For you.”

Suddenly his tongue feels heavy. He doesn’t trust his mouth. His brain processes the words Sweet Pea said, and it’s stuck in his head. In a loop. What the hell.

"We’re supposed to learn from each other. Different playing styles. Exposure, or something. You made a decision, and you got hurt. It’s no one’s fault but yours. So get over it,” Sweet Pea spits. The venom burns. “The next training’s in two days. Get your shit together. Talk to Veronica. You have a team to lead, captain.”

The emphasis on the last word makes his shame increase tenfold, and really. He should have known. Sweet Pea pushes past him, shoulders knocking painfully.

Jughead swallows.

#jeronica #vughead #writing #mine

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the-mf-bread-babies · 4 years ago

Text

28/7/2020

— TRUE VOLUME ONE —

VOL 4, ACTUALLY, BUT WHATEVER.

R. W. NORTH

i dedicate this volume to no one except for me bc i was the only one who wrote this. self love ok

_________________________________

CHAPTER ONE

“Halle Berry Did Two Movies Like This”

Damon was kidnapped. This is bad. Oh, there should probably be some explanation behind this. Sorry.

_________________________________

CHAPTER 0.5

“Short × Backstory × Summaries”

After four years of the most iconic event the universe had ever experienced, The Sixth Augmentation, also known among the locals as The Fusion, Doomsday, and several other names, one particular group of people had formed a good family amongst themselves. This family had three human members and several other non-human members, including, but not limited to, cats, banshees, ghosts in general, reptiles, and beings our planet couldn't invent through biology and even through thought.

This family's main members were Dennis and Aaron, and Damon and Sawblade. Their whole lives were completely changed after having to stick together in a ghost town and raise chickens and cows and plant crops for food. That sounded like a description for a rom-com or something. This is not a rom-com. Well… yet.

The family had settled down in the 74th district of the third Earth that joined the Amalgamation. The district had possessed a variety of… everything, really. The Eiffel Tower was a few blocks away, there was an upsidedown barn there, half of a condominium building, a quarter of a Tesco, and god knows what else. This diverse array of resources had been responsible for new buildings in the area that combined specialties from around the world, and while they were mostly fusion restaurants, there still existed things like Tesco cosplaying events and such. Apocalypses bring odd things to the world, and some are worth trying… for example, otherworldly foods.

This subject was a difficult topic to tackle among the residents there. Mainly, the dangers and morality of doing such a thing– you'd have to consider the effects it would bring to your health, if you're harming their ecosystem, if you're harming the people who lived with the beings before it was introduced to you– it really had to be quite challenging to negotiate a good compromise.

Well, except for Aaron. Meet Aaron… again, this time, since he's changed a lot after what happened. Aaron Russell is a simple man; most of the things he does in life are things a normal person does– eat, sleep, have companions– everyone does that, but not the way he does.

Even before he entered the amalgamation, he was always trying new things, mainly foods, but also things like video games and hobbies. Yes, the sight of the contents of his fridge could bring a stroke to someone from a hundred years ago, because goddamn, is he dangerously experimental.

The reason Aaron doesn't enter discourse on things as insignificant as what one eats is because while he does acknowledge the fact that the opinions of the natives on who should consume their resources should be very much respected, he also knows that it's human nature to hunt, to explore, and to be curious, as long as it isn't endangering oneself. He would eat risky foods, but anything that sets off his fight-or-flight instincts if he saw it live is definitely a no-no. Even though he's an adventurer at heart, he follows the rules and does what's right. But goddamn it, if he gets disappointed at a failed experiment, he's never touching anything resembling that. So, in his opinion, the safest route to an entertaining journey is…

Video games.

His library of games range from first-person shooters to slime rancher, from dating simulators to… well, a majority of video games nowadays have dating in them. But yeah, Assassin's Creed, Metal Gear, Borderlands, Spider-Man, Life is Strange, Smash Bros, and Luigi's Mansion are just some of the many franchises he's into. And then the companions, God, I mean, the man lives in a haunted house with his co-worker, some random kid and, like, thirty cats. He's friends with mythical beings, now. If anything, the amalgamation changed his life for the way better.

Dennis, on the other hand… is sort of the opposite. While escaping from certain clearly bad conditions is something he absolutely loves, he doesn't really know where to go after that, since he didn't really think it was possible. His family was bad, he joined Aaron's. Then? What was he supposed to do, cut them off after decades of living with them? Thankfully, the augmentation came along. Dennis is a man who daydreams about living a life he couldn't possibly achieve, but when he does, he didn't plan ahead. To get to this amount of joy in his life was unfathomable for him; back before he moved out of his hometown, he was essentially living a lie.

His life was planned out for him– move out at 20, get a stable job at 22, marry his old high school girlfriend his parents keep bothering him about at 25, and forever dread his life starting at age 27. Then, kids at 30. Even though this life seemed to be nice, and even to him had its benefits, he still hated it. Sure, he would be open for a very short-term relationship with Chloe from French 2, but jeez, is she super republican.

Dennis's views on life differed significantly from his family's, and even though he disliked seeing anything that reminded him of them, he still moved around in the Midwest, and stopped when…

he saw a certain someone at Krispy Kreme.

Now, everything is history. He and Aaron renovated the old family workshop into a pet store, and thankfully, business was way better. Not only did Gabriel start up a traveling psychic service and Lan, a plant store, but even Dennis sold a lot of art. All thanks to the Krispy Kreme store at the end of the street that was…

… crushed by a condominium building. See, this is where it all gets messed up. The Russell family surely had enough members for now, Gabriel and Lan didn't want any grandchildren in the near future, and so did Aaron and Dennis, but, well, something, or rather someone, came along.

Here's Damon Eddmil Ameakfen, or “Nomad Middle Fakename,” after unscrambling the anagram. He, like Dennis, also couldn't really care less if he, or his family, suddenly disappeared out of nowhere. Outside of having a number of inconveniences, the thought of it doesn't bring any emotional distress to him.

Instead, Damon finds joy in finding out practically everyone he's ever known could've died as soon as he arrived on Eris-6, knowing those unlucky dumbasses don't deserve… well, not exactly ‘they don't deserve to live,’ but really, it's what they all believed, except directed towards Damon and others like him.

If Damon stayed on Earth-3 forever, and in that same, depressing place, he'd be dead by now, really. He's not exaggerating or whatever, he'd probably either kill himself or get killed. Whatcha gonna do.

But, obviously, he's still living, and it's all thanks to Aaron and Dennis for their acknowledgement and appliance of common sense when it comes to living. That sounds like he came from a family of very dangerous carpenters, but really, if anyone important in his old life had even a speck of common sense in analysing people and knowing what's right and wrong about someone, he probably wouldn't have been so suicidal.

So thanks, Aaron and Dennis.

CHAPTER 0.75

“What's Going On Now, Though?”

Moving on to the present, the Russell family now are the only living inhabitants of [town name.] The others were tragically moved into NULL by their forceful officers. Now, they live in stealth, their identities changed. After years of searching, NULL had classified them as deceased and had closed down inspections within the town. However, they still had to be very cautious about their actions– they never went outside the city, and they always preferred to travel in tunnels and alleys, always moving around in the shadows.

For months, they believed NULL was no longer their biggest concern in living there, but unfortunately they were proven wrong.

Apparently, surprise inspections are a thing.

This story's true beginning takes place in March of 2025. Even though it was supposed to be spring, winter still ruled the other seasons because of the location of the district. After years of only experiencing the same season, the family got used to it– except for Damon…

Damon hailed from Malaysia, which, by the way, doesn't have the luxury of experiencing four seasons. Although he did visit Cameron Highlands once as a kid, living somewhere where the temperature was constantly below zero had proved to be a very difficult struggle to him. The unforgiving climate constantly cursed him with fevers and frostbite. Despite that, he absolutely loves the gloomy, cold weather, and wishes he could spend his entire life there, cozily wrapped up in three blankets.

This problem had a butterfly effect on him being kidnapped, though. Snow was one of Damon's favourite things about the climate, and that meant he went outside a lot. He usually made it home safely, except for one unlucky day.

CHAPTER 0.875

“The Abduction”

It was a normal day for the Russell family. They followed their daily routines, but unfortunately, NULL intervened.

“Hoodie, other hoodie, three scarves, watch, bracelets, mittens, metal bat, pepper spray, water, keys, backpack, hockey mask…” Damon muttered to himself, “I think that's all.” He walked over to the dining hall, meeting Dennis and Aaron. “Hey, I'm heading out,” “want anything?” He asked, his face almost covered to protect him from the cold. “Uh, not really. We're outta cereal, though,” Dennis replied, petting Sawblade, who was laying on the dining table. “Moisturizer, if there's any.” Aaron requested, eyes unmoving from his year-old newspaper, annoying Damon slightly. “What brand… what kind… which outlet… how much… just moisturiser, or a whole set?” Aaron pondered for a while, “Two,” “from Wal-Mart.” he teasingly replied. Damon rolled his eyes and stomped out the door. “Heh…” Aaron smirked.

Damon walked outside and immediately jumped facedown into the snow, making a snow angel. “hheheheheheeeheheh” “snoww” he giggled, rolling around. “Okay, enough of that. You're 19, dude,” the man muttered to himself disappointedly, dusting off the snow from his clothes and readjusting them. “Moisturiser… cereal… um…” he thought. “Yeah, that's all.”

Damon continued walking before realising something he forgot. “Camo! Shit!” He yelled, completely disguising as a snowman, carrot and all. He bounced along the street, as it was the least sketchiest way to go to the shops there. As soon as he reached the grocery store, he dropped his empty backpack onto the ground and faced the other way, ignoring the store.

Damon noticed the usual sound of rustling leaves, followed by the backpack being swiftly dragged across the pavement. Chittering, and after that, the bag was thrown back at him. It was packed with the groceries he wanted, and a bottle of shampoo. “Hey, my hair's not that bad.” Damon commented sadly, facing the store again. A small, teasing chitter shot back, making him narrow his eyes. “Sure, yeah, whatever, man,”

Damon hopped back home, questioning what the being, or beings, running the grocery store were, but eventually accepting that he'll never know that. Suddenly, loud squeaks grabbed his attention. It sounded like it came from the store, but why? Did he get the wrong order? Did he steal something on accident? What's going on? Damon anxiously thought of all the horrifying possibilities until he saw what he never thought would terrorise that city again.

NULL agents.

Despite his efforts to escape and hide as fast as possible, an agent caught him and chased him. Damon, seeing this, scuttled underneath a passageway they never used. It lead to a tunnel that they tried to develop for the past year, but ultimately failed to do so. Luckily, it was the perfect opportunity to block himself in with the remaining dirt pile next to it, thanks to Dennis's unwillingness to throw it out.

Except it wasn't.

Frogs hopped everywhere in panic, scaring Damon enough for him to stumble over. Ah, he remembered this. Aaron turned the dirt pile into a froggy apartment. Whoops.

Swatting the amphibians away, Damon was trying his best to cover the hole leading to the tunnel, but…

A NULL agent grabbed his arm and used a stun gun on it, leaving him helpless and screaming in pain. Suddenly, an idea sprang to mind.

Damon sprayed the living hell out of the agent with pepper spray, but sadly, their helmets had proved that idea to be useless.

Then, he was left with no choice but to whack his arm to death with a metal bat. So long, watch he had from 2014. You could've taken the UPSR exam next year…

Well, except he couldn't chop it off, there were frogs on the bat, and he just put on hand cream this morning. That means they could die at his touch, and that would be more tragic than his death. Damon was now running out of ideas, begging for some ghost to hear him and come kill the bastard, but no one came.

Oh, nevermind.

D: “I'LL F**KING KILL YOUR ASS, MOTHERF**KER!!”

A: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

Dennis and Aaron came rushing in, with Aaron unsheathing a katana and Dennis loading a rock salt rifle. How they got those weapons, Damon really doesn't know, but thank God they're here.

“DAMON, ARE YOU OKAY?!” Dennis yelled loudly, his voice cracking and tears streaming down his face. “DO I LOOK–” “ARM!!!” Damon shouted back, “OTHER THAN THAT, VERY, BUT I HAVE FROGS!!!” Aaron signalled to Dennis to split up, with both of them on either side of Damon. “TRY NOT TO DIE!!” Aaron wisely advised, grabbing Damon's arm and getting into a fighting stance. “HOLY SHI–”

[squelching sounds]

[gunshot]

[heavy breathing]

[gunshot]

[loud yelling]

[gunshot]

[splattering sounds]

[gunshot yet again]

“Okay, don't freak out, I sterilise this baby every day,” Aaron softly assured amidst Damon's screams of pain. Dennis aimed the rifle through the dirt, shooting it again. “HOW MANY FUCKING BULLETS DO YOU HAVE??!!” Damon shouted angrily, continuing his screaming shortly afterwards. “Okay, we're just gonna carry you,” Aaron said reassuringly, although Damon felt like he was in walking distance from the grim reaper.

“Herhehsjjdnfbdjs” Damon cried. “YudhrhuYduYdudh” Aaron looked at him sadly. “Okay, there ya go.” Damon thought he was engulfed in the flames of hell by then, but thankfully, it was just the operating table from the old pet shop.

“Hey, this is okay. You can be like Junkrat now.” Aaron said softly, somehow successfully calming Damon down. “Yeah… Junkrat…” “Or like… Iron Man… or something…” Damon responded slowly. Dennis watched them worryingly before realizing something. “Shit!” he muttered before running back to retrieve the arm. Sadly, it was gone and probably under NULL's hands now, so there was no getting it back.

Aaron looked at Dennis while he was treating the wound, hoping for him to retrieve the limb. Alas, the man shook his head, sweating in fear. “Oh, that's okay, I can, like, staple a stick here or something…” Damon assured. “If anything, having a gnarly scar and a fake arm is way cooler than just the scar, guys.” he said calmly as his arm stopped bleeding.

“Is that bad?” Damon asked confusedly at Aaron. “What? No! That's a really good sign!” he said happily. “That makes it sound even worse…” Damon confessed sadly, sending Aaron into mega-reassuring mode. “NO!!! NO!!! IT'S GOOD, DAMON!!! YOU'RE ALIVE NOW!!! ALIVE!!! PLEASE DON'T DIE!!!” Damon just stared at him in further confusion.

“If it helps, you'll see Brendon Urie in hell later.” Dennis said softly. “I'd rather die infinite deaths.” Damon shot back, disgusted in the offer. “What's wrong with Brendon…” the redhead asked. “He's racist, Dennis,” Aaron replied, examining Damon for any other wounds. “Jesus, that's a lot of bacne.” “Brendon Urie's racist? I thought he was g*y.” “G///ay people can be racist.” Damon replied. “I thought you liked the guy?” Dennis asked in confusion, looking at Damon. “Dennis, that's Gerard Way,” “What the hell!”

“Sorry,” Aaron apologized. “just some bandages so it doesn't get infected or anything.” He explained, gently wrapping Damon's… well, what used to be his arm, in bandages. “I'm Rick Sanchez… no wait… Deckard…” Damon mumbled happily, forgetting Rick Grimes' surname. “Yeah,” (Rick Grimes has his arm cut off in the comics, they didn't do this in the show due to budgeting concerns)

A short while later, the three joined Dennis in boarding up the windows and doors to keep NULL out. However, due to Damon's injury, he instead helped carry around tools and other equipment with his healthy right arm.

The house was now the most secure it had ever been, with no direct contact to the outside world. Gabriel had organized shifts for the house ghosts to surround the house and guard it. Dennis and Lan moved the farms into spare rooms, and Aaron distributed weaponry to the whole family. Note to self: Gabriel and Lan are still alive and you should put them in at the beginning.

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sagebodisattva · 5 years ago

Text

The Slaughter of the Sacred Cows

In my last video, “The Conspiracy Brain Syndrome”, I went on a vigorous attack against conspiracy theory, and left it battered and broken, bleeding to death on a darkened path, deep in the woods, gasping for it’s last breath under the pale blue moonlight. It seems that I managed to hit a lot of raw nerves with the type of message I was speaking, and, apparently, more then a few people seemed to get quite upset about it. Awwwww. Isn’t that a pity? I’m not quite sure who these protestors are, because most of the emotional commotion was originating from several highly active sock accounts with absolutely no content, who began trolling the comment section relentlessly. In so far as, who I think these people might be, (because none of these accounts are known followers of the Meta Sage), a lot of evidence is pointing towards the dual-sock; who may or may not have recruited a minion to help do his bidding. Or, as hacking reports from the bat cave have implied, the dual-sock with dual socks, or some combination thereof. No matter what the case, the dual-sock is getting punished over this, severely, and I’m not too overly concerned about whether or not he is solely responsible, is in cahoots with an underling, or claims that he had absolutely nothing to do with it; there’s going to be serious consequences nevertheless, because I have already warned him about this kind of troll conduct, several times.

Be that as it may, maybe there were some among you who were genuinely upset with the message I was conveying, but if so, I’m not sure why, as anyone who would regularly tune into the Meta Sage transmissions shouldn’t expect anything less. If anything, this opposition only reveals that many of you have not yet done what’s been expected of you. Not only have many of you NOT let go of your addictive attachments, but, you are, in fact, actively harboring them, and trying to hide them all under a guise of “philosophical disagreement.” No, not acceptable, at all. I already told you, a long time ago, that, at least when it comes to the Meta Sage channel, there are no sacred cows. I am a reality deconstructionist, and everything you hold dear, is on the table. When you were asked to “let go of everything”, that didn’t mean to let go of everything, except for the special exceptions you keep hidden on the side. No, “let go of everything”, means exactly that. EVERYTHING. There are no special exceptions; and the fact that I have uncovered some of these special exceptions, means that I’ve got a lot more work to do.

You see, I have to apologize to a certain extent, because, up until now, I have been in a transition between spiritual strongholds, and, as of late, have not been able to give the adequate attention to my work, as I usually would. And for this, I am truly sorry. A little cryptic back story on this. In the early part of 2018, the time had finally arrived to where, I had to depart from my old spiritual stronghold. It served me well for a time, and I managed to produce more then two years of content in that place, but, eventually, the space became an inadequate setting for the upcoming chapters of my work, and so, I left that place, and then began a transitional phase, and ended up getting waylaid for a time in a sort of interval stasis situation; but, eventually, I broke out of that, and, in the early summer of 2019, established a new foundation in a more appropriate environment, and ever since then, the production of my new spiritual stronghold has been underway, and now, is at least 95% done. Complete enough to where, I can now begin to refocus my attention back onto the pressing issues at hand, and, start to bring everything back into clean sharp order. I must clear away all the cobwebs, and cast out certain rodents, then, I can finally take my place in a brand new seat of power, and begin the task of casting judgment on everything in the field of the mind-space; and then decide the fate of everything that finds it’s place within the framework of this domain. Yes, I will be deciding what should stay, and what should go; so let’s hope that you can account for yourself, and have not been behaving like a shameless parasite.

But anyway, getting back to the story being told here, at hand. I was disappointed by some of the reactions people were having to “The Conspiracy Brain Syndrome”, video. Not only did it reveal the existence of hidden clinging attachments, but there wasn’t many arguments in opposition that didn’t respond with either externalizations, or yet even more conspiracy theory. It just goes to show that, no matter how meta you get, some people will never be able to see beyond the worm’s eye view. It’s just simply beyond their capacity. But how desperate they’ve become in trying to stop me from remaining lucid about the mind-space. No, they don’t want that, because if that happens, then the bar gets raised; and the higher the bar gets raised, the harder it gets for “others”, to function, because this type of raised bar demands high concentration and discipline, and introduces a whole new set of arduous standards. No, they’d much rather I get distracted and lose clarity, so they can continue to be greedy and lazy.

“No Sage, look at history! C’mon Sage, research these factions! Stop it Sage, pay attention to the outside world! Do anything Sage, but please forget that it’s a mind-space! We don’t want to take on any power or responsibility! We’d much rather be slaves to an illusion. It takes less effort. And it’s secure and comforting. Please Sage!”

Yeah, I know. But, too bad. I am already aware that it’s a mind-space, and I’m not ever going to lose sight of it again, so, you can just forget about that. It’s too late. I’m already across that threshold, and I’m never going back. So you should stop trying to use cheap tactics in an attempt to lower my clarity. No, instead, let’s crank up the pressure, and crack the whip down, on YOU.

And so, this brings us to the solipsistic implications of the issue; which should be noted, as it brings us back to the metaphysical meat of the matter. After I posted the “Conspiracy Brain” video, during all the chaos of the ensuing sock puppet uproar, at a certain point, one of them did try to actually muster up the concentration to articulate a half-assed ideological argument, employing, of all things, the philosophy of solipsism. It seems like he was trying his best to try to throw down some kind of unmanageable conceptual sticking point, but it wasn’t effective. At the time, I didn’t go into an in-depth exchange with the fool, because it’s really not worth typing paragraphs and paragraphs of discourse, only to have it later deleted; so now, when dealing with trolls, it’s better to just sling a couple of insults, and then block them immediately. So a lot of comments got lost in the shuffle. But, luckily, before the dust settled, I managed to screenshot his comments, because I figured, at some point, I would later address them, just for amusement. And so, I will now proceed to impale them endwise, properly.

So onto the sock-puppet’s first comment.

Sock puppet: quote - “Corona is bullshit. Strange that you don't even believe there is a real world Meta Sage, as you're a solipsist (which i basically agree with) -- and yet you think the coronavirus plan-demic is real, and there's a real pandemic happening in the time and space of a big world -- a world which you previously claim in your solipsist talks doesn't even exist? That's pretty ridiculous. You're contradicting yourself if you believe in coronavirus and yet don't even believe in an objective solid reality. How are all these supposed people dying on the news if they don't even exist because solipsism is real? You've become a contradiction.” unquote.

To this, I basically replied that, my acknowledgment of the coronavirus, doesn’t translate into an endorsement of an objectively existing physical world. The sock puppet assumes this, because he is, in fact, the only real materialist here, who doesn’t even genuinely subscribe to solipsism; so it’s not clear why he was trying to elucidate it’s points. So I brought it to his attention that, even though the world is illusory, the illusory nature of the world doesn’t mean the illusory events that take place it in it, are a deception. You want to assert that there’s lies being told within an illusion, and the reason they are lies is because it’s an illusion. That’s what you imply by this line of reasoning. If you really understood that reality is not in ‘time-space’, but is, in fact, a ‘mind-space’, then you wouldn’t posit such a silly proposition. No, the world perceived through the senses is indeed illusory, but everything that happens within it, is conditionally true. We say “conditionally true”, to emphasize the illusory nature, while, at the same time, acknowledging the structure of illusion. Yes, there are illusory people in an illusory world, but the illusory world has illusory rules. If an illusory body steps out in front of an illusory truck, the illusory truck is going to crush the illusory body. Period. It’s as simple as that. So it would be real stupid to call the coronavirus a deception within the illusion when it’s clearly a part of the illusory world, and has the potential to kill you; just as there are lots of other things killing people all the time. People are getting eaten by sharks, right now. People are perishing of cancer, and dying in car crashes, right now.

To this, the sock puppet replied with:

Sock Puppet: quote - “Meta Sage, you said someone right now is dying in a car crash -- wrong. Solipsism posits the ONLY thing that you can prove to be real, is your own consciousness. If someone calls you on a phone from Hawaii - you don't KNOW they exist right now in Hawaii -- all you KNOW and can PROVE is that your phone has a voice of someone who claims to be in Hawaii right now. But you, can never be in 2 places at the same time, and therefore you will never ever ever be able to prove that person actually exists in Hawaii right now when you're somewhere else in the world talking to them on a phone. You are here and now -- and only here and now -- forever. So you saying someone is dying in a car right now is pure speculation. "Solipsism holds that knowledge of anything outside one's own mind is unsure; the external world and other minds cannot be known and might not exist outside the mind”, that's the definition right off of google itself. So you're NOT a solipsist by saying someone is dying in a car right now -- unless you can photograph it and are there in person -- it's bullshit. Just like you claiming all these people are dying of coronavirus. And your claims break the code of solipsism and contradict it entirely.” unquote.

The main issue here, that seems to be this troll’s major mental malfunction, is his inability to directly apply solipsism with the pure mind. Instead, he only considers it intellectually, which, inevitably, is always going to fall short of the mark. Becoming lucid, versus only having knowledge about the subject of solipsism intellectually, are two completely different things. It’s a divide too wide to negotiate, and nothing in this sock puppet’s little bag of dirty tricks, will be sufficient enough to bridge the gap. The examples he references, and the definitions he cites from the internet, are also intellectual misinterpretations of solipsism, and it doesn’t wash. Sorry, no matter how you slice it, I win, and you lose.

So, let’s go ahead and review the second statement, then parse through it’s points briefly, and dissect them accordingly.

“Solipsism posits the only thing you can prove to be real, is your own consciousness.”

“Solipsism”, posits this, eh? Is solipsism an entity that can make assertions now? Silly enough on it’s own, but then you start talking about “what YOU can prove.” So, I ask, who’s the “you”, referring to in this statement? “OWN consciousness?” Who’s the owner of this consciousness exactly? You seem to place a whole lot of weight in the existence of an identification with the ego personality. I guess that’s why you could possibly think that this ego is the only ego you can be sure that exists; as if you are an ego that has an existence in the first place. This conclusion is based on a mis-identification, and is a common stumbling block for existential explorers who don’t journey deep enough. No, you have not made the proper lucid connection yet. The entirety of the dream is a whole, and the ego personality is woven right into the very fabric of it. The ego is no different then those that you refer to as “others.” Both are equally aspects of a dream, and this dream is found within the imagination of awareness. So, more aptly stated, the ‘awareness of the dream’, is the only thing that can be known for sure to exist. Understood this way, there is no confusion. But, even if we take this the wrong way, and argue it out falsely, in the way you originally wanted, I still win. If my ego is the only ego that exists, and everything else in the world, including other people, are all figments of my personal mind, it does nothing to lessen the fact that the coronavirus, and anything else for that matter, are all conditional aspects of my imagined world. In other words, I am dreaming of an imaginary physical world where there are imaginary physical entities that are vulnerable to all kinds of imaginary deaths, via all kinds of imaginary circumstances. And one of the things I am imagining to be killing lots of these imaginary entities, is an imaginary virus. Hence, I imagine hearing about all these imaginary deaths going on in my world. So, that doesn’t work. Ultimately, what we can say with confidence, is that, however which way you want to look at it, the sock puppet troll who left this comment is just as real or fake as the coronavirus. So think hard about how you wanna answer that. The coronavirus is as much of a hoax as you are. Whatever you say the coronavirus is, you fall into the exact same category.

Then the troll goes on to quote from a Google search: quote - “Solipsism holds that knowledge of anything outside one's own mind is unsure; the external world and other minds cannot be known and might not exist outside the mind.” unquote.

Yeah, but the thing is, this whole “own mind”, versus the “other mind”, bullshit, is completely false. And the reason it’s false, is because it’s a mere assumption grounded upon a faulty premise. Things that are outside of own mind? And what the hell might that be exactly? There’s no “own” anything. How can a thing be outside of one’s own mind when all there is, is mind? It’s ALL mind; so please explain how anything can be outside of itself. There is no “outside”, and this is the crux of your misunderstanding, mr. sock puppet man.

See, the problem here, is that you are not sincere. Instead, you are just playing little word games, and engaging in intellectual thought experiments, that have no basis in reality. And the reason you are doing this, is because you want to both hide your attachments, and attempt to distract me from clarity; but, you’ve failed on both fronts. And now, I am going to turn the tables and put you through your paces. I know that you are actively trying to hide your special exception attachments from me, but now, I think the time has finally come, for a slaughter of the sacred cows. So watch out. I am coming for everything, and I will hunt down every last sacred attachment that you have hidden, deep in your mind. I am going to find them all, and lay them bare. Nothing is safe. And if you think for one second that, by erecting fortified walls around your precious attachments, that it’s going to do anything to stop me, then you are sadly mistaken, my friend. It’s not going to stop anything. I will find every last attachment you have concealed, and I will drag it out into the open, and then brutalize it, harshly. And I don’t care how vigilant you are in your protective efforts. It’s just a matter of time, and I have an obscene amount of patience. You have to go to sleep some time; and when you do, I will break into your mind and search every nook and cranny of it, until I have found all of your hidden special exceptions. Then, I will proceed to quickly strip them down, and then club them repeatedly, to within inches of their lives.

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